watching old gta vids and there’s one where gav’s gta character is just randomly shirtless the entire time. so just imagine gavin wandering around the penthouse without a shirt (maybe his clothes are in the wash, maybe he just can’t be bloody bothered) and mostly enjoying the fuck out of it because he’s constantly catching his lovers oogling him up
Rating: M (language, graphic depictions of violence, they’re gay as shit)
Pairing: Michael Jones/Ryan Haywood (Background Geoff/Gavin and Ray/Joel)
Ch. 1 ⋆ Ch. 2 (You Are Here!)
“Are you sure we have the right room? This guy is a little more than late,” Ryan murmurs. They’ve been camping on the roof for almost an hour, now. Jones had told him to stay inside, but he had not done that. Just pick a few locks and don’t breathe when hotel employees pass within a three-meter radius, and you’re a professional. A glance at his watch tells him it’s a few minutes past seven-thirty. Sonntag should have been in his room an hour ago. Something has to be wrong. “Gavin? Anything?”
“Nothing in your area, Rye.”
“What did I say about improvising?” Jones hisses, eyes on room 242’s window through the scope on his Barrett. “He could be having a good time at the hotel bar. Fucking bitches, getting money. Let him have his fun. It’s the least we can do before I shoot his ass full of lead.”
“Shooting his ass probably isn’t the best way to get this done.”
“Sometimes they aren’t facing the window.”
Something rustles the curtain in room 242. The light comes on. Ryan whispers, “Is that him?” Michael shushes him immediately, adjusting his hold on the rifle as the curtains are pushed open. A man stands in the window, surveying the courtyard below, then the sunset in front of him through thick-rimmed glasses.
“It’s him,” Michael replies, going stiller than Ryan thinks possible from a man with a temper from the seventh circle of Hell. Everything is quiet for a moment.
Gavin whispers in his ear, “Is he about to shoot a guy?”
“Yes,” Ryan replies. “Shut up and let him focus, Gav.”
Michael leans in a little more, holds the position for a second, and lets it ring. One shot. Glass shatters, Sonntag (what’s left of him, at least) falls away from the remnants of the window, and blood splatters behind him. Michael stares for a moment, then shifts to a kneel. Sonntag isn’t going anywhere.
Michael hands over the Barrett as he stands, and Ryan isn’t nearly prepared for the weight of the rifle. Luckily for him, it’s out of his hands as soon as Michael is standing again. Unluckily for both of them, an alarm begins to sound in the hotel.
“Some idiot must have pulled the fire alarm,” Michael sighs, seeming not nearly concerned enough about this as he dismantles his rifle and packs his bag back up. “We need to get out before emergency services shows up.”
“How long does that usually take?”
“Here, I give it about five minutes. We’ve got plenty of time.”
Ryan is not convinced. That definitely does not sound like “plenty of time.” That sounds like not good. He hears himself nervous-laugh. “I can’t believe I just helped a client kill a man.”
“You didn’t do shit,” Michael replies, standing. His bag is slung over his shoulder and he’s already taking steps toward the stairwell door. “I would have done it with or without you, Haywood. You just came along for the ride.”
Ryan needs some Valium.
He and Michael make their way down the stairs to the third-floor access point. There is a commotion in the hallway. Michael pushes through into the crowd of people anyway, extending a hand to Ryan when he realises just how crowded it is. People are pushing for the fire exits, some more panicked than others. Only a few are in pajamas, though they definitely interrupted a shower or two. Gavin offers an update on police response rate every so often. Ryan tries not to think about having to explain himself to the cops.
They make it to the parking lot before they start hearing the sirens and sprint down the sidewalk to the car, vague darkness covering them enough that the police don’t even bat an eyelash in their direction. Michael heaves open the back as Ryan moves around the car to climb into the driver’s seat and turn the engine over. By the time he’s ready to go, Michael is in the passenger seat, finger on the window adjustment buttons. “Is this glass bulletproof?”
Ryan tries not to look at him, turning to back out of the parking space instead. “Why?”
“Just wondering.”
Two more cruisers pull into the parking lot and block the exit. Ryan swears under his breath. “Tactical manoeuvre time.”
Gavin laughs. “Hey, Ryan, remember that time you wrote on-”
“Yes, Gavin, I remember. You can tell Michael the story later. Right now I’d like to get us out of here before the police demand my identification and I get stuck in a conference call with everyone we know and love for the duration of one of Geoff’s shits.”
“I heard that,” Geoff calls from somewhere on Gavin’s side of the line. “Twenty minutes isn’t nearly enough time for a conference call, dickhead.”
“I want to hear this story,” Michael says, absolutely with the intention of blackmail. Ryan hums.
“I was a wannabe-vandal as a teenager. Graffitied a police vehicle with a very vulgar message.”
“Was it a penis?”
“Yeah. It said ‘eat shit’. I've moved on.”
Ryan drives slowly to the parking lot entrance to go out the wrong way, choosing not to respond. It’s painful. “More cops on our nine,” Michael says.
“If anyone tries to stop us, pretend to be confused about where we are. I’m the husband that refuses to ask for directions. You get to yell. You’re really good at that.”
“What? I’m not the wife - you’re the one that showed up on my fucking doorstep, mister.”
“Yes, but I’m driving, so I get to pick.”
“Fuck you, Haywood. One more word out of you and I’m kicking you out, taking this piece of shit, and scrapping it for a chicken-bacon Five Dollar Footlong.”
“You think so?”
“God, they really do argue like a married couple,” Geoff says. “Someone get them some goddamn housewarming shit. These bitches need a Crock-Pot.”
“I need GPS,” Ryan says, leaning forward to look around a few street-leaning trees. He’d really appreciate it if this city would invest in some gardening tools. And also if Geoff would shut up.
“Hold your fucking horses, I need to call Joel,” Michael replies, phone already in hand. Okay, they’re probably going the right way. They’ll know when someone starts yelling.
“Hey, you’re on speakerphone,” Michael announces to whoever’s on the line. He turns his phone to type something.
“Aw, I can’t whisper sweet nothings in your ear?” Ray says, managing to sound mildly disappointed.
“We can do that later. Tell Joel the hit’s done? We got out of there probably without the police even looking at us, maybe.”
“Will do,” Ray replies. “You can’t see it, but I’m saluting. Text me when you get there?”
“Roger. Over and out.”
Michael places the phone in the console about two seconds later. “Turn around? Are you fucking kidding me?”
“I told you I needed the GPS!”
“I thought bodyguards were supposed to know directions or some shit! We’re supposed to be going west, asshole - you’ve been going fucking north this entire time!”
“Listen, I don’t think this relationship is going to work if you keep yelling at me like this. I’m fragile, Michael.”
“Bullshit.”
_________________
“How many people have you killed, Ryan?”
“I lost count a long time ago. It doesn’t happen on every assignment, but I’ve got a good few under my belt. Your turn.”
“I used to have a tally, when I was young and thought it mattered. Stopped bothering when I hit one hundred. Kind of pointless when you’re losing track anyways.”
________________
Michael is asleep in the passenger seat when Ryan decides to pull into a restaurant. He’s tired, and hungry, and he knows Michael is definitely both. He’d rather drive neither hungry nor tired, but hungry is the only one he can fix right now.
“Hooligan’s?” Michael says when Ryan taps him awake. He sounds like he’s had one too many. “This place has good everything.”
“I knew that. Come on,” Ryan leans against the door to watch Michael disentangle himself from the seat belt. By the time his feet are on the ground, Ryan is ready to take a nap right there. Michael staggers past him toward the restaurant. “How are those sea legs feeling?”
“I had a dream about stabbing you in the dick.”
“Next time, have a dream about learning to walk. You could use a refresher,” Ryan turns to keep pace. Michael stubs his shoe on air and staggers again. Ryan’s hand hovers for a moment, just in case, but he’s good. They’re good.
“Do you always shit on your clients, Ryan?” Michael wonders out loud, walking mostly upright now. “Doesn’t seem very professional to me.”
“I had one client shit himself at a fireworks show because he thought someone was shooting at him,” Ryan says, reaching past Michael to open the door and following him inside.
“Oh fuck, you might know shit,” Michael says, a little more quietly as the hostess approaches them. “Like the finger to your ear thing? The fuck does that shit mean?”
“Trade secret.”
“Follow me,” the hostess says cheerfully, having too-conveniently just finished checking the seating chart. She doesn’t bat an eye in their direction. Michael bumps into Ryan a few steps into the walk to their table. Ryan looks down, confused, and Michael scrunches his nose up at him and stuffs his hands in his pockets.
The hostess indicates their booth with a sweep of her arm, recites something no one gives a shit about, and leaves the menus on the table, but Ryan is too busy watching Michael practically fall into the booth to hear any of it. He takes the other side when he’s pretty sure he isn’t going to get kicked for trying.
“You’re cute when you’re tired,” Ryan says as Michael lays his head on his arms, now folded on the tabletop. He might be joking. He doesn’t know yet.
“You’re an asshole, always,” Michael mumbles into the fabric of his sweatshirt. Okay, Ryan could definitely, really go for a nap right now. This isn’t fair.
He’s glancing at his watch for the third time when their server shows up. Ryan orders a coffee with a grimace and Michael says something about barbecue sauce, then hot chocolate. Ryan closes his eyes and doesn’t open them again until his coffee is in front of him and Michael is frowning at him from across the table.
“Something stuck in my teeth?” Ryan meets his gaze. Michael’s frown turns kind of annoyed.
“You need to go to sleep, dude. Want me to drive?”
“I got a coffee for a reason. It’s only three more hours,” Ryan replies. He realises how long three hours is and cringes a little. Michael pulls out his phone. “I’ll stop for more coffee if I need it.”
“I landed myself a really shitty accident driving tired, once. Hefty hospital bill, too,” Michael says. He slides his phone across the table so Ryan can see the new GPS stop. “Candlewood Suites. Fifteen minutes away. It’s late, but we can walk in, see what they have left.”
Ryan thinks for a moment. Stares into his coffee. He’ll have to beep Gavin. “Fine, but we’re out of the parking lot by six.”
“Disgusting. Deal.”
________________
“I’m driving,” Michael says, holding out a hand for the keys as they approach the car. He narrows his gaze in Ryan’s direction when they don’t immediately land in his hand.
“I just had a coffee. I’ll be fine for fifteen minutes,” Ryan replies, pulling the keys from his pocket but making no move to hand them over. They’ll stay safely with him, thanks. “Weren’t we just talking about car accidents?”
“Yeah, car accidents that happened a decade and a half ago, fucker,” Michael says, hands on his hips as he comes to a stop in front of the car. Ryan tries to step around him. Michael decides to be in the way. Asshole. “You’ve driven all day, and you’re driving in the morning while I take a fucking power nap in the passenger seat, so fork ‘em over.”
When Ryan doesn’t budge, Michael takes matters into his own hands. He lunges for the keys, snatching them before Ryan really knows what’s going on, and in the same movement, Ryan has him in a mildly uncomfortable hold. The keys clatter to the ground. They both dive for them.
Somehow, Michael ends up straddling Ryan on the pavement, hand covering the keys in Ryan’s. He frowns, looks a little confused. This was not part of the plan. They freeze for a moment. Breathe. What is...who? How?
An old couple exits the restaurant and suddenly Michael is on his feet, keys in hand, sprinting to the other side of the car. Ryan doesn’t really know what’s going on.
Michael is grinning at him, hair sticking out in a lot of directions (no, Haywood, he’s not fucking cute, and there’s nothing stunning about wrestling in a diner parking lot at eleven PM) when Ryan makes it to his feet and opens the car door. He resigns himself to fifteen minutes of gloating and presses a button on his watch as he climbs into the seat.
“I’m here,” Gavin says in his ear a moment later, a little out of breath.
“You could have just beeped me back and gotten to us later. Not even the urgency beep.”
“I was a bit preoccupied,” Gavin pauses for emphasis. Michael starts backing out of the spot, and Ryan buckles up as an afterthought. “But I’m here. What’s up?”
“We’re stopping at a hotel for the night. Too late to get to the safehouse before midnight, anyways,” Ryan squints at the GPS. “Candlewood Suites. Fifteen minutes. I’ll beep in when we get there.”
“Cool. I’ll be...here.”
“Whatever. Go make out with Geoff.”
Michael snorts as the line goes mute again. “Actually?”
“Gavin will make out with anybody for two dollars and a beer,” Ryan replies. “But yes.”
“I feel like this happens a lot.”
“I usually pretend I have no idea,” Ryan sighs. “He thinks he’s smooth.”
They practically stumble into the hotel lobby around eleven thirty. The reception clerk seems unamused until she sees them approach the desk, then she smiles like it hurts. “How can I help you?”
“We’d like a suite, please,” Ryan says. She immediately turns to her computer.
“We have a smoking queen studio and a non-smoking queen suite,” Still cheerful. Still in pain.
Ryan looks to Michael, who shrugs. “Don’t look at me. I’m quitting.”
“Not the smoking. The one bed,” Ryan says, and receives a blank stare.
“I’m sure we’ll survive, Haywood.”
“We’ll take the suite,” Ryan says through a sigh and reaches for the front pocket of his bag to fish around for his wallet, but Michael is holding a card out to the clerk before she can finish asking for it.
“I’m not paying for the guard, so I’ll pay for the body,” Michael winks in his direction when the clerk returns his card. Ryan stares. Decides it isn’t worth his time. Takes the room key before Michael has a chance to put his card away and is met with a gentle kick to the shin as he passes him on the way to the elevators.
“Third floor,” Ryan says, stepping into the elevator after Michael. He beeps Gavin a few times as the doors close. A few seconds later, his watch beeps back. He looks to Michael. “Set an alarm on your phone. I wake up early.”
“No wonder you’ve been asleep since six. You’re a fucking maniac.”
“What was that about shooting people for a living?” Ryan asks. The elevator doors open with a ding, and they step out into the hallway. Ryan leads the way down the hall.
“Shut up,” Michael replies, maybe a little aggressively. “You do the same shit. They just call it protection so it’s legal.”
Ryan elects not to speak again until they’re standing in front of room 322. He slides the keycard and opens the door, switching on the lights. The door closes behind them as he rounds on Michael. Does his best to stare him down. “Don’t compare us, Jones. Some of us are professionals, some of us are hitmen, and some of us don’t know where the line is. Get your shit straight before you get yourself killed.”
“I’ve been doing this shit as long as you have, Haywood,” Michael’s eyes are dangerous, voice loose as he sheds his shirt. It throws Ryan for a loop for a moment. He doesn’t realise he’s staring until Michael grimaces in his direction. “Take a picture. It’ll last longer.”
“Why didn’t you bring clothes from the house in Trenton?”
“I thought we would be at the safehouse tonight, smartass. No point in lugging around a second useless fucking bag. I’ll change when we get there tomorrow.”
Ryan shakes his head, dumping his bag on the desk chair near the door and unzipping it to find something appropriate. “I don’t get the improvising thing.”
“You wouldn’t, you goddamn professional, you.”
Ryan comes out of the bathroom a few minutes later to find Michael already asleep, lamp still on and phone fallen to his chest. The comforter is crumpled as if he gave up halfway through trying to crawl into bed. He’s stolen half of the other pillow, too, but Ryan can’t bring himself to care. The bags under his eyes are permanent. Michael’s might be open to discussion.
Ryan fixes the blankets, scoots until he has room for enough pillow without disturbing Michael’s claim, and leans over him to switch the lamp off. The room dark, now, he closes his eyes, sends Gavin a quick dash-dash-dot, and is asleep before he gets a “goodnight” back.
Rating: M (language, graphic depictions of violence, they’re gay as shit)
Pairing: Michael Jones/Ryan Haywood (Background Geoff/Gavin and Ray/Joel)
Ch. 1 (You are here!) ⋆ Ch. 2
“You’re telling me a hitman can’t take care of himself?”
“He worked a hit for us. It went sour. Hitmen specialise in takeouts, not protection,” Gus frowns at him. “You of all people should know that, Haywood.”
Ryan sighs. Considers his options. Picks up the file that had been offered to him when the briefing had started. Reads the biography page and is painfully unimpressed by what might as well be a mugshot. “You’re giving me a Jersey?”
“He thinks he doesn’t need a bodyguard. Good luck.”
Ryan wishes he remembers anything Gus had said during the briefing when he knocks on Michael Jones’ front door and it opens about two inches, still chain-locked. Jones looks him up and down, clearly unsurprised by the telltale bulge in his jacket. Adjusts his beanie. Speaks with a very vague accent. “You. Asshole, Haywood, whatever. You’re packing in Trenton. You trying to get killed?”
“You going to let me in so I don’t?”
“No,” Jones replies. “I told them not to send anyone. They sent you anyway. Not my problem.”
Ryan stares at him until the door starts to close. He steps forward, shoving a foot in the way. “Let me talk for a few minutes, assess the situation. I’ll talk to my superiors and get the case resolved...I don’t really want to be here, either, to tell you the truth. I don’t know who decided to assign bodyguards to feeble hitmen, but it’s probably a waste of money.”
“I will shoot your toes off,” Jones says, watching him until he removes his foot. His gaze moves to the city moving behind Ryan. A pause. The door closes for a moment, then opens again, unlocked. Jones grabs him by the arm and pulls him inside, closing and re-chaining the door behind them. “Talk.”
“You’re going to want to take a seat. I have a questionnaire.”
Jones’ gaze narrows. “I don’t have time for that shit. A guy has been camping in the building across the street for a week. He just watched you come inside. Definitely knows you’re packing. If you don’t leave soon he’s going to come in here and kill both of us.”
Ryan frowns. “I thought-”
“No, I don’t need someone to follow me the fuck around and shove safety up my asshole. I’m doing just fine by myself on the staying alive front. Now, if you could go pick me up a nice, frosty glass of milk from Milkmart, that would be fucking great,” Jones crosses his arms, gaze stony. “They sent me a bodyguard. What I need is someone to get me some goddamn Chinese food.”
Ryan considers him for a moment. “When is the last time you went outside?”
“I haven’t been out since the boy scout across the street showed up for the fucking party. There’s a back exit, but every time I look over there, he’s monitoring me. He’ll know if I leave for more than a few minutes at a time, and that door doesn’t open from the outside, so I’d have to come back in through the front anyway. I’ve been living on ramen and tortillas.”
Ryan glances at his watch. He’s been inside for less than five minutes. He gives it a few more before the guy across the street comes looking. Not enough time to do much but prepare for a firefight. He pulls the gun out of his jacket and checks the clip.
“What the fuck are you doing, Haywood?”
“Getting ready for your boy scout to come through the front door. If we’re lucky he’ll give us a good shot out the window, first. Pack up whatever you need for an extended vacation. Call one of your contacts. I’ll get you there.”
Jones steps up to him. “I am not leaving. I don’t give a shit about the house, or the stuff, or that piece of ass across the street. I have a hit to take here. I’ve already talked to my client. I’m not leaving Trenton until it’s done.”
Ryan thinks for a moment. “Fine. If he has a pistol, use furniture for cover and we’ll incapacitate him. If he comes in guns blazing, shoot to kill. I need to make a call before he shows up. You should call your closest contact and let them know we’ll need to hide out for a few hours once this is done. We’ll figure out your client then.”
Jones frowns, removes his beanie to run hands through surprisingly curly hair, then nods. “Fine. We’ll make it quick.”
Jones retreats to the living room to make his call, so Ryan stands in the entryway, making an effort to spot the camper through a miniscule gap in the curtains as his own phone rings. Geoff picks up two rings in. “What’s up?”
“I know it’s early in the op and Gavin is supposed to be on break right now, but I’m bringing a firefight to Jones and myself and I’m going to need base in my ear.”
“You’ve been on assignment for how long? Half an hour?” Geoff sighs and hangs up on him. Ryan plugs his earpiece into the transmitter. Gavin is online about fifteen seconds later.
“Ryan! You’re going to shoot a guy?”
“He’s probably going to try to shoot me first,” Ryan replies, Jones appearing in the entryway behind him. Ryan turns to indicate his earpiece. “Base is here. Your guy is still across the street.”
“Nope, here he comes,” Jones says, producing a pistol from his jeans. “We moving back?”
“We don’t want to try to take him in the doorway. Are you particularly attached to your furniture?”
“I’m always open to renovations. Called one of my cleanup guys in, but a little blood stain never hurt anybody,” Jones replies, backing into the living room. Ryan follows, hugging the wall beside the doorway. He leans into the entryway to watch the camper climb the front steps. Pretty mean-looking guy. Full beard, tall, hands in the pockets of his sweatshirt. He blends in pretty well if Ryan ignores the butt of the pistol hanging out of his jeans, barely visible.
“Target approaching front, armed. Will incapacitate if there is no need to SOS,” Ryan murmurs to Gavin. He wouldn’t have had time to set up surveillance even if they were staying, so this is the best he can do. Probably try not to die.
The camper knocks on the front door. Ryan turns back to make contact with Jones, and they share a nod. Silence for a moment. The safety on both guns clicks off at the same time they hear the first rattle of someone trying to turn the doorknob. A pause, then the telling clicks of someone picking the lock. Ryan shoos Jones in the direction of the couch. Hopefully he’ll hide behind it if he’s smart.
The camper gets the door unlocked fairly quickly, but it doesn’t take long to catch on the chain. He grumbles a little, briefly rustles something, and Ryan hears the chain slide open. Probably the loop trick, if he had to guess. The door creaks as it’s pushed wide. A few footsteps. Ryan shifts his hold on his gun, moves just a little closer to the doorway, and lashes out with an arm. The camper catches it before the butt of the pistol can make contact with his skull.
Okay, Ryan thinks. Fistfight was not in the agenda. He twists his arm toward himself to pull the camper in, but he doesn’t manage much distance before the hold is broken. The guy reaches for the gun at his waist. Ryan has his pointed at his forehead before he has a chance to pull it.
“What are you, some kind of half-assed bodyguard?”
“Full-assed bodyguard, actually.” And then Ryan shoots him in the forehead. Fuck that guy anyway.
“I thought we weren't shooting to kill,” Jones says. Looks like he never actually moved behind the couch. A shame.
“He called me half-assed. Gavin, target’s out, Jones and I are on the move,” Ryan says, then waves Jones in the direction of the dead guy. They each take an arm and move him behind the couch so the cleanup team can deal with him when they get in. He won’t be visible from the door, which is closed and rechained as the curtains beside it are drawn.
“Roger roger,” Gavin replies. Jones picks up what is obviously a bug-out bag as they exit through the back door. Ryan leads him to the car he has parked in a backlot down the street, keeping an eye out for any angry camper buddies. They are safely in the car, air conditioning on and Jones’ bag in the back before anyone speaks again.
“Still don’t need a bodyguard?” Ryan asks, adjusting the rearview mirror to look at Jones without looking at him.
“Now that I’ve seen you in action, I think I’m okay with someone else doing the dirty work. It was kind of hot.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Jones offers a nice glare, settling his phone - definitely a burner - in the center console, GPS set. “Shut the fuck up and drive. I’d like to see you shoot a guy in the levator scapulae at three hundred meters.”
“That's Michael, right?” Gavin is audibly smiling again. “Can I talk to him?”
Ryan unhooks the earpiece from his own ear and forks it over. Jones looks kind of confused, but Ryan leaves him to figure it out on his own. He has traffic to pull out into. It's pretty obvious Gavin has made contact when Jones starts to sound very irate.
“It's Michael, dumbass, not - no, I'm not cute, I fucking shoot people for a living. Fuck you.”
Ryan probably could have let them talk for the entirety of the drive if it weren't for the GPS’ first interruption about thirty seconds in.
“‘The roundabout, you must take’?” Ryan asks, not quite sure if he should be surprised or incredulous.
“Yeah, my GPS is Yoda. What the fuck about it?” Michael replies, distracted again almost immediately by Gavin. “I pirated it from this European website.”
“Your guy knows we're coming, right?”
“Yeah, he’s fucking overjoyed. He'll be waiting on the front lawn with a rotisserie chicken and at least three strippers.”
Ray is not waiting with chicken or strippers, but there is someone wearing an appropriate amount of clothing standing next to him when they pull up.
“Shit, Joel’s here,” Jones grumbles, unbuckling and practically climbing over the console to grab his bag from the backseat as Ryan clips his earpiece back into place.
“A bad thing?” he questions.
“When Joel is around, Ray is fucking starry-eyed or some bullshit. He’d let him stick his dick in his ear if he said please.” A pause as Jones picks his phone up from the console and stuffs it in his bag. “Joel is also my client. I’m taking care of an old friend of his.”
“I don't think your ‘taking care of’ means the same thing mine does,” Ryan says, but Jones is already out of the car and walking with purpose. Ryan follows, maintaining some distance. No need to hover. Or spook his friends. Or both.
“Yo, Michael, you killed anyone lately?” the one that must be Ray asks, grinning as he raises a hand to meet Michael with a high-five. The other one’s arm is slung around his shoulders.
“Nah, but Haywood got a good one in twenty minutes ago. Right in the fucking forehead.”
Joel looks pretty dangerous and is probably packing. If Michael called Ray first, he’s definitely not a poster child for legal anything. Ryan turns away for a moment to speak to Gavin. “Get me a check on these two in relation to Jones. If they’re clean, we’re good until we go out for the hit.”
“On it,” Gavin says cheerfully, and Ryan turns back to the group to Michael saying something about DiGornio’s. Ray is grinning at him.
“Don’t trust us?” he asks, but it’s more of a statement than a question.
“Just doing my job,” Ryan replies. “I wouldn’t trust you with my client as far as I could throw you until I’ve gotten a check in.”
“That’s probably pretty far. Be careful, he might actually throw you,” Joel is smiling. No one is taking the situation seriously. Awesome. Anything goes wrong, Ryan will shoot first and ask questions later.
“Are you going to invite me inside and feed me now, or what? I haven’t had fresh food in a week, Ray. I’ll pay for pizza and mozzies if someone else calls the delivery place.” Michael heaves his bag over his shoulder, moving toward the house. Ray and Joel keep pace, and Ryan follows a few steps behind. He’s a little out of his element, here. Bodyguarding a hitman is weird enough, but meeting up with his hitmen friends to order pizza while they figure out how to kill another guy is going to be a little weirder.
“What do you have in that bug-out, Michael?” Ray asks as they climb the front step, reaching forward to hold open the door. “Some bricks? A body?”
“My life,” Jones replies, stepping inside. “One forty-seven, an SR-25, a Barrett, and a fuckton of ammo.”
“I still think you should settle down,” Joel sighs.
“I still think you should mind your own damn business. Who’s calling? I want garlic bread, too.”
By the time the pizza shows up and Ray is breathing its scent like oxygen, Ryan is ready for a nap. He’s just resting his eyes for a moment, in fact, when Gavin starts yelling in his ear again. He only startles a little bit.
“They’re clean, Rye. Joel Heyman has some weird stuff on his criminal record, but nothing we haven’t seen before. Ray’s record is sparkling like a baby’s arse.”
“Thanks, Gav. You can go AWOL until we head out again.”
The connection beeps as it goes mute. Ryan looks up to the group at the coffee table to meet Michael’s gaze. He’s been staring. “See anything you like?”
“It’s fucking weird having someone follow me around and talk to people that aren’t there all the time.”
“You’ve spoken to him. He’s definitely there.”
“No, like,” Jones reaches for another slice of pizza while he thinks. Ray is already reaching for a third. “I’m doing my own thing and I hear you talking out of fucking nowhere. I’m used to that being a really bad thing, but you’re just talking to Gavin or whatever trying to make sure everyone knows what’s going on. That people are safe. There’s an entire fucking who-knows-how-many people doing the same thing you and Gavin do. I don’t get it yet. I can’t hear someone talking behind me and not turn around ready to punch a bitch out.”
“Don’t think too hard. You’ll hurt yourself,” Ray says through a mouthful of pizza.
“Sure seems like a lot of people want you dead, kid,” Joel says, biting a mozzarella stick in half. “You sure you can hit Sonntag?”
“Easy,” Jones replies. “That’s what my hot bodyguard is here for. Have you seen his handcuffs?”
“We buy in bulk,” Ryan says, glancing at his watch, then looking back up to watch Michael throw a pizza crust at Ray. “We need to work out what we’re doing for your hit. We’re losing light.”
“Demarais gave me what he had.” Joel turns to dig into the drawers of the sidetable behind him, pulls out what looks like a lot of information on a few pieces of paper, and slides the packet across the table to Michael, who peruses it for a moment.
“What he has is a lot of weird shit and some useful schedule shit,” Michael frowns, flipping a page.
“It’s Chris. It’s probably not safe to expect any not-weird shit.”
“Fair,” Michael says, flipping to the last page. Reading for a moment. “If we get there after six, he’ll be in his room at Homewood Suites. This hotel has two wings, so if we’re lucky I can shoot from the roof. If the angle is too sharp, I can set up on top of the maintenance shed once it gets dark, but we’ll have to book it out of there the second I get it in.”
“What if the information is inaccurate?” Ryan asks. There are probably a lot of things that could go wrong, here. He doesn’t like any of them. Everyone at the table turns to stare at him.
“There are a lot of things we don’t do the same, Haywood, but everyone knows how to improvise,” Michael replies. Ryan frowns. He’d really like there to be a minimum of improvisation. His job is great when people don’t do that.
“Where are we heading after it’s done?”
“You could come back here,” Ray offers. “It’s been a while since we’ve gotten drunk and played Super Mario until four in the morning.”
“We can’t,” Ryan says before Michael can agree. He gets a glare for it. “If anyone is on our trail, they’ll know we came back here and you’ll both be targets, too. I’d rather not."
Michael regards him warily for a moment, then pulls his phone out of his pocket and starts typing. “I have a safehouse in Pittsburgh. I haven’t been there in a few months, so it should be clear of any parasites. It’s a few hours of driving, but if we move fast we can make it before tomorrow.”
“I’d like to get a few hours of sleep before you run off and take three more jobs, so it’s a good plan so far,” Ryan replies. “We need to go as soon as you’re done here if you want to make six-thirty.”
“This is almost as good as Chinese food,” Michael says, waving a mozzarella stick in his direction to flip him the bird. “Fuck you.”
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