Knowledge is power (PG-13) - challenge #116 (part 2 of 3)
Posted: Mon Jul 05, 2010 2:08 pm
Title: Knowledge is power
Author: redwinter101
Rating: PG-13, some strong language
Disclaimer: I don't own Moonlight or any of its characters
Note: written for Champagne Challenge #116 - "Between the fire and the fountain". This takes place in 1985, shortly after Coraline's "death". For any locals, the street intersections are fictitious. This is part two of three
*************************************************************************************************************
--- Knowledge is power, part two ---
Previously:
He'd narrowed down the crew to a small operation, part of a wider network he hadn't quite figured out yet, who operated and controlled a four-block radius from this point. The evening shadows lengthened into dusk, their favourite moment to strike if the police reports were accurate, which suited Mick just fine.
He didn't have long to wait. Even if he hadn't noticed the Lincoln Continental as it pulled up to the intersection, he could feel it, the crackle, the electricity, the anticipation, the echoes of other raiders on foreign lands. Mick felt it in his bones, the blood memory of battle.
Time to get this show on the road.
*****************************
By the time they pulled the hapless driver out onto the road, her trembling hands held high in supplication, Mick was stowed in a doorway, ready to make his move. Over the next half hour, the two assailants would have plenty of time to wish they had just got in and tried to drive away. But one was determined to make his point, backhanding the terrified woman as she half-stumbled, half-crawled to the curb. He raised his right foot, poised to kick, his high-pitched laugh of triumph grating against the woman's whimper.
It was the last kick he was going to aim for a while, laugh becoming scream as the bones in his lower leg shattered under Mick's boot. He went down fast and hard, clutching at his misshapen leg in an effort to stem the pain. His buddy fared little better, spun into the wall, dirty brick grating against the soft skin of his cheek.
"Do. Not. Move." The chill whisper in his ear as his hands were pinned behind his back, weapon yanked from his waistband. His buddy was dragged up next to him, grimacing with pain and the effort of trying not to show how much it hurt. Eyes closed, Mick drew in a deep breath of them, fear mixed with anger and pain, twin pulses pounding, deafening. His jaw clenched and flexed, the rub of fang slipping through gum and lip.
A soft cry from over his shoulder broke Mick's reverie.
"You okay, miss?"
Eyes glazed, trying to marshal uncooperative limbs into working order, overcome with shock and fright, the woman didn't reply.
"Are you hurt?" Louder, sharp enough to snatch her attention and elicit a mumble. Her fingers brushed a tender spot where her lip had been split, a careless hand raking through her hair, her eyes still refusing to focus.
Mick's tone dropped, "I've got these two. You're safe, okay? Look at me. Look at me," she looked up and Mick smiled, the gentle warmth in his voice finally reaching her. "You're safe. There's a payphone just there on the corner. Is there someone you can call to come get you?" He was counting on her not thinking straight enough to call the cops. He had business to attend to and could do without them nosing around. At least if she called someone, he knew she'd get home safe.
"M-my husband."
"Good. Here's a couple of quarters," he fished the coins from his pocket and held them out to her. "Go call him. Go. It's okay."
She turned and headed for the corner. Thankfully the phone was working and she had gathered her wits enough to dial home. As she spoke, Mick watched her senses returning, looking up to the intersection to give directions, nodding, reassuring her husband that she was okay. A brief, brave smile and she hung up, returning to stand by her car, engine still running, parked at an odd angle to the curb.
"My husband's coming." She turned back to face Mick, "He'll be about fifteen minutes. I…" she waved toward the car. "Thank you. I don't know what else to say…"
"Say goodnight, bitch," the man squirming under Mick's left hand finally found his voice, "'cos-"
The rest of his threat was lost in a blur of pain and blood, skin and tooth cracking as his face smashed into the wall. A boot, rested against his shattered shin, reduced any further trace of bravado to a moan.
She was crying now, fat tears sliding down her cheeks as her shoulders heaved.
"What's your name?"
"J-Janice. Janice Warner."
"Janice, listen to me. You're safe. I've got these two and your husband's on his way. You just need to hold on a little longer, okay?"
Mick smiled in reply to her nod, "Good girl. Now, I want you to open the passenger door," she inched her way to the car, wanting to step away from her assailants but unwilling to move too far from the stranger with the kind voice and dangerous eyes who had come to her rescue. "Swing it wide open, that's it, and sit down while we wait, okay?"
The familiar cocoon of the car was welcome and she sank down in the seat, taking a moment to collect herself. Reaching for her purse, she grabbed for a pack of cigarettes, pulling one out and lighting it at the third attempt. She turned to offer the pack to Mick.
He was gone.
They were all gone.
The cigarette dropped from her lips to the sidewalk as she stood, bewildered, looking up and down the empty street.
"What the…?"
The streetlight picked out a pool of blood, dark and smooth against the rough asphalt, but that was the only sign anyone else had been there. At least it saved her the trouble of calling the cops but she was going to have a hell of a job explaining things to her soon-to-arrive husband. All things considered, Janice Warner wished she'd taken a different route home.
A glint of silver as Mick watched her through a crack in the warehouse door. She'd always wonder, but she'd find a way, her mind filling in gaps, rationalising the inexplicable. The muffled groan of pain from the struggling body held fast in his left hand ended in a yelp that drew Mick's attention. Turning to catch the pale shaft of light falling through the open ceiling he pulled close, taking his first opportunity to examine his prey.
It only took a cursory inspection to reveal an uncomfortable truth. He wasn't a hardened gangbanger. He wasn't a street hustler accustomed to the ups and downs of life at the sharp end. He was a kid. Just a kid who smelled of hand-me-downs and disappointment. No more than sixteen, scruffily dressed with incongruously-bright, new sneakers. Mick held his buddy up to the same scrutiny. Struck dumb, trembling, he was even younger, fourteen maybe, barely five feet five, skinny, eyes darting from Mick to his injured friend. One black kid, one Hispanic. No gang colours. But they definitely worked for someone.
Figuring the kid with the broken leg as the leader, Mick turned his attention back to him, "What's your name?"
He spat in Mick's face. "Fuck you."
Mick tightened his grip on the boy's throat. "Let's try again. Name."
The younger boy found his voice, "His name's T. I'm Miguel."
"Well at least one of you's smart."
"Look, mister, you got that woman's car back so just let us go."
"Maybe not so smart. You," he shook T, "sit over there on the floor and keep quiet. Don't even think about … running." Given the state of his leg he wouldn't get far, even if he tried. Mick turned back to Miguel. "Now you're gonna tell me who you work for and what happened to a silver BMW you stole four nights ago."
He shrugged, "We steal a lot of cars, man."
"Try."
He chewed his lip, considering his options. It didn’t take him long to realise imminent danger trumped everything else. "We pass all the cars on to-"
T tried to rise from the floor, groaning with the effort, "Shut your mouth, Miguel. Shut your stupid mouth, you-"
"We pass all the cars on to Santos. What he does after, I got no idea."
"What's your cut?"
The kid smiled bitterly, "Survival."
Mick sighed. Fourteen years old and he’d already seen too much, "Where do I find this Santos?"
"Miguel, don’t."
"Shut up, T. I'm taking care of this. Corner of Jones and Farmington. It's a legit workshop at the front, chop shop round back. That's where he usually hangs out. He does business from an office on the lot. That's all I know." His chin rose in defiance.
"You got somewhere you can get patched up?"
"Like you care."
"Don't go back there tonight, okay?
It was the best he could do.
*****************************
Author: redwinter101
Rating: PG-13, some strong language
Disclaimer: I don't own Moonlight or any of its characters
Note: written for Champagne Challenge #116 - "Between the fire and the fountain". This takes place in 1985, shortly after Coraline's "death". For any locals, the street intersections are fictitious. This is part two of three
*************************************************************************************************************
--- Knowledge is power, part two ---
Previously:
He'd narrowed down the crew to a small operation, part of a wider network he hadn't quite figured out yet, who operated and controlled a four-block radius from this point. The evening shadows lengthened into dusk, their favourite moment to strike if the police reports were accurate, which suited Mick just fine.
He didn't have long to wait. Even if he hadn't noticed the Lincoln Continental as it pulled up to the intersection, he could feel it, the crackle, the electricity, the anticipation, the echoes of other raiders on foreign lands. Mick felt it in his bones, the blood memory of battle.
Time to get this show on the road.
*****************************
By the time they pulled the hapless driver out onto the road, her trembling hands held high in supplication, Mick was stowed in a doorway, ready to make his move. Over the next half hour, the two assailants would have plenty of time to wish they had just got in and tried to drive away. But one was determined to make his point, backhanding the terrified woman as she half-stumbled, half-crawled to the curb. He raised his right foot, poised to kick, his high-pitched laugh of triumph grating against the woman's whimper.
It was the last kick he was going to aim for a while, laugh becoming scream as the bones in his lower leg shattered under Mick's boot. He went down fast and hard, clutching at his misshapen leg in an effort to stem the pain. His buddy fared little better, spun into the wall, dirty brick grating against the soft skin of his cheek.
"Do. Not. Move." The chill whisper in his ear as his hands were pinned behind his back, weapon yanked from his waistband. His buddy was dragged up next to him, grimacing with pain and the effort of trying not to show how much it hurt. Eyes closed, Mick drew in a deep breath of them, fear mixed with anger and pain, twin pulses pounding, deafening. His jaw clenched and flexed, the rub of fang slipping through gum and lip.
A soft cry from over his shoulder broke Mick's reverie.
"You okay, miss?"
Eyes glazed, trying to marshal uncooperative limbs into working order, overcome with shock and fright, the woman didn't reply.
"Are you hurt?" Louder, sharp enough to snatch her attention and elicit a mumble. Her fingers brushed a tender spot where her lip had been split, a careless hand raking through her hair, her eyes still refusing to focus.
Mick's tone dropped, "I've got these two. You're safe, okay? Look at me. Look at me," she looked up and Mick smiled, the gentle warmth in his voice finally reaching her. "You're safe. There's a payphone just there on the corner. Is there someone you can call to come get you?" He was counting on her not thinking straight enough to call the cops. He had business to attend to and could do without them nosing around. At least if she called someone, he knew she'd get home safe.
"M-my husband."
"Good. Here's a couple of quarters," he fished the coins from his pocket and held them out to her. "Go call him. Go. It's okay."
She turned and headed for the corner. Thankfully the phone was working and she had gathered her wits enough to dial home. As she spoke, Mick watched her senses returning, looking up to the intersection to give directions, nodding, reassuring her husband that she was okay. A brief, brave smile and she hung up, returning to stand by her car, engine still running, parked at an odd angle to the curb.
"My husband's coming." She turned back to face Mick, "He'll be about fifteen minutes. I…" she waved toward the car. "Thank you. I don't know what else to say…"
"Say goodnight, bitch," the man squirming under Mick's left hand finally found his voice, "'cos-"
The rest of his threat was lost in a blur of pain and blood, skin and tooth cracking as his face smashed into the wall. A boot, rested against his shattered shin, reduced any further trace of bravado to a moan.
She was crying now, fat tears sliding down her cheeks as her shoulders heaved.
"What's your name?"
"J-Janice. Janice Warner."
"Janice, listen to me. You're safe. I've got these two and your husband's on his way. You just need to hold on a little longer, okay?"
Mick smiled in reply to her nod, "Good girl. Now, I want you to open the passenger door," she inched her way to the car, wanting to step away from her assailants but unwilling to move too far from the stranger with the kind voice and dangerous eyes who had come to her rescue. "Swing it wide open, that's it, and sit down while we wait, okay?"
The familiar cocoon of the car was welcome and she sank down in the seat, taking a moment to collect herself. Reaching for her purse, she grabbed for a pack of cigarettes, pulling one out and lighting it at the third attempt. She turned to offer the pack to Mick.
He was gone.
They were all gone.
The cigarette dropped from her lips to the sidewalk as she stood, bewildered, looking up and down the empty street.
"What the…?"
The streetlight picked out a pool of blood, dark and smooth against the rough asphalt, but that was the only sign anyone else had been there. At least it saved her the trouble of calling the cops but she was going to have a hell of a job explaining things to her soon-to-arrive husband. All things considered, Janice Warner wished she'd taken a different route home.
A glint of silver as Mick watched her through a crack in the warehouse door. She'd always wonder, but she'd find a way, her mind filling in gaps, rationalising the inexplicable. The muffled groan of pain from the struggling body held fast in his left hand ended in a yelp that drew Mick's attention. Turning to catch the pale shaft of light falling through the open ceiling he pulled close, taking his first opportunity to examine his prey.
It only took a cursory inspection to reveal an uncomfortable truth. He wasn't a hardened gangbanger. He wasn't a street hustler accustomed to the ups and downs of life at the sharp end. He was a kid. Just a kid who smelled of hand-me-downs and disappointment. No more than sixteen, scruffily dressed with incongruously-bright, new sneakers. Mick held his buddy up to the same scrutiny. Struck dumb, trembling, he was even younger, fourteen maybe, barely five feet five, skinny, eyes darting from Mick to his injured friend. One black kid, one Hispanic. No gang colours. But they definitely worked for someone.
Figuring the kid with the broken leg as the leader, Mick turned his attention back to him, "What's your name?"
He spat in Mick's face. "Fuck you."
Mick tightened his grip on the boy's throat. "Let's try again. Name."
The younger boy found his voice, "His name's T. I'm Miguel."
"Well at least one of you's smart."
"Look, mister, you got that woman's car back so just let us go."
"Maybe not so smart. You," he shook T, "sit over there on the floor and keep quiet. Don't even think about … running." Given the state of his leg he wouldn't get far, even if he tried. Mick turned back to Miguel. "Now you're gonna tell me who you work for and what happened to a silver BMW you stole four nights ago."
He shrugged, "We steal a lot of cars, man."
"Try."
He chewed his lip, considering his options. It didn’t take him long to realise imminent danger trumped everything else. "We pass all the cars on to-"
T tried to rise from the floor, groaning with the effort, "Shut your mouth, Miguel. Shut your stupid mouth, you-"
"We pass all the cars on to Santos. What he does after, I got no idea."
"What's your cut?"
The kid smiled bitterly, "Survival."
Mick sighed. Fourteen years old and he’d already seen too much, "Where do I find this Santos?"
"Miguel, don’t."
"Shut up, T. I'm taking care of this. Corner of Jones and Farmington. It's a legit workshop at the front, chop shop round back. That's where he usually hangs out. He does business from an office on the lot. That's all I know." His chin rose in defiance.
"You got somewhere you can get patched up?"
"Like you care."
"Don't go back there tonight, okay?
It was the best he could do.
*****************************