killing strangers

so we don't kill the ones that we love. GRIFFITH MASON 27 CORINTHIAN

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[griffith-mason-blog]

Heartache to Heartache, I’m your wolf- I’m your man I say run little monster, Before you know who I am

[griffith-mason-blog]

Devon ⇆ Griffith

Devon: Can't a girl just be resourceful?

Devon: But I'll level with you. I asked the bartender if he knew who you were and he had your card.

Mason: Well, how lucky for you.

Mason: Is this your way of asking me out?

[griffith-mason-blog]

Devon ⇆ Griffith

Devon: Hey, so you probably don't remember me from the other week but I'm the girl who's wishing she'd let you walk her home x

Mason: Yeah? Well that's great, but how did you get this number?

[griffith-mason-blog]

secrets you keep » griffith & wes

[griffith-mason-blog]

.wesley-cabot :

“Man…” Wes shakes his head, biting his lip like he’s disturbed by the whole thing. And maybe he is. Maybe he’ll go to the ends of the earth to protect the girls that work for him, but this is bigger than him and bigger than his girls. The man in front of him is Initiative and Wes hated everything they stood for. He’d watched too many people get dragged off the street the same way he had and there’s not much he could do about it then. There won’t be much he can do about it now. He doubts if he tells the man anything he won’t follow through on the threat anyway. 

There’s no light at the end of this tunnel. 

“You must really be desperate,” he says, not looking at the man, but keeping his gaze to the side. The drugs are still weighing him down, making him lucid enough that the filter on his mouth threatens to break. He won’t let anything slip and he’ll do what he has to. Anything to keep his secrets, and others, to himself. He doesn’t care who is behind that mirror or what they do to him. And he doubts Rhys, as little as he knows about him, is going to give the man much else. 

“I was going to save this tactic for…much further into this process,” he tips his head back, like he’s settling in for a long ride in the chair he’s seated on. He clears his throat and then starts to bellow a song. It’s both to be a nuisance and to keep himself from saying anything, showing that he’s shutting down instead of opening up the way the man wants him to. 

“What will we do with the drunken sailor, what will we do with the drunken sailor, what will we do with the drunken sailor, early in the morning…” He lifts his head to look at the two way mirror. “Everybody now!” And continues with the same melody once more. 

The comment about desperation might annoy him, but he thinks the man in front of him is a more obvious embodiment of it. He starts belting out a tune, as though that’s a tactic that can save him, or the women Griffith’s threatening to drag through the door in front of him. He’d do it easily, put a bullet through the eyes of a dozen strippers if it’ll break him, and the actions greeting him now only serve as one more reassurance that he has something to hide.

Still, if he fights to remain impassive, his first reaction is to lunge across the table and beat the respect he deserves out of him. Those motivations are purely selfish, the kind that have his hands curling a little tighter around the file as he glares across the table at him. The thing that he’s carved himself into is something to be feared, if not respected. He’ll take one or the other in the end, because it’s all the same. Power at his fingertips, flooding his veins because he earned that right. Because he deserves it, for every mutant he’s killed or put behind bars.

It’s harder to remember that his ego isn’t at stake here. It’s already taken too many blows from those that’ve slipped through his fingers, but there might be an answer sitting in front of him now. It keeps his face as impassive as he can manage, motions steady as he pushes himself to his feet.

He circles the table with little rush, despite the barely restrained violence. But the shift is abrupt, fingers closing around the back of the man’s neck before he slams his head down against the table. He keeps his face pressed there afterwards, as though the metal can either silence or dampen the song if he tries to keep singing it.

The next question carries with it a quiet, unspoken threat, one he’d wanted to hold onto longer. But here they are. “You’ve got a brother, right?”

[griffith-mason-blog]

.loreleixmatthews :

@griffith-mason

There’s a conviction in her step that she isn’t quite convinced she feels but nonetheless she projects the image of a woman who knows what she’s doing. Just as well really when if she paid any attention to the slight stirrings of emotion that still existed in her they’d be saying quite the opposite. But Lorelei pays no attention too them, settling for the hollow feeling that has been her life for the past five years. There’s a sneaking suspicion for her that if she allowed herself to fully feel her guilt would be overwhelming. As it was, they were easily enough quashed for now as she strode down the corridor before finally spotting who she’d been looking for. The Corinthian. “Mason.” Short and simple to get his attention. “Anything I need to know before going into these interrogations?”

Griffith’s head turns at the sound of her shows before he hears the sound of Lorelei’s voice, only dimly interested in her existence. Right now she’s one of the better agents on the ground, which is nice when he came to LA only to find himself surrounded by idiots. But he holds an almost fanatical devotion to his beliefs, and some days it’s hard to tell if she believes anything. It’s almost a cliche, but if he’s happy to play bad cop, he thinks Lorelei will easily slip into the role of good cop. The only difference is that he’s not lying when he says he’d rather skip straight to extreme measures. Mutants are all practiced liars, and none of them quick to volunteer what they are or what they know. Not unless they’re asked the right way. “Who are you questioning first?"

[griffith-mason-blog]

secrets you keep » griffith & wes

[griffith-mason-blog]

.wesley-cabot :

Wes sighs when he asks him which gym and more questions about Rhys. He’s glad when the man passes them off as rhetorical, something threatening in the way he changes the subject and tells Wes that he should have called him when Jackson first walked into the bar. It’s easy to bullshit next because it had been partly true. “I had a few drinks. I don’t recognize hardly anyone when I’ve had a few drinks.” 

He taps the picture again and Wes looks down at it, staring into Jackson’s face. It makes the next words hard to hear. That the man wants to start bringing some of his girls in, questioning them. It’s almost the thing that flips him. There’s not many things he’s protective of in life, but his girls are one of them. He’d vowed to protect them. But would he choose them over the Syndicate? 

“Alright, alright,” he says, nodding his head like that’s the key to everything. Like he’s ready to cut the bullshit. “His name is Jake Ryan,” he says, spouting the lie easily. A reference to Sixteen Candles, because it was the first movie that popped into his head. He can still pretend to not know anything, but it’s not getting them anywhere and maybe he can buy some time giving them information to throw them off the scent. “He’s a client. Likes the…younger girls, you know?” he nods his head like the Corinthian should understand everything. 

It’s all bullshit and while he can’t say it will protect his girls, he doesn’t think he can give over the Syndicate. If it ruins him, if any of his girls are hurt by this, he’ll shoulder the guilt. 

Griffith isn’t granted any answers, just more bullshit, and if it doesn’t surprise him it still leaves him staring across the table without a trace of amusement anymore. He gives him nothing on Rhys, just some semblance of an answer when it comes to the man he’s hunting, and he doubts he can use any of it. The name sounds fake, even if it didn’t stir something like memory he couldn’t quite pin down. All the same, it leaves him incapable of anything else that follows.

Though if it’s true, it’s just one more reason to put the man in a  cage where he belongs. “You sure it wasn’t John Smith?”

There’s a shake of his head, before he glances down. “Seven Sins, right? That’s where you do most of your business?" He flips idly through the file, as though he needs it in front of him to verify that much. This time he doesn’t. It was tempting to order the Los Angeles contingent to break down the doors of the strip club next, to start pulling people from every dark corner and hole in the wall where mutants might be hidden. The option isn’t completely off the table either, not with the two people he knows for a certainty are the worst kind of criminals still at large, and he could only make guesses at who else they had with them.

Still, if he hasn’t done it yet, the next threat’s not an idle one. He’ll keep knocking on doors and dragging people off the streets until someone breaks, and whether it’s the man in front of him or the scared prostitute he employs, all that matters to him are the results. “So why don’t I bring in those younger girls and ask them check your story? In fact, better grab all of them.”

[griffith-mason-blog]

Do you think there are mutants out there who want to help?

“Help who? Themselves? Because yes, I absolutely believe that.”

[whelanesque]

Missing Person.

[griffith-mason-blog]

.whelanesque :

While he’d hoped to get a closer look, the bar was still sectioned off as an active crime scene and buzzing with activity. Investigators. Media. Curious passersby and onlookers. Perhaps he should have waited until a bit later in the evening, but he was already there. He wasn’t going to just leave without at least taking a look around on the off-chance something jumps out at him. Anything. He was unfortunately greeted by a man he could only assume had some sort of law enforcement position despite lacking a uniform or visible badge. His assumption was confirmed the moment the man opened his mouth to redirect him.

“Apologies.” Sebastian murmured, ducking his head a bit as he passed, hoping to be more unassuming as he glanced passed the tape, taking in everything he could but there wasn’t much to see from there. People standing around were speculating and exclaiming, talking about things they’d heard from others or witnessed themselves. One even mentioned the man that had previously just spoken to him having been there. Now that was something.

Seb considered his options for a moment, ultimately deciding on taking a potentially dangerous approach. Returning to the man, Sebastian cleared his throat. “Excuse me, but I was wonderin’ if ye could direct to me to someone I could speak wit’ regardin’ a missin’ person?”

The man doesn’t argue, and Griffith doesn’t think much beyond that. There are plenty of curious people lingering on the streets, though most of the reporters have already gotten their fill. Now it’s just civilians, and if there’s a possibility that any one of them could be a mutant walking around with that human face plastered on, it’d waste too much time trying to interrogate every one. For now he’ll see what he can drag from the suspects he already has rotting in cells.

The question shatters that disinterest almost immediately. If anything it’s an effort not to appear too interested the moment they reach his ears, because paranoia is swift to follow. It’s too good a lead not to acknowledge the possibility it’s a trap.

It doesn’t stop him from biting, studying the man all over again. Nothing about his appearance is quick to stand out, though if he’s a mutant he doesn’t expect it to be. The accent’s obvious, and there’s at least one woman they have in custody from the British Isles. It makes him quick to wonder if there’s a connection there. But whatever his thoughts, his expression is simply some easy smile. “You can talk to me. Who are you looking for?”

[griffith-mason-blog]

secrets you keep » griffith & wes

[griffith-mason-blog]

.wesley-cabot :

The man’s not buying it, but Wes didn’t really expect much else from him. Maybe he hoped they would just think he was an innocent bystander, but it wasn’t something he expected. He says he was caught with a number of known terrorists and if anything, he just confirms that Rhys was brought in as well. He shakes his head. “Man, I met that guy at the gym. We were just getting a few drinks – I don’t know anything about him other than how much he can bench.” 

A threat comes next. That he can either cut the bullshit, start telling the truth, or the man will find other ways to get him to talk. He grits his teeth, head tipped back because there’s nothing he can say that will get him out of this and he’s aware of that. But there’s nothing he’s going to say that isn’t different from what he’s already said. That he doesn’t know anything. Regardless if it’s true or not, he will never say anything else. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, man, I swear,” he says, shaking his head and looking across at the man. “I had your card, I would have called you if I knew anything.” It’s the best he has and he wonders what the man will bring at him next. What the other ways to get him to talk are. He doubts they’re going to be pleasant. “God, this is bullshit, man.” 

He’s granted another bullshit answer, one he’s quick to call him on. Because even if it’s a lie, the possibility that there’s a sliver of truth there, it’s just more he can add into a file about one of them. He doesn’t truly care which, because in the end he plans the same fate for all of them. "Which gym? How much can he bench? Where’s he live?”

And the threat just earns him another head shake, a swift denial of all the information he wants to drag from between his teeth. It’s enough to have him standing, hands splaying flat against the metal table. “If that were true, you would’ve called me when this asshole walked through the door.”

“Who is he? Friend of yours? Acquaintance? Client?” He presses the question, shoving the sketch closer and tapping his finger over his face again. He doesn’t believe that one man will hold all his answers. Just enough of them, and knowing he escaped custody when Griffith had him all but gift wrapped is too grating a feeling. He’s proud of the work he does. Every capture, every containment, every mutant put behind bars or executed at his own hands.

He isn’t perfect and his record’s not flawless. But it’s the best he’s ever been at anything in his life, something exceptional when eh was born mundane. The man in question is a black mark on that record. “Should I start dragging your girls in here and asking them?”

[whelanesque]

Missing Person.

[griffith-mason-blog]

.whelanesque :

Rhys hadn’t come home. It wasn’t like Seb really knew what his life was like nowadays so he had no way of knowing what to expect. But he’d known the man for nearly thirty years and that wasn’t like him. He’d left a note to say that he was meeting a friend for drinks. He’d even mentioned it to Sebastian earlier that evening in case he wanted to go. But he didn’t come home. Seb wasn’t his keeper but he didn’t contact him to let him know anything. Should he expect the older male to though? The Irishman just worried, a lot. They were both hunted and Rhys was an active participant in the ongoing conflict. It was only when he’d seen the news and the name of the establishment made him remember the name of the place Rhys had mentioned. Sebastian went down there to do a little investigating. He had to find out what exactly happened. No matter the risk.. 

Some counted it as a victory, but Griffith had a hard time viewing it that way. It had been too messy, even if it was easy to get the media to spin it in their favor. That kind of damage control only served them so much, and with so many who’d escaped that day it didn’t count for enough. Especially when the one target he’d been hunting for, a man on a blurry police sketch that he’d had cuffs and a black bag on, had somehow gotten away. It left an awful taste in his mouth, and a frustration with every agent in the California division. And despite his best efforts, staring through yellow police tape didn’t paint him a trail of where he’d run to. Footsteps have him glancing over his shoulder, but fate hasn’t brought answers right to him.  “This is a closed crime scene. You're gonna have to go around.”

[griffith-mason-blog]

secrets you keep » griffith & wes

[griffith-mason-blog]

.wesley-cabot :

Wes gives a small laugh, but it’s a bitter thing and he leans his head back for a moment, looking up at the ceiling. This is no place he ever though he would be and the drugs they’d pumped him with are making his heart race in his chest. Or maybe it’s fear, anxiety, panic – maybe it’s all of the above but he’s not going to give in to any of it. He’s not going to give this man a thing or say a word that would incriminate anyone but himself. He doesn’t think there’s much hope for him right now, but he has to believe that there are Syndicate out there he can still deny ever having any contact with. 

“What the-…” he frowns, lifting his head back up and looking across the table at the man. “I don’t know anything about that,” he says and it’s almost convincing. Probably would be to someone who didn’t think they already knew all the answers. He suspected the man across from him was exactly that. 

“Look, tax evasion, okay, I’m sorry. It’s hard to claim pimping on any sort of tax form. And those parking tickets – I promise I’ll pay them. But terrorist attacks? Come on, man. I make love, not war. Why would I do something like that? I don’t got anything against Los Angeles.” He almost makes a slip up. Almost says the Initiative. But that was never in the news. As far as the public was concerned, it was innocent civilians who’d lost their lives that night. 

When he slips the pictures onto the table, Wes looks down at them, shaking his head. He licks his lips, mouth dry and he can’t help the look of pain on his face as he eyes the man across from him. “I don’t know him,” he says. More like pleas, because he knows already. The man won’t believe him. 

Every word out of the man’s mouth is a lie, and he’d pin it as that regardless of whether or not he had so much evidence screaming the contrary. Mutants were liars, deceitful creatures that tried to pass themselves off as human, and he knows that for a fact. His parents, his siblings, they’d used their gifts like it was their right while smiling at their neighbors and pretending they weren’t freaks of nature. He was the only one of them who’d truly known what it was to be normal.

“Save the bullshit.” His voice comes out sharp, but for the moment Griff’s still calm. He can feel the first sparks of his temper starting to flare, fully aware that he would never excel at playing good cop. The urge to start slamming the man’s head off the table is too strong.

“You were caught in a bar with a number of known terrorists, including the one we brought in with you.” It might not be true, but it’s true enough as far as he’s concerned. Rhys Archer has a record, and it doesn’t seem hard to him to play connect the dots. The sketch in front of him, the man across from him, they were all caught in the same building, one that they pulled too many bodies of Initiative agents out of. Throats cut and bullets fired, and if the place had set off his suspicions in the first place, this had just solidified what a viper’s nest they’d walked into.

“You have limited options here, Wes. You can either start being honest with me now, or I can start finding other ways of making you talk.”

[griffith-mason-blog]

secrets you keep » griffith & wes

[griffith-mason-blog]

.wesley-cabot :

“Touche,” responds with, giving a small laugh, but it’s anything but cheerful. He has to swallow afterwards, mouth running dry. He’s not stupid enough to be blind to the situation he’s in. This isn’t going to be pleasant for him and he’s aware of it. There will be no escaping, not right now and chances are it’s going to hurt whatever they’ve got going on here. He’s not sure if he’s ready for it, but he’s also not sure he really has a choice. 

The next words have him letting out a slow breath. He has to debate for a moment how to respond to it and he frowns slightly, looking across at the man. He could play stupid, but he’s still not aware how much the man knows. And he doubts whether he lies or not is going to save him from this position. He feels like he’s already defeated. So he lets out a small huff of air, shaking his head. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, man,” he says, looking across at him and maybe they both know that’s a lie. But it’s the only answer he’s going to give. He’s certain of that. I don’t know. Whatever the man asks, that’s all he’s going to get out of him. About being a mutant, about the Syndicate, about everything. He’s sure this is about the Syndicate. He doesn’t know if someone confirmed his involvement with them or not, but he’s not going to be the one to utter the words or any sort of confirmation. No matter what. 

It has him leaning his head back and his mouth is moving because it’s his only line of defense in this situation. “I thought we hit it off.” 

The man plays ignorant, but it’s a waste of breath. Those aren’t words Griffith will believe anymore, that illusion of doubt stripped away by simple circumstance. The man across from him is a criminal, but that might be the least of his sins when he watches him like he can flay his skin from his frame and see just what kind of power he might have crackling along his nerves. The possibility that it’s nothing is made a distant consideration, but either way he has no intentions of letting the man walk out of here ever again. The best he can hope for is a cell of his very own.

“Yes, you do,” he says shortly, bitten off on the heels Cabot’s words. There’s little need to make a list which lie he’s talking about, when he firmly believes now that everything that came out of his mouth was bullshit. But protestations of innocence ore ignorance won’t save him now.

He shifts forward in his seat, elbows settling on the table and folder half forgotten beneath him. His criminal record, his tax records, all those papers that define a normal citizen. He doesn’t get to claim to be one of them now, found in a den of vipers and sharing drinks with them. “You’re going to give me names. Mutations. Addresses. Accomplices. Everything you know about who launched the terrorist attack on Los Angeles.”

His hand moves, tugging a familiar police sketch free. Only this time it’s followed by grainy shots from an officer’s body camera, and there’s something all too personal in the question. They should have him in custody already. Griffith had him, and someone had fucked it up, lost a terrorist he’d beaten and all but gift wrapped. “You can start with him.”

[griffith-mason-blog]

secrets you keep » griffith & wes

[griffith-mason-blog]

.wesley-cabot :

Wes’s head lolls slightly to the side, the drugs doing a good number on him to limber him up. He figured that was the point of it. So he’d be more willing to talk, to give them something they could actually use. He wonders how much they have, because that folder in front of him could hold anything. Any number of things. Some of it, he’s okay with giving away. With confessing to. Others, not so much. He’ll take some things to the grave with him. Just hopefully not today. 

The man starts out with simple things. A crime record, though short as it was. And a father who was notorious before he was killed for the notoriety. He smirks slightly, because that’s not going to get under his skin. If he had a good poker face the first time they met, the drugs hinder it this time, or he’d play stupid again. He’d do a good job. But in his mind, he knew when the jig was up. And it was up the moment that bag was put over his head. Now it was just a matter of dealing with the fallout. 

“Guess we just weren’t cut from the same cloth,” he says, that smirk still on his face. He hadn’t followed in his father’s footsteps. And if that folder tells the man anything, he probably already knows that any dream of making a name for himself, or for his littler brother, was dashed when his mother got sick. There was no time to be a gangster when he had a mother dying from cancer. 

“Too bad,” Wes nods his head. “Guy knew how to cook up a mean souffle. Would have liked to inherit that skill. Mine always comes out…limp.” 

There’s a vague smile at the answer, amusement tempered by his suspicions about the man and who he’s associated with. Maybe he’s carrying power in his DNA code, maybe he helped bring down half the Initiative on the west coast. Maybe he’s a bystander, or deep enough in the criminal element that it’s second nature to hold his tongue. Not a single justification would save him now, because it isn’t the police he finds himself sitting in the hands of. If he can smile, then it’s at that simple fact, because he hasn’t begun to touch on the ways he can make the man suffer.

Apparently his father isn’t one of them. He notes the lack of reaction and files it away.

“You’re a pimp. Apple didn’t fall that far from the tree.” He says it bluntly, little urge to keep it to himself when he doesn’t see that it’s anything he can use as leverage. Just his way of impressing that bullshit won’t get him a pass this time. They’re not at a bar, he’s long past the point where he has to pretend he doesn’t view everyone and anyone with paranoia and suspicion. 

“But I’ll be honest with you, Wes. Can I call you Wes?” He doesn’t wait for a reply, gaze drifting up from the file to fixate on the man, though at this point he doesn’t need the visual cues to know he’s a liar. He just wants to gauge every reaction, watch for that sliver of fear that a smart man would already feel creeping up his spine. “It’s not really jail time you should be worried about right now. It’s me. And I’m already hurt that you sat there and lied right to my fucking face. Not a good way to make friends, Wes.”

[griffith-mason-blog]

secrets you keep » griffith & wes

[griffith-mason-blog]

.wesley-cabot :

This was a whole new experience for Wes. He’d never been on the receiving end of a black bag before. Had friends who’d disappeared this way and not any of them had come back. It makes it more frightening than he cares to admit because there’s more questions in his mind of what happened after they disappeared than there are answers. It’s the unknown, the uncertainty. If he knew for certain it meant death, he would deal with it. But he wasn’t even certain of that. 

They’d pumped him full of drugs as soon as they were in the van and it kept him lucid enough that he couldn’t keep up with what had been going on around him. Isolated and drugged and he didn’t know how long it was since he was taken, or where Rhys was or anyone else he cared about. But when they came to pull him to his feet, dragging him to an interrogation room and sitting him down on a cold, metal chair, he wasn’t ready for the bag to be removed from his head. 

Or for the man that was standing across from him. 

Ken doll. Mason, or whatever that card had said. He’d handed it off to Eli and had left it up to him to take care of. Or do with what he wanted. Maybe they hadn’t acted fast enough, or maybe this guy was just that good. Maybe the Syndicate had gotten docile dealing with an Initiative who didn’t fight back hard enough. Either way, Wes could tell he was alone in the room with this man. And none of the Syndicate was here now. No protection anymore. Maybe now it was Wesley’s turn to pay up. 

“Hey, man,” he greets in a shaky, voice, though the tone is casual. Light as he always is. “I remember you.” 

There’s a quick smile in response, though he can’t say if that’s supposed to be a good thing or not. It doesn’t truly matter either way, the man’s impressions of him less important than the fact that he’s sitting here now. Because Griffith hasn’t forgotten him either, but he looks at him now and can only see a liar sitting in front of him. He’d played stupid, but he doesn’t believe it’s coincidence he’d been sitting in the same bar as a known terrorist, and it’s little surprise that there are no messages or missed calls from the man. “Good. Saves us time on introductions.”

He flips open the folder in front of him, but it’s all for show. He already knows what’s inside it, as many details as he could cram into his head already committed to memory. It’s less than he’d like, but it’s not a fact he volunteers. And if anything the absence of official records is something he can only take as another sign of guilt. Law abiding citizens tend to leave more of a trail.

“Well, it looks like your father’s got quite the rap sheet. But not you. Dropped assault charges. Tax audit. Petty shit, mostly.” He flips through with idle disinterest, and there’s no doubts at all that the ‘career’ the man has listed for the government’s benefit isn’t how he makes a living.

That doesn’t matter to him either. Maybe it should, because he used to wear a police badge. But serve and protect had always meant less to him than it should.

“What happened? Couldn’t live up to the old man, or just didn’t get caught?"

[griffith-mason-blog]

What do you find attractive in someone?

“I mean flexibility’s always a plus.”

[griffith-mason-blog]

Why are you the way that you are?

“Who knows. Maybe I wasn’t hugged enough as a child.”

[griffith-mason-blog]

secrets you keep » griffith & wes

The room is blank and stark, nothing that might separate it from any police station and barely above a prison cell. Above them are bright fluorescent lights, casting an ominous glow and black shadows across the ground. A two way mirror sits at his back, where other agents and maybe Nixon will stand and watch, a metal table in front of him and a chair to match on the other side. It’s there that they dump the man, cuffs still around his wrist and black bag over his head.

Processing is an exhausting endeavor. But he knew what he was signing up for when he asked for this, and for every body taken away in a black bag, what’s more vital to him are the ones still breathing. The ones who can give him his answers, if he has to yank them forcibly from his jaws with a pair of pliers.

The black bag comes off first. And if he can only imagine how the man’s feeling, there isn’t a trace of pity in him. Pumped full of drugs to keep him docile, hopefully loosen his tongue, and he’s sure a few bruises just to get the point across. Maybe the man deserves every one of them, maybe he’s just caught in the crossfire, but Griff learned a long time ago that no one was innocent.

A manila folder slaps down on the table between them as he takes his seat across from him. “Wesley Cabot. We need to talk.”