Participants:
| Scene Title | What You Take Away From It |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Finding out the truth behind the murder of Senator Portman only opens up more questions, but it takes an attempt by Espenosa to clean up leaks and weak links in his network to get to the real story. |
| Date | August 30, 2010 |
It would be too early for most people to be out of bed, most people aren't cut out to be Company agents though.
Dawn's early light is bleeding blue over the Staten Island skyline, reflecting dim off of panes of glass in warehouses littered across Port Ivory. Shadows are still dark, dew still clings to grass growing up between fissures in the pavement that no city works program will maintain. The northern shores of Staten Island are still a no-man's land, divided by the verdant expanses of the untamed greenbelt and bordered by the Rookery to its eastern flank.
Nestled on the border between Port Ivory's industrial neighborhoods and the division of an abandoned freeway that serves as the Rookery's western border, the Sho-Kleen Drycleaners looks like most other abandoned buildings in this desolate wasteland. The facade of the building is crumbling in disrepair, plaster falling away from a concrete block foundation of the two-story building, grass growing up waist high in the back parking lot around the rusted-out hulks of abandoned cars stripped of tires and windows smashed in.
The store's barred windows have kept it safe, the locks on the doors have kept it secure. While the signage out front may have become sun-bleached and faded from near four years of abandonment, the functionality of the bunker-like building is commendable.
Gregory Fritz has a regular schedule, one that brings him to this warehouse every night at nearly the same hour, three hours past midnight on an average day. In a place where you're just as likely to be shot or stabbed for a good pair of shoes or a few bucks to score drugs, having a building to hunker down in safely is important.
For as secure as this building seems, tumbler locks and chains on the door only dissuade the /ordinary// smash and grab burglars. Professional criminals — or in this instance professionals — have a much different series of skills in their repitoire. Lockpicking is among them, even if it does require something as crude as a snap gun to force the back door's locks and a shearing power somewhat like bolt cutters to quietly remove the chain from the door.
Four agents to capture one man are favorable odds, even by today's standards.
Agent Grant Fitzpatrick isn't normally a field operative, but as a former homicide detective the questions he could ask Fritz about Senator Anthony Portman's death are invaluable. A tweed jacket with suede elbow patches keeps off the morning chill, powder blue shirt and brown slacks makes him look more like a college professor than a federal agent. His gun however has something to say to the contrary.
"I'll stay down here, in the— ah— laundry area?" Fitzpatrick's urging comes as he halts ahead of a floor full of hanging plastic bags and mannequins, looking unsettled by their gender-neutral appearance and the unsettling shadows they cast. The second floor of the building it half a floor, business offices accessed by a metal staircase over the drycleaner racks, a faint light likely from a lamp is keeping the upstairs office lit.
"You guys go wake up sleeping beauty, I'll be backup…" There's a crack of a smile from Fitzpatrick as he looks askance to the other three on his way in. Both brows raised, Grant looks to the three agent at his back making their way in from the overgrown parking lot out back. "Real far backup."
At a glance, Veronica doesn't look much like 'Kiki,' who Fritz had his last run-in with a few nights back. The auburn hair is now back to her brown, though a bit richer and darker; the green contacts are gone and her whiskey-brown eyes are her own once more. Gone is the overdone makeup, and instead Agent Sawyer looks a little under the weather. Her Mediterranean coloring is made sallow by pallor, dark circles beneath her eyes suggest she didn't go to bed early enough last night for this pre-dawn adventure on Staten.
The bubbly demeanor, feigned for Fritz and the rest of the gambling crowd, is long gone, and the usually terse agent is downright reticent today. She merely nods to Fitzpatrick, then glances at Ryans and Buckley.
"Try to remember whatever you see if he uses his power it's not real. Whatever you see — whatever you saw last time," she glances at Bryan, "it's not real. I'll tase him if I see either of you freaking out."
A hand comes down on Grant's shoulder and gives it a squeeze. "Watch the way out at least." Benjamin Ryans rumbles softly, stepping past the man. Fedora tipped low on his head, Ryans has the gangster look going on, with his dark gray suit and shirt underneath. Fingers unbutton the two buttons on his jacket, giving him more freedom of moment. "Call if you seen anything."
The Assistant-Director glances at Veronica and gives a small short nod of his head in understanding. He's not looking forward to this… but then… he's been around something similar before in the form of Huruma.
A hand dips into his jacket and loosens the Company issue handgun in it's molded holster and slowly extract it from where it was seated. Blue eyes skim over the area around them, eyes falling on this and that.
The operation they have planned leaves Bryan Buckley holding the bag. Literally. His own Company issue side-arm rests comfortably in a shoulder holster beneath his unbuttoned suit jacket, but the "special assignment" agent has his hands full with breakfast. He carefully balances a cardboard tray in one hand, four presumably hot and caffeinated beverages stuffed into the molded depressions. In the other he carries a bag. The label on the outside proudly proclaims it as a product of Big Kahuna Burger, and from the size and strain on the bag, it would seem they've brought enough for Fritz and then some.
Breakfast is, after all, one of the most important meals of the day.
Perhaps not as crisply dressed as the other agents, Buckley makes up for it in posture. His shirt may be open at the collar, and his jacket may be unbuttoned, but he walks with a dignity few men toting fast food can. He nods at Sawyer's reminder, then looks toward the stairs. "Shall we?" he asks, the slightest of smirks playing on his face. It may be business, but making this little house call on Fritz is sure to be entertaining.
One wary look from Grant to Ryans is the only answer that agent Buckley has for a few moments. At least until Ryans and Veronica begin ascending the metal stairs up to the second floor offices. Above the main floor, the dusty curtains of old clothing in plastic bags marks this place as one of the few havens from looters, the locks on the office door marks it as safe enough, though through the glass window on the door, a makeshift bed of a pair of mattresses and coiled blankets seems more like Staten Island.
Fast asleep and sprawled out on his back, blankets tangled around one leg, a narrow and high window open and a bottle of beer tipped over and staining the carpet beside the bed, Fritz doesn't notice the sound of clicking repeatedly emanating from the lock as Veronica's snap gun makes short work of the tumblers and unlocks the door.
An electric lamp flickers as the door opens, and the three agents headed up to say hi to the scraggly-heiared and scruffily-bearded bookie are given silent and swift entrance.
Bryan seems to think food will make them chums with the guy who caused Veronica to get electrocuted again with his fear-mongering. Veronica, on the other hand, is in no mood for playing nice after the ghost of Company past visited her, interrupting her brief attempt at sleep and ensuring she got no more.
Sliding the snap gun back into its holster and tiptoeing toward the sleeping bookie. She glances at the two men with her, pulling her taser from its place and aiming it at Fritz before reaching out with a foot to nudge his leg. "Morning, sunshine," she says with a fake cheery voice, nothing quite like 'Kiki's' and yet nothing like her own husky and weary tone used just moments ago with her colleagues. The mask is back in place, and Veronica is all business as usual, sarcasm included.
One wary look from Grant to Ryans is the only answer that agent Buckley has for a few moments. At least until Ryans and Veronica begin ascending the metal stairs up to the second floor offices. Above the main floor, the dusty curtains of old clothing in plastic bags marks this place as one of the few havens from looters, the locks on the office door marks it as safe enough, though through the glass window on the door, a makeshift bed of a pair of mattresses and coiled blankets seems more like Staten Island.
Fast asleep and sprawled out on his back, blankets tangled around one leg, a narrow and high window open and a bottle of beer tipped over and staining the carpet beside the bed, Fritz doesn't notice the sound of clicking repeatedly emanating from the lock as Veronica's snap gun makes short work of the tumblers and unlocks the door.
An electric lamp flickers as the door opens, and the three agents headed up to say hi to the scraggly-heiared and scruffily-bearded bookie are given silent and swift entrance.
Bryan seems to think food will make them chums with the guy who caused Veronica to get electrocuted again with his fear-mongering. Veronica, on the other hand, is in no mood for playing nice after the ghost of Company past visited her, interrupting her brief attempt at sleep and ensuring she got no more.
Sliding the snap gun back into its holster and tiptoeing toward the sleeping bookie. She glances at the two men with her, pulling her taser from its place and aiming it at Fritz before reaching out with a foot to nudge his leg. "Morning, sunshine," she says with a fake cheery voice, nothing quite like 'Kiki's' and yet nothing like her own husky and weary tone used just moments ago with her colleagues. The mask is back in place, and Veronica is all business as usual, sarcasm included.
Buckley, for his part, tosses the bag of hot greasy breakfast food at the man's chest. A few paper-wrapped breakfast sandwiches tumble out, one landing near Fritz's ear. He doesn't say anything, but walks on past to find a surface on which to set the coffees. A long unused desk does the trick, and Buckley sits atop it, pulling one of the cups from the cardboard caddy. But he doesn't drink from it.
"Vittles is gettin' cold, Fritzy," he mocks, adopting a southern drawl for the phrase before he tightens his jaw and narrows his eyes in what can only be disgust.
The sound that Fritz makes when he's awoken is almost like a dog's startled yelp if someone stepped on its tail. Wide eyes stare unblinkingly at the three agents in the room and Fritz scrambles up into a seated position, hands clasping around the paper bag with all the nervous tension that a man might when cradling a bomb. "Jesus— fucking— what." Pawing blindly across the mattress, Fritz finds his back up against a concrete block wall, warm breakfast sandwiches hugged to his chest in the greasy, paper bag.
"Wh— who the fuck are you?" Looking from side to side at the group, there's no recognition on Fritz's face, not until he sees that taser, then those legs and then finally those eyes. "Oh— fuck me running." Exasperatedly, stammering, Fritz holds out one hand with fingers spread, and it's obvious that a man who can make people terrified of things still has some things to worry about in a room full of people with guns.
"Wh— what the hell d'you want?" he murmurs with a stammer, glancing down to the paper bag, then back up and around. "You— fucking— brought me breakfast?"
"He," Veronica says, with a nod toward Bryan, "is nicer than I am, Fritzy." She holds a grudge. "We're looking for answers, and you seem to be the man who has them. You help us, and maybe we'll let you live. And you might remember, your mojo doesn't work on me, so don't even think of trying anything. I can tase or shoot you or both if you send the spiders after the boys here."
She nods to the bag. "Go ahead and eat. I don't think it's poisoned. Tell us what you know about Senator Portman, and why the hell you're carrying around brains." Veronica is apparently not in the mood to beat around the bush.
"Breakfast is an important meal… stimulates the brain." Two fingers of the Assistant-Director's free hand, lift to wiggle at his own head. The look in Benjamin's eyes is a little on the chilly side, his voice just the same. "Said to make you smarter, so eat up." Brows tick up just a bit as he says that. Yeah… not a happy man.
Ryans falls silent letting Veronica ask the questions, for the moment happy to play 'that guy that will shoot you,' for the time being.
Buckley grins.
He lifts the coffee in salute, then gets up and strides over to effectively place it in Fritz's outstretched hand. Even in the dim morning light, his sharpened canines gleam. "Just didn't want you to have an excuse," he says as he steps away, shrugging and clasping his hands behind his back. The gesture shifts his jacket just enough to show a brief glimpse of his own firearm. Buckley's grin is in sharp contrast to his stern tone of voice, but it doesn't falter as he speaks. "No tellin' us to come back later once you've had somethin' to eat or your morning cup of java. Hell, if you had a dog, I'd walk the son of a bitch for you, just so you could give your undivided attention to my colleagues here."
"I— I ain't really hungry," Fritz stammers, looking back and forth from the agents looming over him. "J— Jesus fuck okay, look— look, okay," setting the paper bag down at his side and curling fingers around the cup of coffee, Fritz stares wide-eyed up at Veronica. "I don't know shit about a Senator, okay? I— I don't know shit. Not a goddamned thing. If— if you guys have that cryo case, though, I ah… I'd really appreciate getting that back?"
Theres a weary smile crossing Fritz's lips as he makes that request, looking down at the coffee he's been handed as if it — and somehow not Bryan — were going to bite him if he looks at it wrong. "S-seriously, it— it was just a job. I swear though, I swear I didn't see that guy before the other night. I ain't never dealt with no senators or nothin' okay?"
Hand shaking enough that the coffee is sloshing around inside the covered cup, Fritz swallows noisily. "L-Look, I— I don't want no trouble. You— whatever you wanna know, okay? Jesus fuck I ain't the badguy here okay?"
Veronica lowers her hand and glances at Ryans to suggest he probably should as well. This interview will take all day if every other word is followed by Jesus Fuck.
"All right. Calm down. Let's start with Renton. You were the last person who saw him alive, as far as we can gather. He owed you money, right? Can you tell me what you know about that night? Anyone else who might have wanted him dead besides you that you can point me to? And who hired you to steal a brain, and why were you carrying it that day?" She has no idea if they're connected, but the fact that he has a serial-numbered brain is obviously something worth questioning — even if the answers are liable to get them all mindwiped or worse.
Slouching, Fritz rubs one hand down the side of his face, then reaches out to pull back the little plastic tab on the coffee lid so he can take a sip. Maybe he's hoping it is poisoned, that'd be a way easier out. "Renton owed me money from like… forever ago. He was a piece of shit and bet on a dog that lost in the fights," fights that, according to Rain's intel from Ricky, Fritz rigs with his fear-projection. "He lost a fat wad on a fight and said fuck-all about paying it off. I got debts, you know? To fucking scary people like Espenosa."
Casting an askance glance to Ryans, Fritz looks back to Veronica as he takes another sip of his coffee. "I know what the fuck you wanna ask about, yeah, yeah. I caught up with Renton that night, cornered him while he was shooting up a fresh score from Espenosa's boys, that Flash shit."
Fritz swallows noisily, then looks over to Bryan with a furrow of his brows, recognizing him finally from the other night before looking back to Veronica. "I gave him a dose of the same shit I hit your boy with," comes with a nod of his curly-haired head towards Bryan, "I'm special, like I guess you are. I show people things, bad things, but it's only whatever you bring with you, y'know? Whatever you give it to show you."
Another, slightly more confident sip comes from the coffee, and Fritz relaxes his posture a little. "Ain't never scared anybody doped up on Refrain or Flash before, so— I guess it freaked Renton the fuck out. He started saying his face was melting and that his eyes were gone, something… something like that. Guy started fucking clawing his eyes out. I tried to stop him and," Fritz rolls up the flannel sleeve on one of his arms, revealing bandages. "Fucker clawed me up like a rabid animal. So I gave him a kick to the junk and left his ass… but— when I was backin away, he was like— I dunno… changing."
Swallowing tensely, Fritz looks downt o his coffee. "Like the fucking wolfman or something. His bones were making poppin' noises and his was just— rollin' around on his back. I took off before he could finish whatever he was doing. Then I hear about some senator dead? Naw, man, naw."
One mystery solved. Only a dozen more to go. Veronica frowns, grimacing a little at the description of what happened. "All right. I think we can understand that was a mistake on your part, and that you weren't trying to kill the guy. Drugs and abilities clearly don't mix," she says lightly, to keep him calm. "So you didn't see him actually die." Her dark eyes glance at Ryans and Buckley. "Still a third party somehow involved, but the face tearing off seems to have been the result of a bad trip helped along by Fritty, here."
She turns to glance at Fritz again. "So you never saw the senator before, ever around Staten? A girl named Jasmine, says she knows you, she knew the senator a bit back."
Buckely backs up to retrieve another one of the cups of coffee, sipping at it as Fritz tells his tale. Labeling Fritz's involvement in what lead to the man's death, senator or no, as a mistake doesn't sit well with him. The man frowns, the skin on his forehead wrinkling into a series of deep lines. Veronica's little after school special slogan doesn't help. He rests a hand on his hip, pushing his jacket back to put his holster in full view. There are far too many maybes for his tastes.
The weapon is lowered slowly, when Ryans catches Veronica's own actions out of the corner of his eyes, but he doesn't not end up putting it away really. He listens to what the bookie has to say, brows furrowing at his words.
The mention of a third party gets a short nod, but the older agent is content to let Veronica do the questioning. She takes a sliding steps to the side, before pacing away, back towards the door. Call him overly cautious, but the old man moves to glance out of it, even linger in the doorway.
"Yeah I know Jazz," Fritz notes with a crease of his brows, having a slightly tongue-in-cheek nickname for the hooker. "She was one of the high-price call-girls back at the Dagger when it wasn't a smoking hole in the dirt, y'know? She buys from me from time t'time, but I ain't never heard she was servicing no Senator. Ain't entirely surprising, that. Seriously, though, I didn't know Jack, Diddley or Squat about this Portman guy till it was all over the fucking news, and I sure as shit didn't mean to kill Renton, fucker still owes me money, post-mortem and all that."
When Ryans ducks out of the office and looks out the door, down to the ground floor, he can barely make out Fitzpatrick standing in the doorway watching the back of the store, gun out and head poking around the propped open back door, watching for unwanted guests. "So," Fritz begins again with a look to Veronica, "I told you, I don't know any more. I didn't actually see Renton die, just that he was bugging the fuck out and clawing at his face. I mean— I can sort've fill in the fucking blanks for myself."
That he doesn't know about Portman or what might have caused another pool of blood in the amount found at the scene by the Renton corpse seems clear enough and Veronica gives a nod. "All right," she says, glancing at the door to Ryans and then back to Buckley, head tilting as if to ask if they have any other questions on that regard, but she plows ahead whether or not they do.
"You had a fucking brain in a thermos the other night. Explain what that job was about. Who paid you what to go where and why that particular brain. Anything that might be important, Fritz," she orders.
Soles of his leather shoes scuff on the cement floor, as Ryans turns back to the room again, stepping inside. For the moment satisfied that Grant has their backs, for the moment. There is a shake of the old man's head when Veronica gives that questioning look his way. No questions from the senior agent.
The question about the brain, Ryans turns his attention to Fritz curiously, interested in what the man has to say on the matter.
"Y— yeah. Yeah uh, I— that… that was totally not mine." Fritz admits with a hand scrubbing at the back of his neck. "We had some roughneck types come in thorugh the Rookery about a week ago? Ex-military or something, they got into a fight with some of Espenosa's guys, right? One of them was carrying that backpack, I'd heard they busted into a cryogenics place out in Jersey, you know the kinda' place where they freeze you for the future for whatever, right?"
Swallowing nervously, Fritz looks down to his coffee, half drained already. "So like, they get jumped by some of Espenosa's boys, right? Well— this shit— they radio in for backup and this fucking white truck comes out of nowhere, guys in like masks and shit come out shooting. While everyone is blowing each other away, I'm all— this has to be fuckin' valuable, so I snag it."
Frowning, Fritz looks askance to the door where Ryans is peering out of, then back to Veronica. "I thought it was a heart or a kidney or something I could sell. Nobody wants a fucking brain for nothing." At least nobody Fritz knows.
Institute. Veronica's eyes move to Ryans, a little apologetically, since of course she turned that brain into the lab. The Institute will likely get it back, to do God knows what sort of Frankenstein experiment with it, given the team of mad scientists working for the organization. "If that's so, why were you so worried about getting it back?" Veronica asks Fritz.
That one question is all she has left, and she nods to her superior, one brow arching. "Your call," she says tersely. It's up to Ryans if he wants to arrest Fritz, bring him in for further questioning, or throw him to the Institute. "Renton was already listed as dead," she adds as a reminder to them all. It's Portman's murderer that is the bigger enemy — and the more difficult to catch and fry.
There is no reaction to the description of the Institute other then a clenching of his jaw. Every time he turns around there they are again, worse then cockroaches. There is a small measure of amusement picturing Harper as one of those little bugs scurrying about. "Bring him in. Have Allison talk to him." In other words, get the poor man manipulated for more information. It also buys time before he's sucked into the Institute coffin farm.
A neutral look it shot to Fritz. "Just to be sure." Ryans offers after only a moment more.
Bryan narrows his eyes at Fritz, then flashes him another glimpse of his teeth in a sideways grin. "Too bad," he muses under his breath as he moves past Fritz and Veronica, his voice low enough to avoid Ryans's ears.
"'Cause— Cause I figure, you know, whoever lost that goddamned thing will be lookin' for it eventually? I was hoping to pawn it off on someone before that happens y'know? If that shit gets traced back to me having rustled it from them, I might get a fucking bullet to the head…" then, however, comes the slow and worrisome realization that Fritz has been waiting to try and make ever since he got woken up, even as he sets his coffee down and begins unrolling the top of that paper bag.
"Okay your— this— this guy," there's a point of Fritz' finger towards Bryan, "really freaking me out. But like," Fritz' brows furrow, "if you three ain't working for Espenosa, how'd you even know I was here? I only came out here because he said there were feds sniffing at my house… Espenosa and his crew are the only people who… who even know I'm here."
"How long ago was that? Related to this case, to Portman and Renton or was it earlier than that?" Veronica says, brow knitting together. Pierce, operations director for Homeland, had apparently killed Portman last year. Is he after Fritz and others too? "Was it before or after you found the brain?" The 'Feds' could be other Company agents, FBI, DHS — who knows. She frowns again, and pulls out her cell phone, slowly so that the man doesn't overreact to her motions, scrolling through for the picture of Pierce.
She holds it up to Fritz. "You recognize this guy at all?"
It's good to know Buckley isn't losing his touch while working with the investigative team. His smile twitches wider before he relaxes it with an undeniable smugness. He looks down at Fritz, then the food in his lap. The smile is replaced by a frown then. For someone who is eager to eat the food he brought, Fritz is clearly not the type to express thanks.
"Think real hard," he adds to Veronica's question, nodding solemnly. See? This is why he brought food.
His jaw clenches when Fritz blurts out why he's here, body stiffening up with a sudden tension. "I don't like this." Ryans' voice is soft, turning slightly to ease another glance out into the hall, back pressed against the door jam. This time, however, the gun is up, his eyes watching past the barrel.
Ryans' head tilts towards Fritz just a little to hear his answer tho, if he doesn't like what he hears he'll be hurrying back down to where Grant is.
Down on the ground floor, Grant is watching the back door, pacing back and forth, gun barrel tapping against his hip to a tune stuck in his head as he paces. Noticing the silhouette in the doorway, Grant looks up to Ryans and offers a hand-gesture of A-Ok before returning to his meandering patrol, not willing to shout up and see how things are going and give away his advantage of being both out of sight and out of mind.
Assaulted by questions and photographs, Fritz does what seems most important first: he reaches down into that grease-stained bag and pulls out a paper-wrapped breakfast sandwich, unwrapping it halfway and taking a slow, contemplative bite as he stares up at the picture of Pierce. "Yeah," he offers with his mouth full, "Yeah he came around th' night Renton got dead. He was arguin' w'Renton outside've the cages for the fights, didn't hear what he was bitchin' about. Carried himself like a cop though, or somethin'."
Looking over to Bryan anxiously, Fritz hides behind his sausage and bacon biscuit as he looks back to Veronica. "What? No this— this ain't got nothin' t'do with the brain. Espenosa said like two days ago some contact of his called and told him that the feds were looking for me. He told me t'lay low here for a few days until it all blew over."
A contact?
A few days ago?
Daselles.
Apparently DHS's operation director is killing Evolved on Staten. Is this what "reclaiming" means? Or perhaps he set up Renton to use Portman's face, and then got tired of Renton for some reason. Veronica turns the phone so that Bryan and Ryans can see it, before shoving it back in her pocket. "Ya fucking think that maybe mentioning that you saw a guy having a fight with Renton the day he died would have been useful, there, Fritty? Next time you're being interrogated, don't bury the lead. Jesus."
She is in a really bad mood. That Daselles apparently ratted them out is neither here nor there — to be honest, she doesn't blame him. "Did you see anyone else who might have heard what they were arguing about? Anyone closer to them? Think hard, Fritty, the more useful you are, the better it is for you." She glances at Ryans, unsure if she can really promise that. There was still a third party somewhere in the picture at the crime scene — her bet's on Pierce.
"Grab him… We'll grill him in the car.. or back at base." Ryans says gruffly, he motions towards the door with his head. He really doesn't look happy. "If they told him to lay low here right around the time we were told to find him here. I'd rather not hang around to find out why.
"You cooperate with us Fritz… well… it can't hurt your situation any." Ryans isn't above making promises, if it'll get the suspect to work with them, and if there is a possibility of doing something about it.
It's Buckley who leans over the bed to wrap a set of strong fingers around Fritz's upper arm, meaning to yank him up from the mattress, sandwich or no sandwich. He bares his teeth in another grin, and even winks at the bookie. "Comn' Sunshine," he half-coos. "We'll go someplace where there's soap."
"Y-Woah hey!" Dropping his sandwitch to break apart into equal portions on the floor, Fritz is yanked up to his feet with a look of startled confusion on his face. "Hey woah what the fuck man, c'mon I— Jesus are you guys the fed— "
"Ryans! We've got trouble!" The sound of Grant's voice shouting from downstairs comes at the worst possible moment, followed by the sounds of screeching tires approaching the fortified building. "Shit, shit!" Ducking in through the back door he'd been peeking out of, Grant gets out of the way of the door just in time to hear a slam up against it, a car scraping up against the back door. Grant backpedals away from the entrance as gunfire starts popping outside, shattering the glass of the barred windows and sending the agent ducking behidn the front counter as wood splinters and glass shatters.
Another loud crash slams against the front entrance, another vehicle barricading the doors shut. "Wh— what the fuck!? What the fuck!" Fritz is, understandably, a little afraid.
"Get down," Veronica hisses, pushing Fritz down and moving to the side of the window, flattening herself against the wall and then peering through the now-broken glass, trying to get a view of the vehicles and who is shooting, her taser shoved into her holster and her firearm coming out instead — not that she expects to get a good bead on anyone, even if she gets a glimpse of their attackers.
"Grant… get up here if you can." Ryans calls down from where's he's taken up post at the door. Shoulder leaning heavily against the door frame, gun aimed down the hall. A glance into the room lets him know what the others are doing. "Anything?" He asks gruffly of Veronica, his gaze going back down the stairs, ready to cover Grant as needed should he try.
The second crash gets his attention, "They are blocking the entrances down there." Ryans doesn't turn to look into the room, but asks still, "Fritz… is there another way out?"
Buckley hisses out a curse as he wrenches Fritz's arm to the ground, his free hand going for his pistol. Calling Grant upstairs doesn't make much sense when they need to leave the building, not protect it, but the fanged agent is too busy dealing with Fritz to say much. "Can you direct your ability?" he asks over the din. "You fuck with them, we'll get you out of here alive. Can you do that?" It might be their only chance at it.
"Oh holy shit!" Fritz helpfully screams as he's thrown to the ground by a skillful wrench of his arm. "I— I can't do shit! I can't do shit!" That's really not that neither Bryan nor Veronica were hoping to hear. "Fuckin'— Fuckin' I need motherfucking eye contact! Let go of my goddamn arm jesus christ they're gonna' kill us all! Espenosa's gonna' fuckin' kill us all! There's no way out we're dead! We're so dead!"
Downstairs, Grant is pinned down by the wild spray of gunfire that seems to be coming from all around the building, fired in blindly through the barred windows of the dry cleaners. "Ryans!" Grant shouts as he looks up towards the stairwell from where he's crouched behind the front counter. "I don't see any other doors down here! No way I can cut through the wall fast enough!"
To make matters worse, the sudden addition of crashing glass comes not from another window being blown out, but a bottle being lobbed in towards one of the barred windows. The metal grating causes the glass to shatter, but the flaming fluid of a molotov cocktail sprays in thorugh the glass, dappling on stacks of clothing and hampers, on plastic bags hanging on racks. Another bottle shatters ont he other side of the building through another window.
Espenosa is going to burn everyone alive inside the building.
"The window," Veronica says, glancing up at the window she can't see out of, and glancing back at the taller men in the room — even scrawny and twitchy Fritz has a few inches on her. "Boost me?" she asks. She could probably run and leap and catch the ledge, but as long as there's help, she might as well take it. She shoves her firearm back in the holster, not wanting to let go of it, but climbing and falling out a window with a gun in hand isn't a wise move — even for her.
"Not you," Bryan shouts, letting go of Fritz by practically hurling their informant toward Veronica and the window. "Him. Let him get a good look at them to buy us some time!" He follows after Fritz, gun drawn, fully intent on getting the man up so he can at least see out the small window and potentially turn the tide.
"Son of a —" The news continues to get better and better, Ryans sighs heavily trying to think. He turns til his back thumps against the wall, his blue eyed gaze falling on Fritz. Veronica's assessment has him looking upward, finger coming up to push the fedora up on his head. There is a firm nod, before a look goes to the desk.
"Bryan." He points at the desk, a motions of his finger towards the window, before ducking to look out the door again. "Grant! Your gonna have to take a chance. Lets go, agent." His words are sharply shouted.
"You— they're fucking shooting at us!" Fritz screams as he's pushed towards the window, "You want me to— what the fuck do you want me to do!? I— " and then the wiry bookie is being shoved at the wall and grabbed by the waist, hoisted up towards the open window. "Fuck, fuck, fuck you!" Scrambling and flailing as he grabs for the window edge, Fritz pulls himself up and stares down at the parking lot. Whatever he sees it has him ducking away from the window refleively, looking like he's trying to see something, or having a hard time getting a good angle.
Downstairs, a lull in the gunfire has Grant bolting up to his feet, running for the stairs and using the curtains of plastic dry-cleaning bags and clothing hanging from the automated racks as cover to mask his movement. It's only when he pops out from behind the burning racks of lcothing that some of the men outside spot him and the gunfire begins again.
A whine slips past Grant's lips as he loses his footing for a moment, skidding down to one knee. He turns towards the windows, then throws up a hand towards the silhouette of a man he can see in the firelight and there's a wet shearing sound and a scream from outside.
Huffing and wincing, Grant pulls himself to his feet and begins to ascend the stairs, even as fire begins to crawl across the walls. "We— we're surrounded out there." Grant hisses, clutching his side with one hand, blood pulsing between his fingers from a gunshot wound that clipped him while he ran.
"Hey, wetbacks!" suddenly echoes thorugh the upstairs as Fritz finally does something to make eye contact with every man of Espenosa's he can see outside. Banking that he can terrify them before they can shoot him, Fritz unleashes his projected fear with a wide-eyed stare down outside of the building.
When screams of panic followed by gunshots that make Fritz wince but not bleed mesh together outside it is sign of a job well done. "They— they started shooting at each other!" Fritz proudly exclaims, "Can— can I come down now?"
"Are they all dead?" Veronica demands of Fritz, then turns to look wide-eyed at Grant, and nods to the downstairs. "Any way out, or are we all going to have to jump ship?" she asks, the metaphor she's used more than once for the Company irritating all those doubts in the back of her mind about her choice to even be working today after her visiter just a couple of hours before.
"Who cares?!" Bryan snaps back at Veronica as he lowers Fritz with a grunt. "Find out in the paper tomorrow - let's go!" Grabbing hold of Fritz's shirt collar, he lunges across the room, past Veronica and toward Ryans and the stairs. It's as if Fritz is his own personal battering ram, only he's beating their way out rather than in.
"Good work, Grant." Ryans rumbles, moving to help the poor guy, since they don't have to worry about people coming up the stairs now. Once Fritz is inside, Ryans starts shut the door to minimize the smoke that will undoubtedly be filling the place soon, but then noticed Bryan heading his way.
"We may have to jump ship, so to speak, they blocked all the doors and a damn inferno down there." Ryans states matter of factly.
Exhaling a heavy sigh, Grant slouches against the interior wall of the office, looking down to the gunshot wound at his side and the blood on hs hand, then presses down harder on the injured area. "Yeah, yeah uh it— " Grant's blue eyes track across Bryan as he pushes Fritz kicking and screaming (literally) towards the office door and the stairs. "Is— Buckley okay? You know, heh— head injuries or nothing?" Even while bleeding out, exasperated and in pain, Grant still finds the time to wisecrack just a little.
On his way — forcibly — down the stairs, Fritz is shouting at Bryan, "It— there shit on fire down here I— what do you expect me to do scare the fucking doors open!?" Still in just his boxers and the tanktop he'd been sleeping in, Fritz' socked feet scuff and kick across the floor as he's hauled down to ground level, where the walls are peeling, smoke is beginning to cling to the ceiling and flames are engulfing one side of the building interior while fire crawls across the plastic-wrapped clothing on the racks. "Both of the doors are blocked by cars! I can't scare a car!"
Gunfire pops outside again, followed by shrieks and screams, noises of shoes crunching in gravel, more intermittant gunshots. Espenosa's men are too busy tearing each other apart now — or trying to kill theo nes driven insane with fear — to shoot into the building.
Still on fire, though.
"We gotta go out the window," Veronica says, moving to shove the desk the rest of the way in front so no one has to lift her. Clamoring up, she peers out, aiming her gun at Espenosa's men, luckily distracted by one another, and helps them out a bit by helping to finish whatever's left of the job if she can. Between shots, she glances over her shoulder. "It's a straight drop, but I'll take a broken ankle over third-degree burns unless one of you men have a better idea."
Fire. Fire that's more than just a few flickers of flame. Bryan backs away from the stairs, pulling Felix back up along with him, his face a mask of worry and urgency.
His eyes go to the blanket on Fritz's bed, then dart around the room for something to MacGyver a grappling hook out of. He pushes Felix toward the window and grabs the blanket, his frantic search continuing. "Can you see the roof, Sawyer?" he shouts as he darts about, twisting one end of the blanket into something resembling a rope.
"Anyone afraid of heights?" He doesn't sound really enthusiastic about this jump, but then again, Ryans did survive a jump from a freakin' dam, this is isn't nearly as high. So it should be okay. He helps Veronica move the desk the rest of the way and stands there while she gets a look. No reason to add more weight at the moment. Desk could probably take it tho… since it was probably used at one — or more — times for questionable business practices.
"How is it looking?" Ryans asks. "Bryan first, then Fritz… you…" He points to Veronica. "Then I'll bring up the rear."
"Okay! Okay!" Fritz is severely freaking out, his hands trembling, tears welled up in his eyes. For once, the man who can create fear is terrified. "Jesus Christ! Alright— Jesus Christ just stop! Just stop!" Fritz is cracking as he's shoved towards the window and listens to the conversations about jumping down an entire floor to concrete below. "It was Pierce! It was Pierce the whole fucking tiem it was Pierce, it was Pierce God fucking damnit! Just stop this!"
Grant offers an incredulously askance look to Fritz, ten up and over to Veronica, then over to Bryan and Ryans before leaning away from the wall and looking at the fear-prokector with one brow raised. "Pierce was the one who asked about the brain! I was bringing it to him, man! He was the one who got slashed up by Portman or whoever the fuck he was! They were having a meeting! It was a fucking meeting!"
Grant looks to Veronica crookedly then back to Fritz as if in disbelief that the man was lying to them the whole damned time. Only now, smothered by smoke and listening to the cries of fear of the gang members outside is Fritz breaking under the pressure. "Pierce asked me to get the brain and I got it I broke in and took it, okay!? Renton— Portman or— whatever. He was talking to Pierce at the fights, they were working together. They were gonna stiff me for the brain, so I knew what'd happen. I brought 'em out of the fights, I— I'd seen Renton hit some Flash before…"
Hunching up against the wall, Fritz is trembling. "I swear, they were trying to screw me over. So I hit Renton wit' the fear an' he freaks out, goes ballistic. Pierce pulls a gon on me, Renton freaks on him, and I fucking took off. I could hear Pierce screamin an' Renton was biting his arm. I fucking bailed! I bailed! There are you happy now!? Are you? Stop it— stop this!?"
"You are… shitting me, a lot." Grant hisses as he looks from Fritz to Veronica, "I… really don't like this island."
Smoke builds in the ceiling.
The leap of faith is coming soon.
The sudden confessions from the bookie evoke disbelief, manifesting in wide eyes and a shake of her head. "Good job," Veronia manages when the words stop rushing through the open floodgates. "We still gotta get the fuck out of here, Fritz, or we're all dead meat." She jumps down from the window, catching Bryan's glance to the blankets. There's no grappling hooks, nor does her mind jump to that idea, but she scurries to tie the end of a blanket in a knot around the table leg, giving it a pull to see if it'll hold, then connecting the next — they won't make it all the way to the ground but it might help to get a few feet lower than the window and soften their blows a little.
"Fritz first," she says, glancing at Ryans, and she turns to look at Fritz, her face turned away from Bryan so he can't see her mouth to Fritz, "Run."
The glance from Sawyer is returned with a Neutral one, Ryans can't outright say it, but she'll know he's supporting it, cause he doesn't protest it. He only moves to the door, removing his suit Jacket, ignoring the fact that his shoulder holster is exposed.
At least it's not a favorite suit, as Ryans drops it on the floor in front of the door and pushes it against the crack along the bottom. It doesn't stop the rest of the sides, but at least it'll slows the smoke down. "Fritz… get your ass out that window before I throw you out it." A rumbling growl behind that order.
The sudden confessions from the bookie evoke disbelief, manifesting in wide eyes and a shake of her head. "Good job," Veronia manages when the words stop rushing through the open floodgates. "We still gotta get the fuck out of here, Fritz, or we're all dead meat." She jumps down from the window, catching Bryan's glance to the blankets. There's no grappling hooks, nor does her mind jump to that idea, but she scurries to tie the end of a blanket in a knot around the table leg, giving it a pull to see if it'll hold, then connecting the next — they won't make it all the way to the ground but it might help to get a few feet lower than the window and soften their blows a little.
"Fritz first," she says, glancing at Ryans, and she turns to look at Fritz, her face turned away from Bryan so he can't see her mouth to Fritz, "Run."
The glance from Sawyer is returned with a Neutral one, Ryans can't outright say it, but she'll know he's supporting it, cause he doesn't protest it. He only moves to the door, removing his suit Jacket, ignoring the fact that his shoulder holster is exposed.
At least it's not a favorite suit, as Ryans drops it on the floor in front of the door and pushes it against the crack along the bottom. It doesn't stop the rest of the sides, but at least it'll slows the smoke down. "Fritz… get your ass out that window before I throw you out it." A rumbling growl behind that order.
This isn't exactly how most successful cases end, with Company agents dangling out of a window of a second story building, hanging down to their hands to get as much of a head on the drop as possible, then having the demoralizing fall into a packed full dumpster filled with old, composted trash bags. It isn't a dignified end to an assignment, but it is a safe one, remarkably.
Outside of the dry cleaners, Fritz lands into the trash heap, retches, then rolls onto his side and crashes down onto the pavement, finding bullet-riddled bodies of South American cartel enforcers strewn across the ground. Looking up over his shoulder, Fritz sees Buckley squirming out of the window, narrows his eyes, and remembers Veronica Sawyer's last words.
Looking to his left and right, Fritz starts to run, about as far as the first car that was blocking in one of the doors. Scrambling inside, the bookie turns over the ignition a few times, hearing shouts from Bryan as he does. When the engine finally turns over and rumbles, Fritz quickly backs the car out away from the door of the burning building now belching smoke and peels out on the cracked pavement in reverse, then drives off down the street.
By the time Bryan lands down in the trash heap, then rolls onto the street Fritz is speeding away and out of sight. A scowl crosses Buckley's lips, even as he looks to the other car that barricaded in the door, its front tire bent inwards from the impact. Fanged teeth bare in a scowl and Bryan's hands curl shut into fists.
"Fantastic," he hisses, looking up to Veronica wiggling out of thw window next, landing down gracefully in the trash and rolling out of the over-full dumpster onto the ground, shaking off a brown sludge from her hands. Bryan turns towards Veronica, shaking his headand sliding his tongue over his sharpened incisors. "We ain't gonna' be able to make shit stick to Pierce without Fritz' testamony you know…"
Grant is next to squeeze out of the window, a groan of pain accompanying his movement as he rolls on his side and then falls down into the trash. Unlike the others, he doesn't get out afterward. Worriedly, Bryan moves over to the dumpster, sliding one arm beneath Grant and helping him out, feeling the warmth of blood down his arm. Dark eyes alight towards where Ryans is squeezing out of the window, swinging his legs out and then falling down to the trash below, even as the ground floor of the building blazes with the fire that was set.
While the Company agents lick their wounds, Gregory Fritz drives as fast as he can down Port Ivory's desolate streets, putting as much distance between himself and the fear he'd experienced in that burning building as he can. He's seen too much, and he knows it. With being likely wanted for Portman's murder, Espenosa and his men gunning for him, Pierce knowing that he's lost the brain he'd been hired to steal, and now the Company hunting for him… it's time to lay low for a while.
Thankfully, Gregory Fritz has heard of some people that specialize in hiding people on the run.
Specialize in hiding people in trouble and getting them out of the city.
Gregory Fritz is going to see if the Ferrymen are more than just a rumor.