Working the London job.
May. 15th, 2015 08:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
runningredWeeks of surveillance eventually paid off. And I do mean eventually. I think if it hadn’t been for the bar, I would have gone mad. But lots of watered down drinks and lots of following dealers across rooftops finally got me what I needed.
An opening.
I strolled onto the warehouse, into the middle of their meeting, bold as brass. I’d scoped the place the day before, knew where all the doors were, all the exits. Placed a few choice surprises of my own in case I needed an exit. Or a distraction.
“Who the fuck are you?” One of them demanded, hefting a Chinese knock-off 9mm Ruger like he was stroking his dick. I’d seen him again; dealer on the East Side. Mouthy, tended towards dealing near schools. My idea of scum.
I shrugged, kept walking. It wasn’t him I wanted to deal with.
The quiet one in the middle. He was still middle management but at least a rung higher than the noisy prick with the gun.
“I want a job.” I demanded, clear and to the point.
The quiet one raised an eyebrow, studying me as I studied him. Older than the rest but with a lean hardness. This one was an old street survivor. Maybe forty, maybe less but hard as teak. And much the same carved texture. He’d lived more in his time than the room full of fools around us. The corners of his eyes wrinkled in a smile that never showed on his lips. “Russell, kill our guest.”
I held his eye as I felt the loud one move behind me, feeling the battered leather of my jacket creak as I shrugged. “I won’t do that.” The armour I was wearing was light and invisible. Bullet-proof at a distance but not up close. The cheap imitation gun had maybe two, three shots before it jammed. Probably never been fired; a show piece to scare the locals. England was never big on guns.
“I don’t think you should do that.” I wasn’t letting go of Teak’s eyes, ignoring the prick mouthing off behind me.
“Oh? And why is that, exactly?” He asked, as polite as ever.
“Because you need someone like me on your crew. Someone who handle themselves in a tight corner.”
He raised his eyebrow again. “And you can handle yourself?”
I smiled, slow and easy. “Oh yes.”
I span on the balls of my toes in the smoothest kick I could manage, knocking the gun from Russell’s hand. It wasn’t hard to push that into a pirouette that brought a second kick into his knee, followed by his nose. He went down screaming, his nose fountaining blood.
Before the gun touched the ground, I had it in the palm of my hand, placing it neatly at Teak’s feet.
Yet again, the eyebrow. Yet again, a smile that didn’t show below the corners of his eyes. “And where did you learn to do that, may I ask?”
I grinned back. “I trained with the Russian Ballet.”
Then he smiled. All the way to his lips “You’re hired.”
An opening.
I strolled onto the warehouse, into the middle of their meeting, bold as brass. I’d scoped the place the day before, knew where all the doors were, all the exits. Placed a few choice surprises of my own in case I needed an exit. Or a distraction.
“Who the fuck are you?” One of them demanded, hefting a Chinese knock-off 9mm Ruger like he was stroking his dick. I’d seen him again; dealer on the East Side. Mouthy, tended towards dealing near schools. My idea of scum.
I shrugged, kept walking. It wasn’t him I wanted to deal with.
The quiet one in the middle. He was still middle management but at least a rung higher than the noisy prick with the gun.
“I want a job.” I demanded, clear and to the point.
The quiet one raised an eyebrow, studying me as I studied him. Older than the rest but with a lean hardness. This one was an old street survivor. Maybe forty, maybe less but hard as teak. And much the same carved texture. He’d lived more in his time than the room full of fools around us. The corners of his eyes wrinkled in a smile that never showed on his lips. “Russell, kill our guest.”
I held his eye as I felt the loud one move behind me, feeling the battered leather of my jacket creak as I shrugged. “I won’t do that.” The armour I was wearing was light and invisible. Bullet-proof at a distance but not up close. The cheap imitation gun had maybe two, three shots before it jammed. Probably never been fired; a show piece to scare the locals. England was never big on guns.
“I don’t think you should do that.” I wasn’t letting go of Teak’s eyes, ignoring the prick mouthing off behind me.
“Oh? And why is that, exactly?” He asked, as polite as ever.
“Because you need someone like me on your crew. Someone who handle themselves in a tight corner.”
He raised his eyebrow again. “And you can handle yourself?”
I smiled, slow and easy. “Oh yes.”
I span on the balls of my toes in the smoothest kick I could manage, knocking the gun from Russell’s hand. It wasn’t hard to push that into a pirouette that brought a second kick into his knee, followed by his nose. He went down screaming, his nose fountaining blood.
Before the gun touched the ground, I had it in the palm of my hand, placing it neatly at Teak’s feet.
Yet again, the eyebrow. Yet again, a smile that didn’t show below the corners of his eyes. “And where did you learn to do that, may I ask?”
I grinned back. “I trained with the Russian Ballet.”
Then he smiled. All the way to his lips “You’re hired.”
