It's a Disaster 2/4
Part 1. If you read part one prior to June 4th, it's been rewritten.
My legs are numb from being folded up so long, but even twitching a toe seems too loud in the silence weighing the room. Every so often I'll hear the scuffle of shoes on the dance floor, or the clipped rhythm of a low, unhappy conversation. Waterson's people haven't called in an hour. I think the gunmen are getting antsy.
I know something you don't know, I singsong in my head. Childish? Sure. But a girl can only amuse herself so many ways after four hours under a table.
My phone vibrates once against my chest. Every time it goes off I expect someone to come storming over and drag me out into the open, but so far not even the party goers lined up in front of the buffet have given any indication they know I'm here. I dig out my phone to check the message. It's from Chance.
Landing in Boston in 1/2 hour. Making contact shortly. Status?
No change, I text back. gmen w8ing 4 u.
They don't have to wait long. Ten minutes later a cellphone rings, and the Hispanic voice from earlier answers with a sharp, "Hello?"
I hear the door to the deck open and close, then it's quiet again.
I know that as soon as the Hispanic guy gets off the phone I'll be receiving another text, just like all the others I've been getting since I sent off my SOS at the start of this mess. Apparently Waterson was involved in a drug deal that turned nasty, and when he failed to make amends the gang holding us hostage decided to force some politeness out of him. It's boring stuff from a criminal perspective, unless you're stuck in the middle of it.
After a while the Hispanic guy returns and says, "All right. We got a time and place. I called Cud; he's on his way."
"Finally," someone groans. "I'm tired of this boat."
"Quit complaining."
The complainer grunts, then shouts "Move!" The carpet creaks, the tablecloth shivers, and I realize the people on the other side are clearing a path for whoever's now coming my way. I freeze, phone in hand, too scared to try stuffing it back in my shirt.
The toes of the guy's shoes poke under the tablecloth, inches away from calves. Above me, silverware clatters. The guy crunches down on something. At this point, I'm barely breathing.
The seconds crawl by. Finally, Hungry Hungry Gunman finishes piling up his plate, or stuffing his face, whatever he's doing up there. The shoes slide back out of sight; I can see the silhouettes of people leaning away to let him through.
And that's when Chance's message arrives, making my phone hum like a gong.
The footsteps stop.
Maybe he didn't hear, I think. Maybe he's far away enough that--
The tablecloth whips up. Light stings my eyes, and as they adjust I find myself staring into a doughy face with crazed green eyes that narrow into slits at the sight of me.
"What the hell are you doing, bitch?"
His hand lashes out and clenches my wrist so hard I feel the bones grind together. I yelp and tumble forward, clonking my head on the table leg in the process.
"Get the fuck out!"
"Okay, okay!" I crawl as best I can on one hand. When I'm mostly clear of the table the guy shifts his grip to my hair and hauls me up like a sack. I grit my teeth and claw at his hands.
"Leave her alone!"
Oh no. Through tears of pain I see Brody standing on the far side of the room looking like he's going to vault the crowd at his feet to come to my rescue. Half the guns in the room swivel to aim at him.
"No, stop!" I shriek.
A short guy with bleached blonde hair and a deep tan jerks his thumb in Brody's direction and sneers.
"Friend of yours?" he asks, and I realize he's the one whose voice I've been hearing all day, "Well, bring him up too."
"Who did you call?" he me asks as Brody is dragged to the center of the room.
My heart feels like it's about to smash out of my chest. "I didn't-- I haven't called--"
Dough Boy rips the phone from my hand and checks the message that just came in.
"Ameilio, look." He says.
Ameilio stalks over and takes the phone. He reads the message, then taps a few more buttons. His expression gets darker by the second. I imagine he's scrolling through the many updates Chance has sent me over the hours regarding the situation with Waterson.
"Who is this?" Ameilio asks, shoving the phone in my face. As I guessed, there's an earlier message from Chance up on the screen.
Waterson sent bad shipment. They want money back.
I meet his eyes, but say nothing. My brain's kicking up sparks it's spinning so fast.
"Waterson's playing us," says Ameilio, as he heads towards the door again. "I'll call the boss. Kill them."
Dough Boy and the guy at Brody's side jam their guns against our heads.
"That's not a good idea," I blurt out.
Ameilio stops, turns. "Oh yeah? Why's that?"
I suck in a breath. "Juries tend to look much more kindly at extortion than they do at murdering federal officers."
The gun muzzle burrows deeper into my temple. I fight to keep the tremble out of my limbs.
"What did you just say?" Ameilio asks. His tone is flat, quiet. Like Guerrero's when he's pissed, only Guerrero's never been one twitch away from blowing my brains out. I hurry on.
"Felicity Stone, FBI," I say. "And this is my partner, Jeff Winters."
"Jeff" bobs his head in acknowledgment.
"We've been--" I look around suddenly, as though I've just realized that dozens of gawking faces are currently trained on me. "Is there somewhere more private we can discuss this?"
"Nothin' wrong with where we at right now."
I smile thinly, quite an accomplishment since my face feels like it's got rigor mortis. "Mr. Ameilio. Given the sensitive nature of the matters at hand, I think it's best if we address them discretely. If it makes you more comfortable, my partner will stay out here."
Brody doesn't look eager at the prospect, but he keeps his mouth shut.
Ameilio gives me the once-over. Then, he gestures slightly. The gun on me drops, and Dough Boy shoves me forward. I feel another muzzle my back, and now Ameilio prods me towards the glass doors leading to the aft deck.
"Taylor, come with me. You, lady, move."
Taylor turns out to be a tall black guy who looks like he should be busting backs in the NFL. Once we're outside they take up station on either side of me, and Ameilio decides to break even and point his gun at my chest. "You got five minutes," he says "I don't like what I hear, you and your boy are takin' a swim."
Five minutes? I've pulled a con in half that time. I clear my throat, smile, and begin.
"Here's the deal, gentleman: my team has been investigating Waterson for months. This drug thing? Tip of the iceberg. The guy's got his fingers in more pies than Jack Horner, but we can't nail him down for any of it."
"Why not?"
"Lack of evidence, until today."
Ameilio raises an eyebrow.
"You see, we were just going to try and get Kimber to admit that she'd pinched the coke for her little shindig from daddy dearest's stock. It wouldn't stand up in court, though, because there's no way Kimber's going to testify against her father. But if we can get Waterson on record paying restitution for a botched shipment of drugs? You're in the business; I'm sure you know how kindly the law looks at traffickers, Mr. Ameilio. Even if he takes a plea, Waterson'll be gumming his food by the time he gets out of prison."
"So, you bust him for supplying us, then bust us for dealing. Nice try. Not interested."
His finger starts to curl on the trigger.
"No, wait! You don't understand: what we want is Waterson, and right now you've got him by the balls. You help us nail him, and we'd be willing to overlook everything that's happened this morning."
"I don't help cops," Ameilio sneered, though with less resolve than before. I seize on that hesitation; giddy confidence keeps the lies pouring from my lips.
"Fortunately for you, we're not. The police would be in no position to make you this kind of deal and frankly, Mr. Ameilio, the FBI doesn't waste its resources going after street gangs. It does more harm than good in the long run, and the payoff is shit."
That last part might've been too strong. But after regarding me sourly for a long moment I can see doubt spreading across Ameilio's face. Just a little more, now...
"It works out for everyone, really. We get our guy, you get your money, and we both make our bosses very happy. What do you say?"
His expression curls in what I can only hope is tortured indecision.
"I should warn you that they're expecting me to check in," I say. "If I don't, in about ten minutes there'll be gunboats bobbing on every inch of this harbor."
"Yeah? Well we got plenty of hostages," Taylor says as he shifts so that he's looming directly in my line of vision. I resist the urge to step back, and simply shrug.
"So you kill the hostages then kill yourselves, or you come out guns blazing and get blown away by SWAT. Either way, the end's not pretty. If I were you I'd prefer the option that lets me walk away from this whole mess scot-free with cash in hand."
Ameilio and Taylor exchange glances.
"If you was a real cop," Taylor says, "you'd have a badge."
Shit.
"This is a deep cover operation, Mr. Taylor. In order to get as close as possible to Waterson's people, we had to sacrifice some of our own security. You'll notice I'm not carrying a weapon either."
Taylor eyes me skeptically, but Ameilio seems convinced, and if the pecking order's what I think it is that's really all I need.
"Watch her," Ameilio says before ducking back into the main room.
Taylor's still eyeballing me. I decide to try for one of Chance's disarming smiles. Taylor doesn't seem impressed.
"Nice weather we're having, huh?" I say.
"Shut up."
Okie dokie.
A few awkward minutes later the deck door slides open and Ameilio returns holding my cell phone.
"Fine," he says, handing it to me. "We'll work with the feds. Make your call or whatever."
I want to laugh with relief. Instead, I nod and start to type my message to Chance. "I'll let them know that my partner and I will be waiting with the other hostages--"
"You'll what? I don't think so."
My fingers freeze on the keypad.
"You think we're stupid or something? If we let you off with the hostages, as soon as we make the exchange your little FBI friends are gonna storm the place and bust all of us. Fuck that. You're coming with us; as soon as we get the money and get away, we'll free the three of you.
Great. Not exactly what I'd hoped for, but if it gets Brody and me out of this mess I'll take it.
"Fine," I say. "Just give me a second."
They both lean over to watch me type. It takes me twice as long, since it occurs to me that a real FBI agent probably wouldn't type in shorthand and I'm forced to spell out every word.
Stone here. Change of plans. Winters and I will meet you at exchange with hostage takers. Hold operation until then.
There. Hopefully Chance won't think I've gone nuts.
After a minute, the phone buzzes in my hand.
Understood. Will relay to HQ and await further instructions.
This seems to satisfy the pair, who stop fogging up my neck with their breath. Taylor hauls me towards the doors, and as we walk Ameilio speaks.
"A boat'll be here to get us in half an hour. Meanwhile, take a seat with the others. This time where we can see you."
My legs are numb from being folded up so long, but even twitching a toe seems too loud in the silence weighing the room. Every so often I'll hear the scuffle of shoes on the dance floor, or the clipped rhythm of a low, unhappy conversation. Waterson's people haven't called in an hour. I think the gunmen are getting antsy.
I know something you don't know, I singsong in my head. Childish? Sure. But a girl can only amuse herself so many ways after four hours under a table.
My phone vibrates once against my chest. Every time it goes off I expect someone to come storming over and drag me out into the open, but so far not even the party goers lined up in front of the buffet have given any indication they know I'm here. I dig out my phone to check the message. It's from Chance.
Landing in Boston in 1/2 hour. Making contact shortly. Status?
No change, I text back. gmen w8ing 4 u.
They don't have to wait long. Ten minutes later a cellphone rings, and the Hispanic voice from earlier answers with a sharp, "Hello?"
I hear the door to the deck open and close, then it's quiet again.
I know that as soon as the Hispanic guy gets off the phone I'll be receiving another text, just like all the others I've been getting since I sent off my SOS at the start of this mess. Apparently Waterson was involved in a drug deal that turned nasty, and when he failed to make amends the gang holding us hostage decided to force some politeness out of him. It's boring stuff from a criminal perspective, unless you're stuck in the middle of it.
After a while the Hispanic guy returns and says, "All right. We got a time and place. I called Cud; he's on his way."
"Finally," someone groans. "I'm tired of this boat."
"Quit complaining."
The complainer grunts, then shouts "Move!" The carpet creaks, the tablecloth shivers, and I realize the people on the other side are clearing a path for whoever's now coming my way. I freeze, phone in hand, too scared to try stuffing it back in my shirt.
The toes of the guy's shoes poke under the tablecloth, inches away from calves. Above me, silverware clatters. The guy crunches down on something. At this point, I'm barely breathing.
The seconds crawl by. Finally, Hungry Hungry Gunman finishes piling up his plate, or stuffing his face, whatever he's doing up there. The shoes slide back out of sight; I can see the silhouettes of people leaning away to let him through.
And that's when Chance's message arrives, making my phone hum like a gong.
The footsteps stop.
Maybe he didn't hear, I think. Maybe he's far away enough that--
The tablecloth whips up. Light stings my eyes, and as they adjust I find myself staring into a doughy face with crazed green eyes that narrow into slits at the sight of me.
"What the hell are you doing, bitch?"
His hand lashes out and clenches my wrist so hard I feel the bones grind together. I yelp and tumble forward, clonking my head on the table leg in the process.
"Get the fuck out!"
"Okay, okay!" I crawl as best I can on one hand. When I'm mostly clear of the table the guy shifts his grip to my hair and hauls me up like a sack. I grit my teeth and claw at his hands.
"Leave her alone!"
Oh no. Through tears of pain I see Brody standing on the far side of the room looking like he's going to vault the crowd at his feet to come to my rescue. Half the guns in the room swivel to aim at him.
"No, stop!" I shriek.
A short guy with bleached blonde hair and a deep tan jerks his thumb in Brody's direction and sneers.
"Friend of yours?" he asks, and I realize he's the one whose voice I've been hearing all day, "Well, bring him up too."
"Who did you call?" he me asks as Brody is dragged to the center of the room.
My heart feels like it's about to smash out of my chest. "I didn't-- I haven't called--"
Dough Boy rips the phone from my hand and checks the message that just came in.
"Ameilio, look." He says.
Ameilio stalks over and takes the phone. He reads the message, then taps a few more buttons. His expression gets darker by the second. I imagine he's scrolling through the many updates Chance has sent me over the hours regarding the situation with Waterson.
"Who is this?" Ameilio asks, shoving the phone in my face. As I guessed, there's an earlier message from Chance up on the screen.
Waterson sent bad shipment. They want money back.
I meet his eyes, but say nothing. My brain's kicking up sparks it's spinning so fast.
"Waterson's playing us," says Ameilio, as he heads towards the door again. "I'll call the boss. Kill them."
Dough Boy and the guy at Brody's side jam their guns against our heads.
"That's not a good idea," I blurt out.
Ameilio stops, turns. "Oh yeah? Why's that?"
I suck in a breath. "Juries tend to look much more kindly at extortion than they do at murdering federal officers."
The gun muzzle burrows deeper into my temple. I fight to keep the tremble out of my limbs.
"What did you just say?" Ameilio asks. His tone is flat, quiet. Like Guerrero's when he's pissed, only Guerrero's never been one twitch away from blowing my brains out. I hurry on.
"Felicity Stone, FBI," I say. "And this is my partner, Jeff Winters."
"Jeff" bobs his head in acknowledgment.
"We've been--" I look around suddenly, as though I've just realized that dozens of gawking faces are currently trained on me. "Is there somewhere more private we can discuss this?"
"Nothin' wrong with where we at right now."
I smile thinly, quite an accomplishment since my face feels like it's got rigor mortis. "Mr. Ameilio. Given the sensitive nature of the matters at hand, I think it's best if we address them discretely. If it makes you more comfortable, my partner will stay out here."
Brody doesn't look eager at the prospect, but he keeps his mouth shut.
Ameilio gives me the once-over. Then, he gestures slightly. The gun on me drops, and Dough Boy shoves me forward. I feel another muzzle my back, and now Ameilio prods me towards the glass doors leading to the aft deck.
"Taylor, come with me. You, lady, move."
Taylor turns out to be a tall black guy who looks like he should be busting backs in the NFL. Once we're outside they take up station on either side of me, and Ameilio decides to break even and point his gun at my chest. "You got five minutes," he says "I don't like what I hear, you and your boy are takin' a swim."
Five minutes? I've pulled a con in half that time. I clear my throat, smile, and begin.
"Here's the deal, gentleman: my team has been investigating Waterson for months. This drug thing? Tip of the iceberg. The guy's got his fingers in more pies than Jack Horner, but we can't nail him down for any of it."
"Why not?"
"Lack of evidence, until today."
Ameilio raises an eyebrow.
"You see, we were just going to try and get Kimber to admit that she'd pinched the coke for her little shindig from daddy dearest's stock. It wouldn't stand up in court, though, because there's no way Kimber's going to testify against her father. But if we can get Waterson on record paying restitution for a botched shipment of drugs? You're in the business; I'm sure you know how kindly the law looks at traffickers, Mr. Ameilio. Even if he takes a plea, Waterson'll be gumming his food by the time he gets out of prison."
"So, you bust him for supplying us, then bust us for dealing. Nice try. Not interested."
His finger starts to curl on the trigger.
"No, wait! You don't understand: what we want is Waterson, and right now you've got him by the balls. You help us nail him, and we'd be willing to overlook everything that's happened this morning."
"I don't help cops," Ameilio sneered, though with less resolve than before. I seize on that hesitation; giddy confidence keeps the lies pouring from my lips.
"Fortunately for you, we're not. The police would be in no position to make you this kind of deal and frankly, Mr. Ameilio, the FBI doesn't waste its resources going after street gangs. It does more harm than good in the long run, and the payoff is shit."
That last part might've been too strong. But after regarding me sourly for a long moment I can see doubt spreading across Ameilio's face. Just a little more, now...
"It works out for everyone, really. We get our guy, you get your money, and we both make our bosses very happy. What do you say?"
His expression curls in what I can only hope is tortured indecision.
"I should warn you that they're expecting me to check in," I say. "If I don't, in about ten minutes there'll be gunboats bobbing on every inch of this harbor."
"Yeah? Well we got plenty of hostages," Taylor says as he shifts so that he's looming directly in my line of vision. I resist the urge to step back, and simply shrug.
"So you kill the hostages then kill yourselves, or you come out guns blazing and get blown away by SWAT. Either way, the end's not pretty. If I were you I'd prefer the option that lets me walk away from this whole mess scot-free with cash in hand."
Ameilio and Taylor exchange glances.
"If you was a real cop," Taylor says, "you'd have a badge."
Shit.
"This is a deep cover operation, Mr. Taylor. In order to get as close as possible to Waterson's people, we had to sacrifice some of our own security. You'll notice I'm not carrying a weapon either."
Taylor eyes me skeptically, but Ameilio seems convinced, and if the pecking order's what I think it is that's really all I need.
"Watch her," Ameilio says before ducking back into the main room.
Taylor's still eyeballing me. I decide to try for one of Chance's disarming smiles. Taylor doesn't seem impressed.
"Nice weather we're having, huh?" I say.
"Shut up."
Okie dokie.
A few awkward minutes later the deck door slides open and Ameilio returns holding my cell phone.
"Fine," he says, handing it to me. "We'll work with the feds. Make your call or whatever."
I want to laugh with relief. Instead, I nod and start to type my message to Chance. "I'll let them know that my partner and I will be waiting with the other hostages--"
"You'll what? I don't think so."
My fingers freeze on the keypad.
"You think we're stupid or something? If we let you off with the hostages, as soon as we make the exchange your little FBI friends are gonna storm the place and bust all of us. Fuck that. You're coming with us; as soon as we get the money and get away, we'll free the three of you.
Great. Not exactly what I'd hoped for, but if it gets Brody and me out of this mess I'll take it.
"Fine," I say. "Just give me a second."
They both lean over to watch me type. It takes me twice as long, since it occurs to me that a real FBI agent probably wouldn't type in shorthand and I'm forced to spell out every word.
Stone here. Change of plans. Winters and I will meet you at exchange with hostage takers. Hold operation until then.
There. Hopefully Chance won't think I've gone nuts.
After a minute, the phone buzzes in my hand.
Understood. Will relay to HQ and await further instructions.
This seems to satisfy the pair, who stop fogging up my neck with their breath. Taylor hauls me towards the doors, and as we walk Ameilio speaks.
"A boat'll be here to get us in half an hour. Meanwhile, take a seat with the others. This time where we can see you."