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Dec 9, 2009, 5:44pm

The damned :: Buffyverse :: Fanfic Land :: Some hard-boiled presents

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Topic: Some hard-boiled presents (Read 403 times)

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Joined: Aug 2004
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Some hard-boiled presents
« Thread Started on Nov 9, 2004, 7:52am »

Just something I'm doing for fun. Enjoy
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One in the Heart
Part 1

Getting the Glock into the airport was harder than it used to be. I normally avoid the Kennedy International; my face is on too many most wanted lists there, and the last thing I need is to evade thirty bored cops armed with CAR-15s. But this time I really didn’t have a choice.
Charlie Bianetti made his bones in the North Jersey mob ten years ago by pulling a hit on the Chinese. He wired a soup place to blow with nearly twenty pounds of dynamite, then sat across the street and waited for Yip Man Chan to sit down for his son’s tenth birthday. Ever since then he’s been the go-to guy for mass extinctions. When I got back into the game, he got smart and hit the West Coast, hanging out in the demon haunts that cover LA. Scuttlebutt says he almost got nabbed by some heroes out there, and now he’s running home scared. I plan on greeting him outside the airport before he can make it to his car. Two in the chest should settle his affairs.
The airport security gives me the hairy eyeball when I come through the gates; my shoulders brush against the doorframe when I enter. Nothing on me now will set off the metal detectors. The ceramic knife in my boot, the high-tension fishing line in my sleeve, and the Kevlar against my chest are all I have on me. All close up wetwork tools, and I can’t afford to be caught covered with Bianetti’s blood. I don’t make eye contact with the grunt waving around the rifle like a magic wand; it’s better if he forgets I was ever here.
I take my time walking through the terminal, match my pace with the business men and women around me hoping that this isn’t the flight they die on. A quick check of the flights coming in from LAX confirms my intel. I’ve got twenty minutes to kill. Its time to get my piece.
I take the long way round the terminal. One of the side doors marked “No Admittance” opens with a key card I extracted from a short-time con artist working out of the Bronx. In a second I’m walking behind the scenes. I ditch the jacket, revealing the matte gray BDUs that tell all the grunts that I’m a VIP. If they think of stopping me, they’ll just have to take a look in my eyes and rethink it. I march down the hallway, pass a few guards who don’t even blink when I pass, and cut into the inner guts of the airport.
I spent three thousand dollars of drug money to make sure my package never reached its destination. One of the baggage handlers was only to happy to make sure the little box marked “FRAGILE” got shoved in the misfiled pile. The fact I promised not to mention his heroin habit to his bosses helped ensure half his loyalty. The Mossberg twelve-gauge bought the other half.
The package is just where the handler said it would be: a pile of forgotten parcels. Hidden underneath teddy bears and CD players is my present. The little, brown wrapped box is heavier than it seems. Any x-rays taken will reveal a Black & Decker cordless power drill. I gutted the thing and lined it with lead sheets, carving out enough space for the main barrel assembly and the trigger mechanism of the Glock 17, as well as a mag full of soft lead rounds. The Christmas present is the silencer I screw onto barrel threads. I take the package and evac the area; even the ten grand on me won’t buy my way out of a confrontation if it comes down to it.
A trip to the bathroom lets my tuck the nine in my fast-draw holster in the small of my back and make sure there’s not any visible bulge under by jacket. I slip out the back hallways and check my watch: still have ten minutes. That took less time, which is good. Now I have to wait, and not draw attention to myself.
I find a cocktail bar, the kind that pilots like to frequent and alcoholic flyers worship. It’s almost empty today, just a pair of girls sitting at a table and the bartender watching daytime TV. I take a quick look around: the bar’s too thin to be used as cover if things get ugly, and the only place to set up any kind of defense is putting my back to a pillar and watching the terminal let out. That means sitting down by the girls, who are yammering back and forth about something. With any luck, no one will notice me.
Of course, my luck doesn’t hold out. Within ten seconds of ordering the Coke one of the women leans across the table, ignoring the protests of her companion, and says:
“Hi.” I feign confusion, looking around and gesturing at myself. Maybe I could fake being German. I finally make eye contact.
“Yes.” It catches her off-guard. Her look changes, the brows come down and her big eyes harden just a bit. I’ve seen that hardness before—every time I see my reflection. It’s time to reevaluate the situation.
“I’m sorry to bug you,” the redhead says, nervous as a hummingbird, “but are you from around here?” My first instinct is to lie. Something about her companion’s folded arms tells me that they’d know I was lying and cause trouble for it. Better to keep it direct.
“Yes.” “Oh, that’s great, because, well, I don’t want to take up any of your time, not that your time isn’t valuable and I wouldn’t want it if you’re offering—“
Her companion puts a hand on her arm (more than just friends, it looks), and cuts her off. “Will, get to the point.” I keep quiet when the dark haired one lets her shirt hike up and reveal the triple dark lines of an old claw-scar. She’s got a dangerous look, like a buck private who just got his first taste of combat. I could kill them both in under five seconds. Red here would take a round in the face and Scars would take one in the chest.
Just keeping things in perspective.
“Right, well, anyway,” Will goes on without stopping to breathe, “we’re in town for a little bit, and we’re wondering if you know any—“
“Central Park.”
She blinks, considering. Scars gives me a sneer born of cockyness and youth. I don’t engage.
“Oh, well, okay. Isn’t that place a little dangerous?” “No.” I try not to let the disappointment into my voice. I make a show of checking my watch. The flight just landed, and I stand up to leave.
“Have a good time in New York,” I tell them. They don’t look like they believe me.
I intercept Bianetti at the terminal. He’s a skinny guy, probably not more than a buck fifty soaking wet and tall as they come. I follow him, two people between me and him the whole way. We pass the bathroom. I slip past my buffer zone and pull him into the men’s room. He starts to yell, but I make a fist and he gargles. I check the stalls. Empty. I lock the door behind me, tossing the human garbage in the corner. He grabs at his throat. I clear leather and yell for him to hand over his wallet. His hands go up and I put three in him—two in the chest and one in the face. He slides down the wall in a wet heap. I police my brass and move to the trashcan to ditch my piece.
The door blows open like it was wired with C-4. I turn, low, ready to kneecap the next thing through the door. There’s no way anyone heard the shots. I pull off a shot as Scars comes through at shoulder height, her flying kick taking her over the bullet. Red yelps and hides behind the doorframe. I can’t fire out there: too many civilians.
Scars is on me like a pit bull, all fists and feet hammering down. As soon as the first punch lands I know she’s not human and that there’s no way I can win this. A jackhammer works my kidneys and a wrecking ball takes me off my feet. She’s snarling, but every hit is focused. A rib pops. The pain’s welling up, like a white hot poker down my spine. She makes her first mistake, hauling me to my feet. I put my dagger into her thigh, snap the blade off like a key in a lock. She snarls, backhands me hard enough that I slide across the floor to Red’s feet.
Red and Scars see the situation a half second after I do. Red looks down into the silencer barrel and goes rock still. Her eyes tell me everything I need to know about her: first the fear, then she starts working the angles. I have to move fast.
I get to my feet, my left thigh stiff as a board. But my Glock points right at Red’s forehead. I grab her by the shoulder and spin her in front of me, so I can keep my eyes on her girlfriend. If she could kill me with a look, I’d be dead. I thumb the safety on the nine and shove it in the waist band of the redhead. She unfreezes, recoiling from the thing like a snake attacked her. I give her a good shove towards Scars, who catches her, and take off down the terminal, yelling about the women in the bathroom killing some guy.
I catch my ride before security even as a chance to lock down the airport.
I hope they have a good lawyer. Nothing will stick. But they’ll be out of my hair so long as the cops can catch them.

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