2021-10-24 - Spookin' Spokane

Go to this address in Spokane. Deliver a short, simple message to a guy named Big John: Don't traffic girls through Gray Harbor, or Else.

It shouldn't be complicated, and it isn't. The address turns out to be on one of those roads on the outskirts of town that are conveniently too far away from everything to have much in terms of witnesses, and close enough to town to still have Uber deliveries (though some drivers will refuse to go there after dark). One-storey, concrete building with a neon sign that reads, Last Chance Motel. The VACANCIES sign is turned on and the NO sign is turned off. There's only a few cars in the small parking lot in front; two sensible sedans, one tired-looking, black Chevrolet truck that was no doubt a very hot deal in the early 1990s.

A good car for hauling goods across country roads at night. Too old to draw much attention; not old enough to draw attention for its age. Powerful enough that bad road conditions aren't a big deal. The license plate checks out; the car belongs to Big John Callahan, whoever Big John Callahan is.

The guy who traffics girls through Gray Harbor. The guy whose name was on the papers from the Mercantic. Is it really four months ago that the Mercantic burned in the old industrial harbour? Feels like one.

There's a couple of folks hanging around; nothing much to see here -- exactly what you'd expect in a place like this. It's that kind of place. Not a strip club like the Platinum Cabaret; just a hooker motel in the middle of fuckall, nowhere, Spokane. Rooms available on an hour basis, and if you turn up with a bloody sleeve, a shotgun and a fourteen year old girl in tow, no one asks questions (except about the potted yucca, they always ask about the potted yucca).

Big John Callahan probably doesn't run crime in Spokane. If he did, you'd expect to find him somewhere at least slightly more upscale. Somewhere with a pool or a proper restaurant. More likely, he holds a position not unlike that which Joey Kelly holds to Felix Monaghan; maintaining a somewhat proper facade while making sure the right kneecaps are broken. Although if he does, he's not as good at it as Kelly -- Kelly's Gym is a hell of a lot neater, and Big John Callahan probably hasn't got a memorial plate at the local high school, either.

Doesn't matter. Deliver the message in words that not even the most obstinate of Irish wise guys can possibly not understand. No more East European sailors bringing trafficked girls through Gray Harbor, destination Seattle.

Vic and Seth sure as hell aren't staying at this rat trap. They're in the Premiere Suite at Northern Quest Resort and Casino, one of Felix's usual reservations, as Mr. and Mrs. Darrow. Just a Bonnie and Clyde reference of course. But they are at this rat trap to scope it out and wait for the right time to go in and give Big John a firm talking to. Whether the firm part of that requires fists or something much more painful will be up to Callahan and his personal levels of cooperation.

Vic is in her usual gear for an op like this. Black BDUs and a black long-sleeved tee, all disposable, all too dark for blood to show on. Black leather gloves are on the dash, waiting to be slid on, and black combat boots, also disposable, are on her feet. She can usually clean up any physical evidence with her powers, but just in case, she always makes sure to get rid of anything she'd been wearing to a crime scene as well. Too many years as a detective made her the good kind of paranoid.

She sips a black coffee from a to go cup, her hair back in a tight braided bun to keep it out of the way, and sunglasses on. There may have been some blackjack and booze at the casino last night, but not enough to leave her hung over. She is stretched out in the passenger seat of their rental, observing the comings and goings, or lack thereof, of this crap hotel. She's prepared to pull all the spark plugs out of the vehicles on site before they go in, with her brain, because she can, to prevent anyone from making a quick getaway or following them after.

"Fucking Spokane," she mutters.

"What are you talking about, Spokane is lovely this time of year..." Seth retorts sarcastically. "I mean, look at the beautiful vintage that we get to take in. You don't get breathtaking scenery like this in Gray Harbor. I challenge you to name one place in that town that has a menagerie of crack whores. Just one."

Seth is dressed much like Vic is, because what works for this job is what works. The only addition to his outfit is the black ski-mask that is rolled up onto his head to make it act like a beenie until it needs to be pulled down.

He sips at his own coffee, lifting a pair of binoculars to his eyes to take a quick scan of the parking lot of the motel. In a voice imitating Steve Irwin, he comments, "Ah, lookie here. Cricky we have the common but dangerous $5 whore. Cheap, but you never know if you are going to find yourself questioning your mortality after. Just what is that rash, and will it go away or just kill you? Only time will tell."

It's that kind of place. The kind where even Steve Irwin would have put on pants rather than shorts, out of concern what he might expose the skin on his shins to. The kind of miserable human graveard where the dead have not realised that they're dead yet. The kind where the dead walk, not because there is something supernatural at play, the way one might expect back in Gray Harbor -- but because death is relative, and when you've burned your organs on enough coke and meth, it's only a matter of getting around to lying down and lying still.

In Gray Harbor, they might also decide to get back up again. But in Gray Harbor, an operation like this would have been shut down years ago. Not so much because of Felix Monaghan's bleeding heart as because a place like this inevitably attracts certain elements that cannot be controlled, and the last thing Gray Harbor needs is more police heat.

Highest non-natural death rate in the state. No one wants to add more casualties. Even the Veil surely can't keep the rest of the world from noticing forever.

Big John Callahan is not difficult to recognise when he eventually does emerge. He looks pretty much like his grainy photograph -- a chubby but muscular white guy in his late thirties, brown beard, shaved head. Cheap blue track suit that makes him look like a knock-off Serbian gangster -- a fact that might bring to mind the origins of the crew of the Mercantic. The Irishman -- one must assume, with a name like Callahan -- heads towards his aging black truck. He walks in the fashion of someone who can absolutely put up a good fight, and doesn't mind doing so; confident, with a certain spring in his step -- this man is a predator, not prey.

Another car drives up; a silver sedan, firmly middle class. A man steps out; cheap suit, nervous expression. He nods at Callahan as he heads inside -- and Callahan nods back as he opens his car door. The power dynamic is easily dechiphered -- Callahan's the boss here, and everyone knows it. He looks like the type who will hand out any reminders necessary without a second thought.

"Be nice. It's not the crack whore's fault they're a crack whore. I'd like to burn all the men perpetrating this alive, then throw a bottle of vinegar on their exposed nerve endings. Then I'd send all the women to Ravn's shelter for help and..." Pause "...oh my God I'm starting to sound like a hero instead of a bad guy. What the fuck happened in those missing three months!?"

Vic turns her attention to Callahan emerging and heading for his truck. "Do we follow him wherever he's going and do this there? He's likely to have heavies here at the hotel to keep the girls and the customers in line. I can make sure they don't follow to bail him out," she notes, and with a casual series of gestures, she pulls the spark plugs out of all the vehicles except Big John's, and sends them floating off into a drainage pipe nearby.

Pulling out his sidearm from its holster, Seth racks it to make sure there is a round in the chamber and replaces the ejected shell into the magazine before double-checking the safety and slipping it back into its holster, "Maybe we need to change our line of work. Go vigilante instead of enforcer. We can put you in a colorful little spandex one-piece with a cape and some thigh-highs..."

He trails off, following the truck with his eyes as it starts to move. "Your call Wonder Woman. Do we go bag and tag Callahan, or do we go save the girls and assume they will move on from this way of life and not just move on to the next pimp in the next motel? I'll follow your lead."

"Kelly gave us our orders. We need to shake down Callahan. If we end up removing HIM from circulation, we can maybe come back and clean up his mess here later," Vic says quietly. "Let's follow him, get him alone, better for all that way."

The black truck drives off, cutting a corner -- Callahan seems to be not the greatest driver, or maybe he's just plain careless. Maybe he's just not sober. Maybe he's on his own wares. No one local follows; why would they? As far as anyone's aware, nothing's the matter; and if that penny should drop at some point, none of those cars are going anywhere but after a tow truck for a while. This may be a well tested and tried page out of Vic Grey's book of tricks but it works.

He's the kind of driver who drives with one hand on the wheel, and the other on his cell phone. It's a pity his pursuers can't hear what he's saying -- and entirely likely that his erratic driving has a lot to do with trying to do three things at once (the third, apparently, is light a cigarette, the man is at least one hand short).

Shadowing a car is not as simple as just driving in the same direction. That works fine on the freeway, where everyone's more or less just in the slipstream of the guy in front. Out here, though, another car steadily following yours is something most drivers would notice. A couple of amateurs might make the mistake of just copying Callahan's every turn and probably end up guided somewhere decidedly not safe for their efforts. A couple of professionals don't; dive behind an SUV for a while, overtake Callahan and let him return the favour a bit later, fall a while behind, catch up. Fly casual.

He leads them to a house in the suburbs. Nothing fancy -- just a lower middle class home, bit run down, pool out the back. There's a carport, and a back yard with a couple of small sheds. The kind of place that Gray Harbor has aplenty in the Elm Street area; not quite up for the American dream of a white picket fence and a craftsman's, but close enough to make do. Probably was a better neighbourhood once, but now the road could do with some new asphalt, and the people across the street let their dogs run loose.

There's a children's bike with a basket lying in the driveway. Callahan has to exit his truck, grumbling, to go toss it aside, before he can drive into the carport.

There are a few times, during the tail, that Vic is a heartbeat away from just ripping off the back tires of the truck to stop him before he gets someone killed with his reckless driving. But she hangs on, because depending on where Callahan is going, he may provide a lot more information. As they idle down the street a ways, with the lights off, she frowns at the children's bike. "Fuck. There might be kids inside. We need to take this really carefully. I don't want to scar some kids for life, Seth."

"Agreed," Seth says as he settles into his car seat. "What kind of superheroes would be if we scared some kids for life. Question is, do we go in here or wait till he comes out again and take him away from the house? I know we both want to get out of this godforsaken county as soon as humanly possible, but at what cost?" Taking a moment to think, Seth slowly opens the car door. "Stop the carport from going up. Trap him outside and I will see what I can do about getting him subdued."

Vic frowns and debates internally. "Wait, Seth. I have an idea." She pulls up nearby bakeries and grocery stores on her phone. "How are your acting skills feeling today? I think the Darrows just moved in down the road and are going to introduce themselves to their neighbors with some baked goods. We'll need to change into our less conspicuous clothes, but we can get a better feel for what's going down in that house. I want to know what we're affecting. Then maybe we can take him when he leaves again and talk to him accordingly."

Seth raises an eyebrow at Vic, shutting the door to the vehicle, "Depends on what I have to act about, Vic. I'm not a thespian by trade, but I can manage a meet and greet I suppose. I don't think Callahan is the neighborly type, but I guess it won't hurt to at least give it a shot. Of course, if we are going to sell being married I really should put a ring on it." the enforcer says as he glances down towards Vic's left hand. "I don't know how bright Callahan is, but where a hotel might not notice or give a damn if he does it could be trouble."

Seth pulls out his own phone and starts to look up a jewelry store in the area that is hopefully close enough to a bakery. "Most awkward proposal ever..."

Vic snorts. "He couldn't even pay attention to the road while driving, you think he'll notice a wedding ring? I could always say it's getting sized. We're newlywed, this is our first house, we're SO EXCITED to meet our neighbors, yadda yadda." She looks amused at the idea he'd buy a ring for this though. "But if you insist on putting a ring on it, we can do that."

"You would be surprised..." Seth says with a shrug of his shoulder, "Just because he can't see the forest for the trees doesn't mean he might not notice that branch he is about to step on. People focus on the strangest shit."

He continues tapping away on the phone and locates a store that is close by enough to not make too long of a detour, "Besides, saves me taking you out ring shopping some other time. Two birds, one stone. Or a few stones...I guess it all depends on the ring."

Vic smirks. "I am so going for the biggest price tag. Then taking a detour to the other side of the store because, face it, if we're living in that neighborhood, we aren't rich." Pause. "Also, that crazy ADA back in Gray Harbor would be asking where two people who live on Elm street and work in bars got the money for an expensive ring." She sets the GPS to direct them to the jewelry store first, so the baked goods stay fresh. "Onward, Romeo. Let's get this done."

"Yeah, because that is so you. All diamonds and flash." grins Seth as he starts to strip off the weaponry from his belt to stash in the glovebox. "As far as cost, fuck that ADA. We can say it was a gift from my cousin. A family heirloom or some shit like that. If she wants to make a deal of it, let her. Get what you want. It's for you, nobody else."

Vic also removes her gear, and climbs into the back seat to exchange her work gear for a sweater and yoga pants, and a pair of Keds. Suburban Housewife disguise is almost complete. She finishes it off by taking her hair down and putting it in a low ponytail instead. "Operation Fuck Spokane is go," she mutters, climbing back to the front.

Spokane isn't short on jewellery shops. In this regard, going to Spokane turns out to have been a great choice. Because, let's face it, Gray Harbor's rich upper crust boils down to less than a handful of families, and most of them shop in Spokane or Seattle anyhow.

It's not tricky to pick up a jacket or a sensible pair of shoes for anyone who needs, either.

Whether Mr and Mrs Smith -- Darrow -- feel convincing is anyone's guess. But looking inconspicuous enough isn't difficult when the standard one is trying to meet is the kind of lower middle class where everyone just minds their own damn business. The kind of lower middle class that isn't quite what people so crudely refer to as 'white trash' -- but close enough that no one wants to look twice at anything strange; that no one wants to deal with the possible repercussions of looking twice.

Seth doesn't go so far as to change his entire outfit. He swaps out his combat boots for a pair of loafers, ditches he beenie, and rolls up the sleeves of the turtleneck. The few subtle changes turn the man from black ops operative to hipster relatively convincingly. "Maybe something good will come out of this damn trip after all," Seth chuckles.

When they get to the store in question, Seth hops out and playing the part of the dutiful newly engaged moves over to get the door for Vic, "After you...soon-to-be-misses-Darrow."

"Why thank you, Mister Darrow. Such a gentleman. No wonder I'm marrying you!" Vic teases. She steps into the store and flips the switch from enforcer, to bubbly bride to be. She maneuvers them to a midling-high range engagement and wedding ring set, just the sort of thing a hipster would go into debt for to impress others. She also makes sure the engagement ring is a low profile setting, because she's practical, and getting it snagged on everything in a fight would be bad. Ahem.

Seth plays the part of the overly eager hipster that is trying to impress his bride-to-be well. Subtly trying to maneuver the salesperson to recommend something a bit less pricey as Vic looks over the more expensive ones, reluctantly agreeing to the more expensive one as Mrs-soon-to-be-Darrow can't live without it, etc. Balking at the final cost, but then reluctantly ponying up the pre-paid credit card he had set up with Mr. Clyde Darrow just for this job.

Nervously he grins at the cashier, "We head to Vegas in two days... We just can't wait, you know? Once you find that special someone, you can't live without them in your life."

How many times has the cashier in this little Spokane jewellery shop heard this story?

Probably not all that many times, to be honest. But how often has she heard people fantasising about eloping, and perhaps even nurtured a dream of this nature of her own? There's something inherently romantic about the notion of just not being able to wait. To the notion of throwing cash at problems and then running away from them, leaving them all behind.

She doesn't ask questions. She doesn't look twice at Mr Darrow's credit card. She wishes them a good trip to Vegas in a voice that's tinged with sheer envy. If for some obscure reason anyone should ever turn up here to ask about the two, she won't say a thing -- she's already made up a story about a jealous ex and Seth secretly being a trust fund baby eloping with his true love.

50 Shades of Grey had an audience for a reason. Who doesn't love the fantasy of a millionaire who finds you irresistible?

Once free of the jeweler, it's a quick jaunt to a nearby bakery for a box of half a dozen fancy overpriced gourmet cupcakes, and they can head back to Callahan's place. "All right, we play it cool, new neighbors, there was a house on the corner with a for sale sign, lets grab the for sale part off the top so it looks sold." Vic is all business, even though she catches herself looking down at the sparkly on her finger more than once.

"Sounds like a plan," Seth says as he starts to arrange the cupcakes on the newly purchased platter. Callahan may or may not get the idea that the cupcakes are homemade, but if they come on a platter instead of a random box it at least sells the idea more that they aren't just 'bought from the store'.

Stopping for a quick moment to take the part off the sign as Vic suggests, Seth glances over at her, a small smile forming as he catches her glancing at her finger. "Ok, Bonnie, we ready for this? Are we going in sans everything but our fists?" he asks to just confirm. They are both formidable opponents in hand to hand after all.

"Don't be stupid," Vic snorts. The thick cardigan sweater she's wearing has big pockets and she's a Physicalist. "Gimme your piece," she instructs, as she checks her own, and tucks it into the portable hole she just made in there. "If shit goes sideways, we have bullets."

The doorbell is a cheerful rendition of the Hotel California; enough to make any Gray Harbor resident wince (as well as anyone who doesn't think The Eagles should be played on the xylophone).

It doesn't take long before the screen door is opened and the beefy man whose name is supposedly "Big" John Callahan looks his two guests over with an expression that is a very obvious mix of disbelief and oh god not again, if these two are selling religion I'm breaking their kneecaps.

"The fuck do you want," he grunts, intelligently.

Seth reaches into the glovebox and hands over his .44 to Vic, "I still can never get used to that fact you can just stash things like that." admits Seth with a shake of his head. "I wonder if I ever will." He leans over, giving his 'wife' a kiss just to make things look possible before he exits the car and makes his way to the front door to ring the bell.

As Callanan answers, Seth puts on a big smile. "Hi! We are the Darrows! We just bought the place down on the corner and figured we would do a little bit of 'getting to know your neighbors', you know just in case we forgot something during a move and had to ask to borrow a cup of sugar, or a hammer, or something. Building a little rapport with the people you are going to be living by never hurts!" He thrusts out the platter of cupcakes, "We brought cupcakes!"

Vic turns on her thousand-watt smile, her blue eyes glittering with alien emotions like joy and bubbliness. "Hi! So nice to meet you! I'm Beth," because even this idiot likely knows Bonnie and Clyde Darrow are aliases. "We just got hitched in Vegas last month and this is our first home purchase! The cupcakes are Devil's food with ganache frosting. I hope no one is allergic to gluten?" God forbid.

The expression on Big John's face goes through an entire range of things he could have said. It starts at are you fucking kidding me, takes a hike through at least it's not the Jehova's Witnesses, stops for coffee at they better not be canvassing political shit and finally arrives at I guess I better be polite. "Well, uh," he says, with the eloquence the audience has already come to expect from this bright specimen of finest Irish exports. "Guess you better come in, then. Got a couple of cold ones. Wife and kids aren't back yet."

He steps aside, allowing entrance into what's clearly a house in which some unfortunate wife tries to keep up the appearances of a family. It's not, though. He's probably married, all right, and the kid to whom the bike belongs is probably his too -- but this is a place for people in the business to crash. A safe house. A place no one asks questions. The give-aways are obvious and imminent to people with the history and experience of Vic and Seth.

Sheets and pillows on the sofa, two sets. Too many men's shoes, in too many sizes, in the hallway. The smell of beer and tobacco and pot. The yammering of a TV, a sports channel in a foreign language. Too many jackets. Most of them are hoodies, the kind that go with track suits.

It's the right place, sure enough.

"Oh, that is mighty kind of you! A beer sounds great." Seth says as he steps foot into the house, his eyes looking around to take in the sights. "I'm Jack, by the way. It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr...?"

Seth pauses for a moment to let Callahan give his name before continuing on, "Married with kids huh? How is that working out for you? I don't think kids are going to be on our plate for a while yet. Need to settle into the marriage before we rush into something like that, right Beth? So, how long have you been married? How many kids? How old?"

Seth pauses for a moment and lifts the platter up slightly, "OH, and where can I set this down?"

"Oh I don't know, honey, I wouldn't mind having kids sooner rather than later. I mean, the sooner we have them, the sooner they're out of the house, right?" Vic/Beth giggles. Oh God, this is terrifying to see. But it's what she's good at. She was an undercover Narcotics cop. "A beer would be great, thank you!" she quips to Callahan.

"Callahan. John Callahan." Big John apparently does have some semblance of manners, or at least social conditioning. He honestly does look a little floored as Seth more or less rolls over him like a very friendly steam engine in order to get inside and assess the situation. "No kids. Brother's got a little girl but they're off visitin' his squeeze. Name's Evelyn, she's nine."

Why is he answering some stranger's questions like that? Big John probably will never look back and figure it out; it's got a lot to do with the way two fighting dogs will sniff at each other and sometimes, the smaller one will roll over right away. A lot to do with instinctively sensing, maybe, that he's just met two much bigger dogs -- even if they look like Mr and Mrs Idiot, sorry, Darrow.

He manages to let himself be maneuvered into a living room that says a lot about the place. It's very obviously the kind of residence where men come and go as necessary for work related reasons -- not a family home. There's a kid living here, that much is evident from a corner where a few toys, a few books, and a couple of plastic dolls lie about. Apart from that, everything is kind of cheap, put together quickly without much care for the end look of it all, and there's the tell-tale signs of people who sleep here, but they don't live here -- a dirty jumper dropped over the back of the sofa, dirty glasses on the dining table, magazines in an East European language left open; motorcycles, boats, nude girls.

"Gonna grab us a cold one," John murmurs, blinking at Vic in the way of someone who can tell something is off here (mostly that feeling of being a toy poodle in a pen full of pitbulls) but he can't tell what. "Why the fuck'd you want to live here anyway?"

Setting the platter of cupcakes down onto the dining room table, eyes shifting to Vic for a brief second as Callahan confirms that the kid isn't here. "It's cheap," he answers John with a smile, "I'm a bit of DIY guy, so I figured we could buy cheap and fix 'er up and make it a livable place. Who knows, I do a good enough job I might be able to flip it at some point for a profit. Either that or I just bit off more than I can chew and I am going to be underwater in a few months." he ends with a laugh.

At the mention of the beer, Seth nods, "A cold one sounds great, John. Thank you!"

Vic smiles charmingly at John as he spews out all the information she needed to hear. Then when he heads into the kitchen, she moves to Seth. "We're clear, let's not do it here though, don't want the kid to see the results when they get back. I'm going to disable any recording or security devices while we're being entertained." And she reaches out with her Physical senses to do just that, looking for anything that might have recorded their presence or their faces, and destroying it quietly.

At some point, somebody's going to wonder how the hell this safe house's monitoring equipment all fried at once. And then, because this is not Gray Harbor, and that somebody doesn't shine, they're going to write it off as a freak power failure; the power grid must have hiccuped, a bad wire somehow set the rest off, everything fell out; please reboot.

There's not going to be any pictures of Mr and Mrs Darrow. Not because the Veil reaches all this way to protect their identities, but because this surveillance kit is a cheap model that only writes to its mirror server once per twenty-four. Maybe that's all Big John's worth, as far as his organisation's interests go.

The big Irishman returns from the kitchen with three beers, handing one to the woman and one to the even bigger Irishman. He scratches his neck and looks a little confused still; not in the way of someone suspicious but of someone who thinks his new neighbours made a really bad decision and now he's trying to work his limited vocabulary into telling them. "Don't know what the fuck you want here, man. This neighbourhood, going to the dumps. Half the people here don't even speak English."

Well, he should know. He clearly plays host to a number of them. What comes out of Eastern Europe to be smuggled into the US? Drugs and women.

Seth accepts the beer with a smile and opens it before taking a pull. "Oh yeah? Really? Bad neighborhood? How is the crime rate?" Seth casts a worried look over to Vic, "Maybe we should have done some more research before we bought, love? Is it too later to back out? We haven't signed the final paperwork yet have we?"

Vic puts on her best "oh no" expression as she accepts the beer and the bad news about the neighborhood. "No, no we still have to do the final closing, honey. If it's really that bad, maybe we can back out? We'll lose our deposit though. But..." she looks to Big John. "What do you think we should do?" Big Bambi eyes are go.

Mr and Mrs Darrow, suburbian newly-weds. Big John Callahan, human trafficker. Not a lot of basis for forming a genuine, human connection there. But then, Mr and Mrs Darrow aren't actually Mr and Mrs Darrow, and that's not what they came here to do, either. Seth and Vic, each with a past and the life experience from it, each in little doubt as to what kind of man they're dealing with.

Big John Callahan is to some Spokane crime boss what Joey Kelly is to Felix Monaghan, minus brains. Maybe this is why Big John doesn't get to run a town -- however small Gray Harbor might be in comparison to Spokane -- but just a district in one. Maybe this is why Big John gets to run the kind of operation that smarter men leave alone -- the prostitution and the human trafficking. One might argue that the drug trade ruins as many lives, but unlike opiates and bags of heroin, humans talk. And those crack whores and trafficked girls who need to 'earn' their papers back have no loyalty to keep their mouths shut; in a plea bargain, each and every one of them will sell Big John out without hesitation. You can run an operation based on fear and intimidation, but every now and then, someone will get thrown under the bus.

Big John is the kind of man who exists so that someone higher up has someone to throw under the bus.

In this case, the bus is called Seth Monaghan and Vic Grey. It's not difficult to keep the man talking; in fact, once the conversation turns to baseball, he's got a lot to say. He's opinionated on politics too -- in exactly the kind of bull-necked red baseball cap kind of way you'd expect. His brother and niece stay here because they're short of a place to stay during divorce proceedings; they're moving in with his brother's new squeeze in short time. Everyone else? Big John talks about friends staying over, but it's clear to the naked eye of any mob enforcer or former police investigator what kind of people hang out here; they're the kind who deliver goods to the chop shop, beat up working girls when required, and remind small business owners to pay their insurance money.

Felix owns half a dozen men just like Big John Callahan. And sometimes, Felix throws one under the bus, too. It's a simple job. Just a matter of where and when -- a decision which Seth and Vic face, having decided to not drop a body for Big John's niece to find.

Seth feigns interest in everything that Big John has to say as he sips his beer quietly. He just lets the man talk and talk, letting the rapport develop between the two, interjecting here and there at the appropriate times with a well-placed agreement, or grunt if the need arises. "That's mighty kind of you to let your brother and his daughter stay with you. It's great to hear when kin take care of kin. So many people nowadays are only out for themselves you know? You're one of the good ones. How long do you reckon they will be surfing on your couch? They in the process of moving in with his girl, or is that still a while off?"

Vic just plays along as the dutiful fiancee, beaming from time to time at Seth like the sun rises and sets with him. "How old is your niece?" she asks cheerfully. It's like a Stepford Barbie, my God.

Everything inevitably ends; fortunately, new neighbour meet and greets do, too. It's possible Vic is going to need a strong solvent to remove the Stepford Barbie smile from her face afterwards. It's possible she may toss back any solvent left and try to forget this day ever existed. Conversation with Big John runs along tracks that lead to lots of mind bleach and a desperate need to have a conversation with someone whose intelligence is measured in three digits.

Relief comes in the form of a text. Big John picks up his cell and looks at it, and his expression changes from the slightly confused but pretty harmless suburbian simpleton to something momentarily much colder, and somewhat gleeful. He looks up at his guests and puts his bottle down. "Shit's come up," he announces. "Gonna have to cut this short."

Turns out the man may be slow on the uptake but he can get people out of his house on a more or less polite excuse in no time. Which may not be a bad thing because both people being got out in no time know exactly what kind of texts tick in like that to a man like that, in order to prompt a reaction like that. Big John Callahan has someone who needs to get roughed up. And from the looks of his expression as he jumps into his black truck? He likes roughing people up.

Seth nods as John makes his need to leave known, "Oh, yeah, sure! It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Callahan. I'm sure we will see each other around the neighborhood soon enough. That is unless Beth changes her mind about moving here. You have given us a lot to think about." Seth offers his hand as they depart to keep up the appearances of the new neighbor facade before he leads Vic back down the road towards the 'sold' house, taking their time heading back to let John make his way out of the house and out of sight before they reach the home.

"Ok," he says to Vic once the target is well and truly gone, "How do you want to do this? Lay in wait for a snatch and grab, or do we want to head back towards to motel? I'm pretty sure that is where he was heading."

"Motel. No one there will be too sad to find a body if it comes to that," Vic notes quietly, linked arm in arm with Seth with her head on his shoulder as they stroll. giving Callahan a good view of love sweet love as the pair plot his doom.

"If it comes down to that, we are going to have more than one body to deal with unless we get extremely lucky and it goes off silently," Seth says as he leans his head on Vic's in a sickening display of PDA. "I should just start a fire in his gas tank and blow him to kingdom come, but Joey wants a word with him if at all possible. That, and the fire is unreliable."

The enforcer sighs, "Guess it is time to break out the tools and get ready for the 'fun' part of all this."

"Sounds like, yeah," Vic admits with a sigh. "All right, let's get to it. Glad we went this route though. Would suck if his little niece found him." She heads for the rental.

The Last Chance Motel. A few hours later, another headache in the form of having to pretend to be the Stepford Newly-Weds -- and then it's back here. Big John's truck finds its accustomed place in the concrete parking lot and the Irishman stomps into the building. There's another truck there now, in the next space over, and while nothing about it is off as such -- no, there's just something wrong about it. The kind of something, the kind of gut feeling that people in the profession develop after a while. Muscle cars and bad attitudes; bumper stickers of a certain nature, subtle choices in decor and paint jobs. It's another thug's car.

There's a couple of electrical wires dropped on the ground. The kind you'd use if you needed to tie someone up real quick and had no rope handy. White plastic covering has a few traces of red.

The Last Chance Motel is a flat, one-storey motel building of the kind that's so familiar from highway motels all over the country -- a long, narrow building with doors that open up into the parking lot, and an office in one end. The kind of place that's easy to gain access to a room at because as long as you don't linger around a door, hammering on it, for a longer period of time, no one cares. Most people who come and go in a place like this will watch you shank a guy and walk right on because they've got plenty of reasons to not want to be the one to call the cops. And the cops in turn will be in no rush to get out here because dead tough guys and crack whores are dime a dozen.

A door shuts, down the line -- Room 22, just in time for Big John's pursuers to spot his generously sized backside close that door behind itself. In good news, this means not having to search the entire motel to find the man. In bad news, he probably went there to meet somebody.

Vic is back in her work gear, this time with ski mask and hoodie so her hair is covered as well. No need to let Callahan associate her with Beth, because Beth may be needed again in the future as a resident of Spokane. She sits quietly, and reaches out with her considerable senses, albeit slightly dimmer here than back in the harbor. She feels about for weapons in room 22, and the rooms adjacent.

Seth is also back in his work attire, including ski mask to cover his face. "If it wasn't for the fact Joey wants to have a chat with this guy I would say we just snipe him from here. I'm not really looking forward to going into that place. Way too many unknowns."

Looking over to Vic, Seth sighs once after taking a long breath. "You ready for this?"

That strange spatial awareness of a high-powered Physicalist; a curious feel for shapes and textures and the feel of things. There are weapons inside Room 22, absolutely; guns at the small of the backs of two men, and a semi-automatic on a horisontal surface -- a bed or a dresser, most likely. The smaller guns move about; one of them probably with Big John Callahan, one with whoever he went to meet.

They come to a halt. One could get the impression the people have taken seats. On opposites of the bed, maybe? In bed together? Who knows. What's more important is that there are no sentries outside. A couple of security cameras, no doubt, but it's not like Vic doesn't know how to deal with those. Ploof, ploof.

Vic is a smart lady indeed, and a former cop, who has had extensive training on weapons, especially pistols. As such, she can feel around inside those guns, and very simply put kinks in the firing pins, she closes her eyes, her brow furrowed in concentration, as she works on disabling the weapons, and the security before they go in. Hand to hand combat is likely to be less lethal than a shoot em up, which is good for all involved.

As Vic concentrates and does what she does best, Seth takes the time to double-check his weaponry, guns get checked to make sure they are loaded, knives are checked to make sure they are where they are supposed to be, and then the collapsable baton is tested to make sure it is still working as intended. "Let me know when you are ready," he mutters softly not wanting to disrupt her concentration.

There's a sputter and snarl of an engine as a cop car pulls in off the street. The crackle of tires hitting gravel, the whine of an alternator that needs replacing, and then the ignition's killed. No, it isn't marked with anything that immediately identifies it as a cop car. No lights (not even a pair hidden on the dashboard at the moment). No sirens. No livery. But to Vic's trained eye, there's no mistaking the aggressive profile and black rims.

Not to mention the familiar face under the baseball cap and leather jacket battered within an inch of its life, who's sitting in the front seat with eyes on room 22. He keys something into the laptop on a swivel beside him, checks the time on his watch, and reaches behind his seat for the gun rack while his radio crackles incessantly in his ear.

Vic feels the firing pins in the guns kink one by one, before there is a creeping sensation of doom that comes over her. She knows the sound of that car. She opens her eyes and their glacial blue fix on the car. "Oh Fuck me, it's de la Vega," she hisses to Seth. "What the hell is he doing here?" She blinks and pulls out some binoculars to try and get a glimpse of what the cop is doing in the car.

Seth is opening the car door to the truck to exit when the car approaches. The rumble of the car doesn't perk Seth's ears like it does Vic's, but the familiar face behind the wheel sure does. "What the fuck is he doing here?!" he mimics Vic's question in his own way.

Shutting the door again and pulling out his own set of binocs, Seth raises them to watch the cop as well, "Of all the people to be in Spokane at this particular motel at this particular time...this is not a damn coincidence. Do you think he found something on the boat to lead him here? I swore we torched that thing to ashes... I already know the answer to this, but I have to ask the question and I hope you forgive me for asking it...

Do we take him out?"

What's going down in Room 22 of the Last Chance Motel, on the outskirts of Fuckall and Nowhere, Spokane? Whatever it might be, apparently it is a matter of enough interest -- or people of enough interest -- to attract the attention of Gray Harbor's underworld and Gray Harbor's police department. Unless, of course, one believes in coincidence and -- nah, no one believes in that much coincidence.

A couple of guys walk across the parking lot, moving from a door up there to a door down there. On their way, they glance towards the car door that opens and then shuts, without barfing out a customer or patron. Neither of them stop walking -- but something in their posture shifts slightly towards wary. From the looks of them, a couple of jocks the sort someone like Big John Callahan might employ to hang around, use the fitness machines in the motel's very humble gym, and beat the shit out of any patrons visiting one of the girls and thinking he can leave without paying. Eyes accustomed to looking for certain signs easily identify the bulges in coat pockets; no self-respecting wannabe gangster leaves home without a piece. They don't need to be bright. All they need is to be up for a fight, and to have the instinct of a shepherd dog; there's a wolf in the woods, there's something off about that car in the parking lot that no one is exiting.

Could just be some guy not accustomed to places like this. Some bored husband, finding his courage, maybe talking himself out of a bit of guilt or promising himself he'll make it up to his wife later but hot damn, he needs some tail he's not married to.

The two thugs walk on, into room 14. It's a given they'll check back in five to see if Seth and Vic's car is still there, and they're still in it. And maybe notice the other car if that too fails to produce somebody heading inside to meet with one of the tired looking women that are up the motel's main attraction. And maybe, at some point, somebody's going to wonder why the surveillance cameras are down.

The window of time in which to act just shortened considerably, or at least now comes with the risk of having to deal with more than two hostiles.

It's definitely de la Vega. No mistaking that bulldog profile; or the ear popping crack of power that washes over the vicinity as he unbolts one of the weapons from the rack and slots in a clip. It's the Sig P226 he goes for, unsurprisingly. It's holstered, and his jacket tugged down. And once the two men disappear into number 14, that seems to be his cue to mosey on out. He shuts the lid on his laptop and ditches his radio, and cracks the door open.

And Vic, at least, knows just how damned fast he is on the draw. So the fact that he's got his hand on the grip of his gun ought to tell her something: they could try to take him out. They might succeed. But would they live to tell the tale?

Vic gives Seth an incredulous look. "No. We are not killing my former undercover partner, Sparky. For fuck's sake! Come on, let's see why he's here." She opens her door, knowing the sound will alert the cop. "Javier, ¿qué diablos haces aquí?" she hisses to him. She doesn't have a hand on her weapon, she is the weapon. Her Glimmer has gotten stronger in the Physical sense, but it's come at a cost. Her mind is no longer reaching out for the minds of others.

Holding up his hands in capitulation, Seth chuckles. "Hey, I already knew that was the answer. I just had to ask." Vic getting out of the car and addressing the cop however seems to take Seth for a mental spin for a moment, "What the..Ok. I guess we are just announcing our presence here...'

Seth quickly detaches his holster and sidearm from his belt, stashing it into the glove box, along with the black ski-mask he had on top of his head. Casually he exits the car and gives Ruiz a bit of a half-hearted wave of greeting while saying to Vic out of the corner of his mouth, "I really hope you know what you are doing here, hun."

Bumping the car door shut with his hip, de la Vega turns his attention to the approaching pair. Wary, but that goes without saying; one doesn't let down their guard in a situation like this. Not if one wants to stay alive. "The fuck do you think I'm here?" he replies to Vic, dark eyes skimming her frame. Down, and then up again, like he's searching for something. A look askance to Seth, and a twitch of his mouth in a wolfish grin that isn't anything approaching pleasant.

Then he nods toward Room 22. "Got two perps in there. How were you planning on dealing with them, walking in and busting their balls?"

"We've been staking this asshole out for days, Javier. We need to 'talk' to him, and make it very much understood that whomever his boss is? Needs to never traffic through Gray Harbor again. Ever," Vic says quietly. She tips her chin towards room 22. "Already disabled their guns. We're not going in there flinging lead. How did you find these assholes?" She keeps close to Seth. No weapons on them that are discernible, but Vic can do what Itzhak does, bag of holding. Her coat pockets are likely full of death bringers.

Seth remains quiet letting the two ex-partners talk it out, he doesn't need to get involved. He would likely just spout the wrong thing off any way that would make matters worse, so instead he keeps an eye on Room 22, and the rest of the motel as he slides in a bit closer to Vic and slips an arm around her waist...appearances of a guy that might be taking his affair to the motel for a bit of off-the-grid hanky panky. Well, it would look like that if it wasn't for de la Vega. Mr and Mes. Darrow seem to have picked up a third.

Finally deciding to speak up, he mutters a quick, "Whatever it is we decide, we need to decide now before we are blown."

Hey, maybe they like the occasional threesome with their off-grid hanky panky. Who's judging? Probably not the likes of the types of people who frequent this place.

As for this asshole? "His boss is involved in a hell of a lot more than moving people through some shithole town. He's one of Reyes's buddies." The cop makes a face, one of those little lopsided grimaces that marks deep grooves at the corners of his eyes. "Your boyfriend's right, though. We don't have time to stand around shooting the shit about this. You two coming, or bailing? Things go south, I can't guarantee your safety." He starts slouching off toward Room 22, drawing his Sig as he moves.

Vic grunts and pulls her ski mask out of a pocket, and her weapon, handing another to Seth. "Yeah yeah, we're coming. We were here first you know," she mutters crankily. She moves swiftly and silently towards the room.

If this had been a high class brothel -- or hotel, for that matter -- sound proofing would be a thing. As it is, perhaps getting your hank on with your pank and hearing the couple next door do the same is considered an extra perk, free of charge. Who knows? Maybe some of those older gents who come visit the girls that work here need that little inspiration to get things moving. Maybe some of them come here for it -- who would really be surprised if some of those cheap art prints in cheap frames turned out to be covering peep holes? It's certainly the kind of place where you might approach the guy at the office and mention you wanted something special, and he'd tell you to rent room 19 and move the Monet print aside for a good one way view of the bathroom in 20.

Without soundproofing,

-- Don't give a fuck how you move those goods uptown, John, make shit happen and no questions asked --

-- Easy for you to fuckin' say, still got bodies unaccounted for from last time, that ship didn't set fire to itself --

Letting out a slow breath, Seth gears up himself taking the gun from Vic and checking it to make sure it is loaded..etc before slipping it into his holster. "Damn it, I left my hoodie in the car...fuck it. Apparently, we are deputies now or something." He gives Ruiz a quick little grin before he takes up position with Vic, "The plan is alive still, right?" he whispers to his trio of people as he pulls out his ASP and flicks it open, just to make sure everyone is still on the same page. He doesn't want to go in ready to toss punches and baton strikes when the others are popping off caps around him.

The grin from Seth is returned with a wink from the cop, though not so much as a stitch of a smile. He flips his cap around backwards as he moves, maybe more out of habit than anything else; it's not like he's going to be handling a rifle scope. Sig in hand, he drops a round into the chamber, presses his shoulder against the wall beside the door of Room 22, and directs his gaze to Vic. Your move, that look says. Assuming she trusts him to back her up. Time was, he'd be hot on her heels and laying waste to anything that moved in her direction.

Vic pulls her mask on and moves to the other side of the door . She closes her eyes, reaching out her senses to the interior mechanism of the door lock. Even if it's electronic, at the end of the day, it's just a deadbolt on the inside. She slides it slowly to unlock it quietly, then with a grin, she swings it open with her mind, leaving both hands free to level her weapon inside. "Evening twatwaffles! We're here to have a nice little chat. If you'd like to participate, sit down and shut the fuck up. Otherwise, we'll be happy to make sure you don't tell anyone about this conference call. Ever."

Trust a smart man to know that when someone bursts into a motel room, gun and attitude first, maybe the best long term survival prospects lie in sticking your hands in the air and not trying something stupid. "Mr and Mrs Darrow" know that Big John Callahan isn't the sharpest machete in the Amazon. And apparently, neither is the guy he's talking to.

Both men spin around around from yelling at each other. Semi-automatics materialise in hands. They are pointed. They are fired. Absolutely nada happens.

Score one for planning ahead, Vic. The expressions on both men's faces are glorious. You can hear the silent what the fuck thought bubble over John's head. And the que carajo over the other man's.

Seth tisks as he enters the room and hears the impotent clicks of the men's guns. "Bad choice."

Mr. Darrow rushes the two men, introducing Big John's kneecap to his friend ASP, the extendable steel truncheon with a strike, and introducing the back of Big John's friend's knee on the return.

De la Vega's the last one in, and he has the luxury of being an audience to that tender moment of guns misfiring, and Mr. and Mrs. Darrow greeting them with a hearty hello. Kneecap style.

He makes a moue with his mouth, like, not bad, and ambles on over once he's shut the door. Just in case things get noisy in here, yannow. Do either of the men recognise him? Maybe, maybe not. But he does kind of bleed cop from every pore, so it's not much of a stretch. "I'd do what the lady says," he advises with a little smile, and sets off to start looking around the room while Vic and Seth 'talk' to the boys.

Vic finds herself a chair to perch in, leaning back, crossing her legs, going very Bond Villain as she levels her weapon idly at Big John. The news that the other guy is a buddy of Reyes, has rage seething beneath the surface of outward calm, something Ruiz would be able to feel and Seth would know by simple understanding of her body language. "So, now that you understand you are in no position to negotiate with us, we're going to ask you some questions. Who is your boss, Mister Callahan?"

The expression on both men's faces when guns are fired is priceless. This is the part where people fall over in sprays of blood and guts, and then need to be disposed of -- but not one of the three have the courtesy to even pretend to get hit. What are the odds of both semi-automatics misfiring at once? Callahan might want to comment but then he finds himself busy on the floor, clutching his shattered kneecap and biting his cheek to not scream out loud. The whole thing about the larger they are, the harder they fall? Yep, still works like that.

The door shuts behind the Chief. Did anyone outside hear the gunfire that didn't happen? It's not very likely, and that possibly is dawning on Callahan and the man who was giving him a dressing down too.

They exchange glances.

Then Callahan recovers at least some of his bluster as Vic plops down in a chair, Lady Evil style. "What the fuck? You're supposed to be gettin' married? The shit is goin' on here? Why you beatin' me, Darrow?!"

The other man straightens up and his hand goes for -- no, on second thought, not with Seth Monaghan standing right next to him and the look on Chief de la Vega's face, never mind. He may be the smarter one; at least he sticks both hands up. "Busting in on ops in Spokane now? Gray Harbor getting too small for you guys? You know who my boss is," he adds with a nod towards the Mexican; possibly because he realises how unhappy Callahan is going to be in a moment for not actually answering Vic's question.

Seeing that nobody else is going to make an issue, at least not right this second, Seth takes the opportunity to frisk and relieve the men of any other weaponry they may have on them.

"Because you tried to shoot me and my wife, John. That wasn't very neighborly of you and if you hadn't pulled the trigger, I wouldn't have had to beat you," explains Seth with a shrug of his shoulder as he collapses the ASP and places it back into the holder on his belt before reaching into the pouch pocket on his BDUs and starts to zip-tie the trio at the wrists and ankles.

"Behave yourselves, you might get to go home," he lies.

"I wouldn't call it busting in," de la Vega murmurs, using the butt of his pistol to lift the edge of some clothing tossed atop a stack of papers on the table. Then he pulls a pair of gloves out of his jacket pocket, stows his gun, and starts tugging them on. "And I wouldn't call this much of an, uh, op. Either. You two look more likely to be running a lemonade stand. Pretty sure I've got a nickel here somewhere." Whereupon he resumes his rifling about. Search warrants are apparently for losers. Or cops who follow the rules.

"And seeing as your boss is rotting in jail, you must be taking your orders from someone else. You feel like telling me who?" He glances over, meets the guy's gaze for a moment. The wan lighting in here sure as hell doesn't do his brutish profile any favours.

Vic smirks, looking relaxed and comfortable as Ruiz begins going into pitbull mode. "I suggest you start talking, Callahan. Ask your friend here what happened to his last boss' underlings. It wasn't pretty. Quite messy actually. There were mops involved in the clean up."

Sometimes, a man makes a choice. In this case, Big John Callahan is lying on the floor, wrists and ankles zipped tight, his kneecap needs an appointment with a surgeon and now that blonde thing is trying to boss him around. Sometimes, a man makes a bad choice. "I ain't telling you fuckers nothing," Big John declares with a baleful look up at Vic -- or rather, up Vic's legs because he can't see a whole lot more from down there.

Well, they are nice legs. And the other guy next to him was already unimpressed with him, even before these three people burst in and failed to go down in a rain of bullets. Maybe he is just trying to cling to the shattered bits of his ego that haven't yet rolled away to be forever lost in the cheap wall to wall carpet.

The other man is the smarter one. Seth adds a wicked little butterfly switchblade to his collection out of a back pocket; the name on his driver's license is Diego Zapatero. He's a weaselly type -- nondescript, the kind you wouldn't notice anywhere. Not distinctively Hispanic, not distinctively Caucasian -- distinctively non-distinctive at best. The perfect messenger and scout for an operation such as Reyes' -- no one will remember what he looks like ten minutes from now. That's probably the point.

"You put a man in jail, doesn't mean you shut down his entire company," Zapatero returns, looking at de la Vega. "This shit, though? He sends goods through your territory, that's on him. We told him to deliver, didn't tell him how or where. You working for Kelly and Monaghan now, Chief? Not looking fucking good, but then, neither's the floor from where I'm at. Maybe we can still sort this out." For him, his tone says. Sorry, John. Can't make omelettes, yanno.

"Fuck you," Big John snarls. He can read the writing on the wall, too.

Hearing his last name mentioned by this Zapatero character, Seth visibly winces. It's probably a good thing he is behind the trio of men and only Vic and Ruiz can see it. Trying to compose himself after the utterance of his name bringing thoughts of his cousin to the forefront, Seth narrows his eyes and expertly opens that butterfly knife. Tapping out something on his phone and slipping it into a pocket on his vest Seth speaks up "So since we have our canary do I cut out the other one's tongues? Doesn't seem like John here needs his anymore," As he grips John by the ear and pulls back the unmistakable notes of Stealers Wheel's 'Stuck in the middle with you' starts to play, "Or do I just go Reservoir Dogs on him? I've always wondered what that would be like."

De la Vega's got a box of Chinese takeout in one gloved hand, and is eyeing the thing as if for some sign of wrongdoing. Like maybe he thinks if he looks hard enough, he'll find a severed hand or something stuffed in there.

Then Zapatero speaks, and he looks up. And chuckles, before offering in a smoke-roughened murmur of rolling, rapid Spanish, "Estoy de acuerdo, amigo. No se ve nada bien." The box is tossed back atop the table, and his dark eyes cut toward Vic, then Seth with his knife. Then the cop prowls back over until he can crouch slowly in front of John, though he's speaking to both men.

"Escuche lo que tengo que decir." One of his knees is clearly giving him trouble; he winces as he settles into it. Fourty-eight years of abusing a body like he has, and it's no wonder it's starting to show some wear. That ugly gun holstered at his hip, though? He looks perfectly capable of using it. "We need you boys to send a message. I'm not too fucking picky about how you send it, but my friends here really want an excuse to hurt you. So you can start talking. Or you can give them what they want, yeah?"

Because serve and protect apparently got lost somewhere along the way, when he decided he was okay with torturing and killing civilians, without due process, for the greater fucking good.

“Did I mention our benefactor wasn’t very firm on whether or not you came out of this alive, Callahan?” Vic asks with an amused tone as she polishes her gun where she sits in the chair. Who knows what is on it? She’ll need a scalding shower after this. “I’m trying to be nice. I’m the nice one. I don’t want your niece to grow up without her uncle,”

Those half-eaten dumplings are truly the source of all evil. The soy alone, it is too salty, like the tears of mankind. There isn't a lot of other interesting things on that table to rifle through, though; a TV guide, some brochures for local activities and shops like you'd expect to find in any cheap motel. A couple of skin mags, today's local newspaper -- there's a grocer celebrating his thirtieth year anniversary at a mall nearby. If there's paperwork that might make a judge put either man away for good, it's not lying about in the open in Room 22.

"Give me the message, I'll get it to where it needs to go." Zapatero is nothing but practical; and why would he not cooperate? -- he has everything to gain by convincing these three that they need to let him be the one man to get to run off to warn the Emperor of China that the Huns are at the Wall. He's probably keenly aware that if roles were reversed, odds are the message would be tattooed on his back with a blunt knife and the contents of the nearest ashtray. A good weasel knows which way the wind blows, and he knows to not stick his neck out when the battle is lost.

"Fuck you, Darrow," Big John rumbles, face down in the cheap carpet and not specifying which one. "And fuck you too, Zappa. Gonna throw Big John under the bus just like that, you piece of shit. Don't forget to tell your amigo all about how you fuckers came to us, telling us you need chicks that no one's gonna miss. You think we go to all that trouble to get broads over here from some European shithole country just because Zappa here wants to stick his dick into something that don't speak English either, Darrow?"

"Oh, ríndete ya." Zapatero sounds tired as he glances Big John's way. "They know about the fucking ship. Why do you think they're here, dumbass."

"Of course we know about the ship, assholes..." If anyone here can read his mine, the rest of that sentence 'because we are the ones who fucking burned that slave ship to the waterline' is finished in his head.

After the 'Darrow' Seth decides that Big John being the stubborn guy that he is, needs a little example that they are not fucking around here. The enforcer shoves the big man's face into the stained Jackson Pollock looking under a blacklight carpet and presses the edge of his knife to bite into the flesh between skull and ear just enough to draw a line of blood, "Sounds like we have all the answers we are going to get from you. Guess it is time to add you to my necklace. Question is, will it just be one or both at this point."

As it turns out, de la Vega couldn't care less what they do to Big John. He crinkles the guy a smile like, good luck, and turns instead to Zapatero. And possibly the cop's reputation precedes him; this is a guy, after all, who used to be a tool of the cartels. A sicario, which Reyes knew full well, and so did several of his lieutenants. He's certainly not above getting his way by whatever means necessary.

And today, his way is to reach for a handful of Zapatero's hair roughly, attempting to haul his head up and force eye contact.

"You let him know I'd like to chat with him, yeah?" growls the cop. "He tries to pull shit like this, we can't let it slide. Estoy seguro de que entiendes. Perhaps we can agree on a payment. For, what's the fucking word?" He glances up at Vic, then back to Zapatero. "Leniency. Anything's possible. You let him know we're going to have a talk though, amigo." Then a shove as the man's released. Accidentally on purpose into the side of the table, as he pushes back to his feet.

Ruiz isn't the only one who used to work within the cartels. Of course Vic was under cover at the time, and didn't have prior experience actually being in them. Unlike Javier, who went from bad guy to good guy, Vic has gone the other way. Sort of. For a criminal she still seems to have some measure of honor and a desire to resolve things in ways that don't make life worse for the non criminals. She gets up and moves to the closet, where the safe is usually found. She's a Physicalist, if there is one there, she can crack it with her mind. Her abilities make being a thief and a thug a lot easier. "You're under the very sad assumption you mean something to your boss, Callahan. Do you think he'll even blink if you wind up dead? He won't. You picked the worst possible employer, one who sees people as property, goods to be moved, tools to use, break, and toss away." She's looking for the ledgers of course.

"Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you," Big John murmurs, face down in the carpet and probably very grateful to not be reminded what it would indeed look like under a black light; take this carpet to Forensics, and you'd likely have a DNA profile for a quarter of the population of Spokane, going back to 1965. He struggles; but of course he does, he knows just how cooked his goose is -- between the 'Darrows' who turned out to be Monaghan enforcers, and the level of servility Zapatero is showing to the third guy, he doesn't need to know de la Vega's official affiliations to realise how much he's neck deep in the shit pool. Odds are that his won't be the first body dumped in the woods nearby, either.

Zapatero's shoulder hits the table with a thud that speaks volumes about how much his collar bone is going to sting for a few days. The glare he shoots after the Chief could castrate a lesser man by viciousness alone -- but coming from down there, on the floor, face down in the disgusting carpet, hands and ankles tied, it's a mild irritant at best.

"I'll pass it along." It's not likely to be Zapatero volunteering to turn up in Gray Harbor for negotiations. Smart weasels don't jump into wolves' dens for shit and giggles. Smart weasels don't argue, either, not when they are surrounded by wolves.

The Last Chance Motel is not a secure fortress; it's certainly not a Bond villain lair -- and Big John, on closer inspection, is not Spokane's Joey Kelly. He is, possibly, the guy who reports to the guy who reports to Joey Kelly. Is he smart enough to arrange a trafficking deal with people of similar inclinations, in Belgrade, Serbia?

The ledgers that Vic fishes out after making short work of the safe (concealed, oh so cunningly, behind the coat hangers, just like in every other motel like this) say no. A lot of the writing uses a cyrillic alphabet that's probably Serbian. The faxes (seriously? faxes? who uses faxes?) in English are quickly skimmed: A company in Belgrade exports -- mattresses? It almost has to be a euphemism. (It isn't. A quick Google search confirms that, The top three U.S. imports from Serbia, also by value, are Mattresses and other bedding products, (2) Bombs, grenades, cartridges, parts, and (3) Returned exports, without change.)

The keyword there, though, is that each delivery is accompanied by a fax to a Spokane number -- this one, presumably -- worded in a way that leaves no room for argument. These are not inquiries, opening negotiations of times and places. These are orders coming down from on high -- a ship will arrive, you will collect the goods.

A perfectly neat operation. People and goods that need to vanish in Europe turn up in the US and vice versa, trafficked through a couple of small, insignificant harbours on the west coast that no one cares to do a lot of customs monitoring on. No one has reason to, either -- because Europe is east of the US, which means these goods are transferred somewhere, go through the Panama Canal, and back up the coast. The paper trail gains another few links, obscuring both origin and destination. A few port authorities are bribed to look the other way, the ships are old cargo runners registered to countries with difficult and impenetrable laws protecting their owners, such as the Caymans and the Phillippines. The crews, no doubt, are a mixed lot, prone to keep their mouths shut as long as money happens. And at either end of the trade network? Organisations like the one that Big John does the dirty work for, organisations like Reyes', organisations like -- whoever runs the show in Belgrade.

Seth may be impressed by John's stubbornness to remain quiet even in the face of certain defeat, but just to make a point the enforcer cuts a small notch in John's ear just to give him something to remember him by, leaning down and in a very low voice, "Be glad my boss finds more value than yours in being alive, or else this would have gone much differently..and thanks for the beer."

Wiping the blade on John's pants Seth closes the blade and stands, placing his foot on the back of John's neck to keep him in place, "We about done here? We have to get the package back home and unless we are going to take a 'shortcut' we need to get the car and prep for transport."

Vic squints at the Cyrillic entries. She moves to Seth and murmurs quietly, "We're going to need a translator. I think our good neighbor knows a ton of languages, right? Think he'd lend a hand?" Alexander is one of those crazy strong mentalists, and knowing he'd be helping to stop trafficking in Gray Harbor? She's pretty sure he'll assist in reading the ledgers. She makes sure not to say his name around these people though.

She closes the book and tucks it under her arm with a smirk at the two prisoners. "All right, Callahan. You failed to talk to the nice one, so we're taking you on a drive down to have a little tea party with someone less nice. Would you like me to send a text to your brother that you'll be out of town for a bit, so your niece doesn't have to worry?"

Ruiz, meanwhile, looks like he's about done here. He seems to have gotten what he came here for, and is stripping off the gloves and stuffing them in a pocket of his jacket as he ambles for the door. "Make sure you leave that one in one piece," he informs Seth, with a hitch of his chin to Zapatero. Then his ball cap is turned the right way around, and he shoulders his way on out to let the pair do what they're going to do with the rest of it.

Hey, it ain't all fun and games. Some people have boring ass jobs to get back to.