Chapter Text
“You sure you wanna do this?”
Jim stares up at the tower looming out the car window and wonders if it’s too late to run. “No. Don’t really have an option, though.”
Archie snorts beside them. “You always have an option, mate. Look –“ she taps the steering wheel as she drives, weaving between traffic like the New York cabbie she used to be. At least that’s what she claims she used to do for a living, and Jim has never seen a reason to disbelieve them. “- I can take us back to the airport if you’d rather. Head someplace warm.”
It’s tempting. It’s really, really fucking tempting.
But if they go now then they’ll never have a chance to come back. Oluwande is waiting for them, and they already fucked this up once. A second time, and there’ll be no more possibility of reconciliation.
They rub calloused fingers over the ring they still wear on their left hand. Plain gold, because neither of them could afford anything nicer at the time. Even just the plain gold bands had cost most of their savings.
“No,” they say softly, “I told him I would be here, so I’ll be here.”
The look on Archie’s face is a bit too much, so they turn away, pull out their last pack of cigarettes. Half empty already. They’ll need more if they’re going to make it through this. Rolling down the window a crack, they light one. Archie doesn’t give a fuck if they smoke in the car, but she does bitch if they breathe smoke at her unannounced. Which, yeah, they would bitch too.
It’s different, having a – not quite a partner in crime, but someone they’re familiar with like this. Someone who isn’t Oluwande, that is. They were on their own for so long, and then they found Oluwande, and the world righted itself in ways they hadn’t really understood. They had so many good years, beautiful years, building and building.
And then his life built a way out, and Oluwande took it. And instead of taking his hand, going right along with him – Jim ran. They had to. There was so much he didn’t know, and so much they couldn’t tell him, even though they’ve got his ring on their finger. Even though he bears their name. They promised to spend their life together, but Jim still split at the first sign of something they didn’t know how to face.
They ran into Archie a few months ago. They’re both bodyguards, of sorts, and they got stuck together on the worst job Jim has ever taken. Archie made it – not good, but bearable. When she called them a week after it ended, asked if they wanted to work another one, Jim had jumped at the opportunity. And then it became the norm. It’s not all the time, but when it suits both of them to have someone at their back, or they have a client that needs more than one person. They’re not partners, either in work, or in the romantic sense. For all that they ran away, Jim is still married, and they wouldn’t do that to Oluwande.
But they like Archie. Like her a whole lot. Think that she’s maybe even becoming a friend. It’s – good. At the very least, they work well together, and she pushes Jim in all the right ways.
Best of all, by now she knows well enough that when Jim says they’re going to do something, they’re going to do it. So she just nods, keeps tapping the steering wheel. “Alright. Whatever you say, man.”
When Jim doesn’t respond Archie flicks on the radio, and the conversation is over. Something loud floods the tiny car, beat-boxing and loud brass horns, and they don’t hate it. It’s not the Spanish music they love, but rap and hip hop has soul that reminds them of home.
“What the fuck is this?” Jim asks, biting back a grin.
Their new sometimes-partner sometimes-not is anything but quiet, and she’s just as loud as always now when she gives a loud whoop and cranks the music louder. “Fucking Christmas music, man!!”
Republic Tower is even bigger up close. Jackie’s done well for herself, building an empire that rises in shining steel and glass. It’s nothing like anything Jim is familiar with, and whatever determination they’ve built up on the drive over dissolves into pure nerves.
“This is it.”
They keep staring, face pressed to the window, eyes craned up. They can’t even see the top of it from here. “Yup.”
Archie turns in the seat towards them, touches two fingers to their arm to drag their attention back to her. “Look. I know you just asked for a ride here – but I’ll go wait in the parking garage. If it goes really fucking badly with your boy, you come down.”
They look at her out of the corner of their eye, try and smile. “And you’ll take me back to the airport?”
“If you want,” she says with an easy shrug. “Or you can stay at mine for the night, if you want to try again tomorrow.”
She makes it sound so easy. Jim nods, looking out the window one last time. “You’re a fucking gem, you know that?”
Archie’s voice goes teasing. “Just makin’ myself available if you need a rebound, mate, you know that.”
They huff a laugh. The worst part is that – yeah, if this goes really fucking bad? If it ends not with some sort of repair, but Jim’s ring left on Oluwande’s desk, their heart cut in two? They’ll probably take her up on it. Probably regret it later, because they like her, and they doubt they would stick around afterwards.
Fuck, they hope this goes okay. They aren’t ready for a divorce. Can’t even begin to wrap their head around it. They miss Oluwande so much, and if he doesn’t want them back…
Jim clears their throat, forces their mind away from worst case possibilities. “And if it goes good?”
“Eh, then you give me a call, I bring up your bags, and then I go find a Christmas eve fuck somewhere else.” Archie shoos at them. “Now quit stalling, get the fuck out of my car.”
Jim snorts, but climbs dutifully out of the car, leaning back in through the open window. “It’s not even yours, it’s a fucking rental. And how the fuck am I supposed to call you?”
Archie flips them off, then rummages around in the near-empty dashboard. “Fucking came with a car phone, can you believe it? Fancy shit, mate.” She hands them a little scrap of paper, with a number scrawled on it. “If I haven’t heard from you in like, two hours, I’m gonna assume you’re fucking in his office and you made up and all that crap, okay?”
The little scrap of paper gets tucked into their pocket. “We’re not going to fuck in his office!”
“Sure you aren’t.” Archie leers at them, broad grin and sparkling eyes. "I mean if it goes really fucking well, still come down, but you can bring him too -"
Laughter bubbles out of them. Jim turns around to face the tall glass doors, gives her the finger over their shoulder. "Leaving!"
Her voice calls after them over the revvivng of the engine. “Serious offer! And good luck, dickhead!”
Oluwande Jiménez stares out the window of his office, watching for planes flying over the city. Jim will be on one, if they haven't landed already. If they got on the plane at all.
He swivels his chair back around, gives in and picks up the phone, dialing a familiar number. There’s a pen on his desk, and he picks it up, fidgets while the phone rings.
"Hello?"
"Pete, hey. It's me." Oluwande turns back around to look out the window again, phone cord over his shoulder. "Just um, checking in to see if Jim had called. Don't remember if they have my work line."
Pete is his roommate. Oluwande had bought a house, moved in, and made it all of a month on his own before looking for someone to rent one of the many empty rooms. The house had been too big, and too damn lonely. Pete hasn't fixed everything, but he's a good guy, and it's helped. It’s been mutually beneficial, too – Oluwande even found Pete’s boyfriend a job a few months back. Lucius is the bitchiest assistant he’s ever had, but he does the job well.
"Oh, hey Olu. Nah, sorry man."
Oluwande sighs. He'd asked Jim to call before they boarded the plane, but knew it was unlikely. They’ve always been bad about remembering stuff like that. It didn’t help that it was Christmas Eve. Airports today would be a nightmare to navigate. "Cool. Maybe they just didn't have time before their flight."
"Yeah, probably. I'm sure they made it."
"Hope so." The skies are empty. "Hey, would you do me a favour?"
"Sure."
"Can you -" he feels fucking stupid asking, because he should've done it yesterday, but work had gone late and he'd forgotten. "Can you make up the bed in the spare room? Just in case."
He doesn't even know if Jim will stay with him. But if they do, he thinks he might need his space. Maybe they’ll need their space, too.
He can hear a smile in Pete's voice when he answers. "Hell yeah, man. Already got the sheets out for it and everything."
Oluwande laughs. "Fuck, really? You're brilliant. I owe you, yeah?"
"Buy me a pizza and we'll call it square."
After he hangs up Oluwande stares at the photo that sits behind his desk. It’s the only couple photo in his office – Jim and he, looking happier than he’s felt in months. There’s nothing extraordinary about it – they’d gone to Sears, because they’d wanted a set of the cheesy family photos that everyone seemed to have these days. Oluwande sits on a chair, Jim standing behind him. Their arms are wrapped around his shoulders, chin resting atop his head. Most importantly – they’re smiling, so wide it looks like their face hurts.
They have other photos. Better ones. Of Jim kissing his cheek, or Oluwande’s head resting in their lap in Central Park. But this was the only one that he wanted to have at work, that showed just enough of them to be worth having, but restrained enough to now show his whole heart on his sleeve. Even so, the reminder of Jim and everything he’d lost is still too much, most days. He’d had to move the photo behind his desk when staring at them day in and day out became too much.
Music and laughter from the party outside his door floats in. It’s Christmas, but he barely feels it. Too worried, too stressed, too full of what-ifs.
Oluwande reaches out and turns the photo down on its face. He’ll join the party soon, when he’s exhausted all the last minute tasks that don’t really need doing right now, but will serve well enough to distract from the nervous energy that’s building inside him. He picks up the stack of papers from his desk, and heads for the fax machine.
The lobby is empty when Jim walks in. It’s cold, all shining glass, steel, and stone, modern and elegant in a way that sets Jim’s teeth on edge. When the too polite man at the front desk waves at a computer set into the marble, tells them to look for Oluwande on there, they’re about ready to turn around and walk away. They’re not supposed to be here. Maybe Oluwande is well suited for the rich corporate world, but Jim sure as fuck is not.
Still, they tap at the touch screen, click over to ‘last names starting with J.’ Scan the list, click to the next page just in case they’re reading wrong.
But there’s no Jiménez, Oluwande. Their chest feels tight. Jim clicks back, taps on the ‘B’.
Boodhari, Oluwande. There, plain as day.
It’s been barely six months. And yeah, Jim was the one who ran. But they thought their marriage meant something. Thought that when he promised to take their name forever, because he knew how much it meant to Jim, that he would keep it.
It shouldn’t feel like a betrayal. They were the one who gave up first. And they, more than anyone else they know, will defend to the death someone’s right to choose what name they use.
But fuck, it still hurts.
They give the receptionist a tight smile. “30th floor?”
He nods and gestures down the hall. “Must be at the party. The whole building’s there, I swear. Elevators are down and to your left.”
“Gracias,” they mutter, stalking down the hall.
Their boots tap on the shiny floors, the walls gleaming all around them. But their eyes catch hollow grooves where heavy metal will no doubt come down to seal off the building. And they don’t miss the man lounging on the other side of the hall, slick business suit doing nothing to hide the line of the gun at his shoulder. A guard, based on the air of ease.
The elevator dings. Jim enters, and tries to breathe.
They can hear the party before the elevator even pulls to a stop. Bright Christmas music, chatter, and the occasional ring of loud, drunken laughter.
It’s the sort of party that Jim hates. It’s uncharitable of them to wonder if Oluwande chose today for that exact reason – it was Jim who contacted him last minute and asked to come, after all – but the thought crosses their mind all the same. He was the one who bought the plane tickets, and he was the one who told them when to arrive.
They get it. They’d want a buffer between them, if they were in his shoes.
When the doors slide open there’s too many people, too much glitter, tinsel and garlands and a tall Christmas tree placed artfully throughout another massive, gleaming space. Underneath the decorations there’s more stone and marble and gleaming wood. There’s even a massive stone archway and graceful waterfall that flows into a meandering pond in the centre of the room.
It’s the height of luxury and wealth.
What a waste.
Jim snags a glass of champagne from a waiter passing by and downs half of it before they realize that they’re running on an empty stomach, and that maybe getting plastered when they’re about to see Oluwande for the first time in half a year is a bad idea. They wander deeper into the room, slipping through the crowd until they see another waiter passing by, and neatly deposit the half-full glass on her tray.
They’re just about to give up when they finally spot a familiar face. One that makes their chest burn, but for an entirely different reason. Because it’s not Oluwande. No, it’s him, the reason Jim ran in the first fucking place.
Alfeo de la Vaca. Jackie’s first husband, right hand man, and the reason Jim’s family is dead.
The story is an old one. Jim only half-remembers it, trauma and time erasing most of it from their mind. But what they do remember is this: A man, holding a gun to their father’s head. He’s the one they remember most. The one who pulled the trigger, the one that ended their world. But behind him, shadowy, bushy moustache and bored tone to his voice – Alfeo de la Vaca, ordering the hit.
They barely remember his face. But oh, they remember his voice.
They’d been eight years old. Nana had taken them in, trained them to fight, to kill, so that they could take their revenge. She always wanted them to kill Alfeo first, but he wasn’t the one who’s face and hands haunted their dreams. Tomás Cadeno was the one who killed their father, so he was the one Jim hunted down first, when they were eighteen and out in the world on their own. They buried a knife in his skull, then fled to New York City.
And New York had taken Jim in like she did all those fleeing their past. Nana had wanted them to keep going, but all Jim could think about was how they were twenty years old, and they still hadn’t been kissed. They had wanted a life outside of revenge. A life worth living, one without blood on their hands. They cut ties with Nana, found a job at a dingy little garage that was willing to teach them how to fix cars, and vowed to start anew.
They’d met Oluwande two months later. He was sweet, and funny, and so fucking different from anything they knew. He’d swept Jim off their feet with a kindness that still took their breath away. They’d fallen deeply in love. They’d gotten married. Oluwande hadn’t needed to know about their past, or their abandoned revenge, or any of the parts that they kept so carefully hidden away. He knew that they loved him, and that was enough.
Five years later and their comfortable little life fell apart when Oluwande’s career took off. That hadn’t been the problem – Jim had been the one celebrating each promotion with him, delighted in his success. No, the problem had been after he’d accepted a new role at the head office in California, and let slip while they were packing up the house that his new boss was a man by the name of Alfeo de la Vaca.
It was the biggest fight they’d ever had. Jim had told him to quit, told him that he couldn’t work for Alfeo. But they couldn’t tell him why, not without revealing everything that they’d tried to keep buried. And when he refused, and told them he was going with or without them – Jim had run. They ran, because they couldn’t be the one left behind. Not again. Not by him.
The last six months have been the worst in Jim’s life. They almost started back on their mission, revenge calling them now that the love that had kept them steady was gone – but all they could think about was how disappointed Oluwande would be. They wanted to go back to him. They loved him.
But they couldn’t. So instead of revenge they’d fallen into bodyguard work. They’d gotten a state license, and connected with a firm, and found a better use for their skills. Their knives had come in handy. How good they were with their fists, even more. They’d met Archie on a job, and the rest was history.
Until four days ago. Until Jim had been alone for two weeks straight, in the shitty little apartment they’d rented, and had finally broken. They’d called Oluwande and begged to come home. He’d arranged a flight, and they’d been lucky enough that Archie had already been in LA and willing to drive them over.
And now here they are, standing in a shining room that’s richer than anywhere they’ve been in their life, staring at the man who ordered their father killed. Of course it would come full circle.
Alfeo de la Vaca doesn’t look like they remember. Still tall, but older now, with grey hair and a clean shaven face, wearing a suit that costs more than all of Jim’s life savings put together.
They force down the rage and plaster on a neutral expression. “Hi. I’m looking for –“
“Oluwande Boodhari?” Alfeo cuts in smoothly, grinning and holding out a hand. “You must be Jim Boodhari. I’m Alfeo de la Vaca.”
His voice sounds exactly as they remember, and nothing like it at all. The tinge of a familiar accent, soft around the edges of his words. When they take his hand, it’s warm, human. Softer than they’d expected.
“It’s Jim Jimenez.” They have to force themself not to shake his hand too firmly, to squeeze his bones together. “And I know. His boss, sí?”
Alfeo raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t react at all to their last name. Jesus. Does he even remember? “That’s right. He’s told you about me?”
They force a small, tight smile. “Something like that.”
“Well, then I’m glad you finally have a face to put to the name.” He keeps smiling, but the way he’s looking at them makes them . “When Oluwande said you had called, it felt like the least we could do was book you a flight.”
“That was you?” And here Jim had thought Oluwande had booked it himself. Fuck. They have to be polite, can’t swear in front of this man who has more teeth than any shark they’ve met. “Gracias.”
“Oh, it’s our pleasure,” Alfeo purrs. “Oluwande is one of our best men, and it was such a small thing. But come, you must be eager to see him. He’s in the vault room faxing some documents, but his office is this way.”
“This is quite the place,” Jim says as they follow him through the crowd. It takes everything in them not to ask him about their father, about the murder fifteen years ago. But this isn’t the place, and it isn’t the time, and if they can’t reconcile with Oluwande than the least they can do is not get him fired.
“It will be, if we can ever get it finished. The last few floors are still under construction. But our offices are done, at least.”
The office Alfeo leads them is just as richly furnished as the rest of the building. Polished wooden desk, leather chairs, glass window taking up one entire wall. But there are touches of softness that speaks to Oluwande – a beautiful quilt on the sofa, plants everywhere. They catch sight of a small potted orange tree in the corner and their heart almost stops.
The man doing a line of coke off Oluwande’s desk kind of ruins the effect.
“Geraldo,” Alfeo says, voice instantly pissed as Geraldo hastily wipes his nose and dusts off the desk.
“I was just making a call –“ Geraldo gets up and swaggers around the desk, and he’s just as irritating as Jim remembers. Dressed better, though, in a fancy suit that rivals Alfeo’s.
Alfeo scowls, and holds a hand out to Jim. “I want you to meet Jim. Oluwande’s spouse –“
“We’ve met,” Jim interrupts. “Hola, Geraldo.”
Geraldo gives them a half-smile, half-sneer. “Jim. Didn’t think you’d have the balls to actually show up. Finally come to see how amazing Oluwande’s doing here?”
Jim touches their nose, mirroring where they can see dust around Geraldo’s nostrils, and slips past him. “You missed some.”
There are photos on Oluwande’s desk. They pick up one of Oluwande and his family – mother, father, sisters, and his two nieces – and feel something clench in their chest. They always liked his family. They welcomed Jim in without any questions.
Jim set it back down. Scan the other frames.
There are no pictures of Jim.
“Look –“ Geraldo starts.
“Can I get you anything?” Alfeo asks, interrupting Geraldo before he can get out anything else. “Water? Wine? Watered down champagne?”
Jim turns back around to face him and shakes their head. “No thanks. Wasn’t really expecting to show up to a party.”
Alfeo laughs. “Well, it’s Christmas! And Jackie likes to treat her people well. End of a successful year calls for celebration.”
“It’s a double celebration,” Geraldo adds in, with that irritating grin of his. “We closed a big deal today, and a lot of it was because of Oluwande. He’s got the biggest balls -”
As if he was called, Oluwande walks through the door, head down, scanning a bundle of papers. “Gotta stop saying that, man, it’s real uncomfortable. Or did you already forget the sexual harassment seminar –“
Oluwande looks up, sees Jim, and stops. Their eyes connect. And for a moment, it feels like the world stops, too.
He looks good. Beautiful suit, rich grey fabric and a purple waistcoat. He’s just as handsome as always, gorgeous dark skin and pretty face, and they miss him so badly it hurts.
“Jim,” Oluwande says softly, a little catch in his voice. He takes a breath, then steps slowly into the room, glancing at Alfeo and Geraldo. “You’ve – you’ve met Geraldo before, did you meet Alfeo?”
Alfeo says something, but all Jim can see is Oluwande, crossing the room into their space and –
He doesn’t hug them. Doesn’t sweep them into his arms like he might have six months ago. Just comes over, puts his hand on their shoulder, something hopeful and almost afraid on his face. Like he doesn’t know what to do now, either.
Jim leans up, presses a half-kiss to his cheek.
He lingers for a beat – then pulls away. Steps back, out of their space, drumming up a smile that they can tell is fake. “I was hoping you’d made your flight. When you didn’t call –“
“Ran out of time,” Jim rasps. “But I made it.”
Oluwande exhales, nods. “Good.”
“Show them the watch,” Geraldo says, breaking the tentative air between Jim and Oluwande.
“Later,” Oluwande says, barely glancing at him.
“C’mon, man, don’t be shy,” Geraldo scoffs. He looks at Jim, that smirk on his face again. Like he’s trying to prove that they’re treating Oluwande better here than Jim ever could, like Oluwande belongs with him and the company. “Just a little token of appreciation for all Oluwande does around here.” When Oluwande still doesn’t show Jim he adds on, like it should mean something, “It’s a Rolex.”
Jim can’t stop looking at Oluwande enough to care. “I’m sure he’ll show me later.”
His eyes are back on them, and they feel caught in a good way. But they don’t want to be here in this room with these men watching them. They need to speak to Oluwande alone, need to know if this whole trip was pointless. And yeah, it won’t be as easy as one conversation, they know that. But they still need to start.
“Olu – is there some place I can clean up?”
Oluwande smiles, properly, for the first time since they’ve seen him. “Yeah. This way.”
Unseen, a car pulls up to the front doors. A truck, large and black and unmarked, drives underground, where the garage waits. Three men enter the lobby. Ten more flood in from downstairs.
Two men die. Doors are sealed.
The party goes on.
The office Oluwande leads them into has a small private bathroom. Jim hesitates at the door of it, until Oluwande huffs a laugh and gestures at the sink, leaning against the wall nearby.
“Go on,” he teases, “I know you weren’t joking about cleaning up.”
Jim strips out of their long overcoat and drops it on the little chair nearby – there’s a fucking pink cushioned chair in here, what the fuck, it’s a bathroom. “I’m so fucking gross. Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I know how much you hate flying – uh. Jim.” When they look up from working their buttons Oluwande is staring at their shoulder, then their waist, eyes big and round. “Why do you have a gun? And a knife, Jesus Christ.”
Something that feels like shame curls in their stomach. They turn back to the mirror, leave their shirt to start unbuckling their shoulder holster. “I always have a knife.”
“Yeah, a little one, not a fucking dagger. And that doesn’t fucking explain the gun, what the fuck?”
As soon as the holster is off they set it in the corner of the bathroom sink, out of Oluwande’s line of sight. They leave their knife. Drag off their flannel, still not making eye contact. “I’m working in – security. I’m expected to have a gun.”
It’s not entirely a lie, but it sure as shit isn’t the whole truth. The main reality was that they no longer felt safe without a gun on them. Especially not when walking into Alfeo de la Vaca’s den.
Oluwande’s mouth is still a tight line. “They let you bring that on the plane?”
“What? No! Well, yeah, but in checked baggage.” Jim gives him an exasperated look. “It’s not a big deal, okay?”
“Feels like a big deal,” he says, voice going quiet. He waves a hand at them, the pinched look shifting to something a little lost. “You’re all – different. You cut your hair, and don’t think I can’t see the scar on your arm.”
Jim’s hand rises up to cover it. It’s a nasty one, from a knife wound that curved around their bicep.
“And now you’ve got a gun.” Oluwande takes a shaky breath. “It’s like I don’t even know you.” His face twists. “I just – I missed you, so fucking much.”
The ache is there, in their chest, bitterness welling in their mouth. They miss him too, so fucking much it hurts. But they’re still – angry, and dumb, and they can’t stop thinking about the way he didn’t even try to keep them. The way he’s accusing them of changing so much that he can’t even recognize them. This is who they’ve always been, even if they’ve kept it hidden under wraps for a little while.
But he still knows them, better than anyone else in the whole world. They need him to know them, need someone on this fucking planet to know who they are, and if he can’t, then what do they have left?
So what comes out is “Didn’t miss me enough to keep my name, though.”
His mouth thins, anger flashing in. “That’s seriously what you’re going for? Already?”
“Feels kinda important, yeah.” They set their jaw, cross their arms, and they know they look bull-headed and angry, but they are. “You told me you wanted to be my family.”
“And I do!” Oluwande’s voice rises before dropping back down as he visibly tries to reign it back. “You left me, Jim. You were the one who took off, not me.”
“I fucking told you –“
“No,” he snaps, “you didn’t. You didn’t call, you didn’t write. You left a note, and then you were gone. I didn’t fucking think you were ever coming back. So why the hell would I keep something that hurt every time I look at it?”
All Jim can do is stare. There are bright unshed tears in Oluwande’s eyes, and Jim wants to step in, brush them away, fall to their knees and tell him they’ll never leave again. They fucked up, they fucked up so goddamn badly.
“Olu –“
The door opens. A young man with a fluff of hair sticks his head in the door. “Olu, Alfeo is –“ he catches sight of Jim, stops short. “Oh, uh – sorry.”
They bare their teeth. They know how mean they look, but they can’t help it. A dog trapped in a corner will always snarl. “Hi.”
He gives them a nervous smile, then looks to Oluwande. “Alfeo is looking for you. He’s hoping you can say give a toast.”
Oluwande nods. “Be right out, thanks Lucius.”
The door shuts. Oluwande gives them a watery smile, then stands. “Speech time.” He pauses at the doorway. “I’m coming back. Please be here when I do.”
--
Jim nearly punches a wall at their own goddamn stupidity. Then they take a breath, splash water over their face. After a moment’s hesitation, drop into the stupid frilly chair to take off their boots, too. What had the man sitting beside them on the flight said helped him after a long flight? Take off your shoes, put your bare feet on the carpet, and make fists with your toes.
It’s dumb, but it helps. Their feet hurt from a long day in boots, and even that small ease brings a comfort they weren’t expecting. Slowly, their body starts to relax. They have time until Oluwande gets back – five, ten, twenty minutes, they don’t know - and they’ll be damned if they’re still this riled up when he returns. They have to fix things, and they know they can’t do that if they’re angry.
They also have to call Archie. She’s still in the parking garage, waiting for them. Jim fishes out their wallet, and then the little scrap of paper she gave them. Wandering into the office the bathroom is attached to, they lean their hip against the desk, pick up the phone, and dial.
“Hello?” Archie’s voice is nearly smothered by the same loud, booming music from before.
“It’s me,” Jim says, raising their voice enough that she can hopefully hear them. “Just calling to see if you mind waiting a little longer.”
The music quiets down. “Jimmy jam! Nah, don’t mind at all. Got a two-four in the back, gonna get plastered while I wait.”
Jim snorts. “So I’m driving, then?”
“Call it payment for me picking you up,” she laughs. “So how’s it going with your man?”
They look at the door and sigh. “Not sure yet. We’re –“
The phone goes dead.
“Archie?”
No answer. Jim frowns at it, then at the receiver. Tries pushing the hook switch, but there’s no dial tone.
“Fucking shitty expensive buildings,” Jim mutters. They hang up the phone. They’ll have to try a different office when they need to call her again. And in the meantime, they can wait for Oluwande, and Archie can wait for them, and maybe soon they’ll finally be out of this fucking party and this stupid ass building.
Soon.
One man stays below, clipping a name tag to his chest and shoving the body of the front desk clerk into the back room. Twelve more pile into the elevator. Guns in their hands, eagerness on every face.
The party is about to begin.
Jim is still sitting in the stupid chair and scrunching their toes in the fucking carpet when the sound of gunfire splits the night apart. Not just any guns, either, but the tell-tale ratatat of machine guns. People start screaming, the frantic noise of a terrified crowd.
Everything happens so fast. The peace shatters, and Jim reacts like they’ve been trained. It takes half a second for them to grab their gun, and another for them to run to the door. They click off the safety, heart racing so hard they can feel it in their chest. Ease open the door, stare out in horror.
There are half a dozen or more armed men flooding into the party. Machine guns raised, firing overhead. There’s a stairwell across from Jim, but two men are already coming down the hall towards them, opening doors as they come. And Jim knows with a sickening certainty that they’re going to be found, and they’re going to be killed, because they have a gun in their hand and people with machine guns won’t ask twice before firing.
But then there’s a loud scream from inside the office beside theirs, and both men opening doors peer inside. It’s a split second distraction, the briefest moment when eyes aren’t looking in Jim’s direction – but a split second is all they need.
They’ve always been fast. They slip through the door, sprint across the hall, easing into the stairwell as quietly as they can. Catch the door before it slams, close it softly, then race upstairs on bare feet.
Oluwande sits on a large ornamental rock and tries very hard not to panic. Men and women are still screaming around him, huddling together like frightened cattle. Alfeo is at his side, Lucius at his other. He can’t find Jim. He’s tried, scanning the crowd, heart racing, but he hasn’t seen them yet.
Maybe they hid. He can only hope. The gun they’ve got will make them a target, and they’re too stubborn and too fierce to just come easily. Their fierceness is irritating, and beautiful, and something that made him fall in love with them so many years ago.
Doesn’t mean he isn’t scared for them, though.
A tall man in a suit stands at the front, looking over the huddled party goers. While the other men are dressed like working class men, all jeans and sweaters and plain black shirts, this man is not. His suit is expensive, the sort Oluwande might expect to see on Alfeo. He’s also the only one not holding a machine gun. And, more noticeable – his nose is missing. He’s wearing a prosthetic in its place, delicate silver that’s strapped to his face.
There’s no mistaking that he’s the man in charge.
There’s another burst of machine gun fire before the man starts to speak, two hands held up like a preacher calming a crowd.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he calls, and slowly the screams subside into frightened silence. He has a familiar accent, from the same place as Oluwande’s. Another Brit. But his is much more obnoxious, in the way of high class wealthy assholes that Oluwande hates on instinct. There’s no kinship here, not like he feels with Lucius. “Ladies and gentlemen. Due to the Republic Corporation’s legacy of greed and violence around the world, they are about to be taught a lesson in the real use of power. You will be witnesses.”
He steps forward, a slow, easy saunter, and starts scanning the crowd. “Now. Where is Spanish Jackie?”
Oluwande’s heart starts racing a little faster. Jackie’s not here. She left just this morning, on a whirlwind honeymoon with her newest husband. The Swede had been one of his coworkers, and they’d fallen in love so hard and fast it was nearly painful to watch.
“Jacquotte Delahaye,” he drawls, starting to walk through the crowd, people flinching away from him like he’s carrying the plague. Looking at every woman he passes, like he’s trying to scope her out. “Born in Nassau in 1933, emigrated to California 1939 –“
Alfeo stands up. He’s not a noble man, but in this moment, Oluwande can’t help but admire him. “She’s not here. She left the city this morning.”
The man in charge stares at Alfeo. “And you are?”
“Alfeo de la Vaca.” His chest puffs out, and Oluwande can’t help but grab his wrist so he doesn’t do something stupid. It doesn’t work. “Vice-President of Republic Trading Corporation.”
“Oh, yes.” The man’s eyes light up. “One of the husbands.” He scans the room again, then steps in with a smooth smile. “I really was hoping for Jackie. But I suppose you’ll have to do.”
Two of the men holding machine guns grab Alfeo by the arms, and haul him towards the elevator. There are sobs, another scream.
The man in charge makes eye contact with Oluwande, just for a moment, eyes hard as flint. Oluwande stares back.
He steps away, and Oluwande can breathe again.
“Fuck,” Lucius breathes beside Oluwande, as quiet murmurs erupt through the crowd. “What the fuck.”
Oluwande reaches out blindly, grabs Lucius’ hand and gives it a little squeeze. “Just keep calm,” he whispers. “We’re going to get out of this.”
He fucking hopes it’s not a lie.
Jim races up a flight of stairs, pulls open the door to peer outside. It’s finished like the last one was, neat offices and too rich carpet. But it’s not empty - there are men with machine guns pulling something down the hallway on a dolly, so Jim eases the door back shut, and races up another flight of stairs. The concrete is rough on their bare feet, and their heart is pounding. They keep their gun in front of them, try and keep their hands steady as they peer through the next door and pray that there are no more fucking men with guns.
It’s empty. And not just of men, but of anything. Alfeo had said there were still floors under construction, and it’s clear that they’ve found one. Bare steel supports, piles of supplies lying everywhere.
But even a half-constructed room might have a way for them to call for help. They hate the police, but in a situation like this, there’s no one else. Jackie doesn’t have an army. Or – if she does, Jim has no fucking idea how to get them here.
They creep into the room, gun held up. They have no idea how many floors the men – the fucking terrorists, that’s what they seem like – are on.
A noise behind them makes Jim whirl around, pointing their gun into the shadows. There’s nothing there. Something else creaks, and they whirl around again, scanning for anyone, trying to hear over the rushing in their ears –
But the room is empty.
Jim sucks in a breath, lets it out shaky and slow. “Get a fucking grip, man.”
They spy a workman’s table with a phone, and race over. Whirl around, gun pointed at the door they came through, and grab the phone off the hook.
No dial tone. Just as dead as the last one. They don’t know if it’s because of the floor being under construction, or something else, but their money is on the armed men fucking with the lines.
“Mierda.” Sweat trickles down their spine, a combination of fear and their mad race up the stairwell. “Okay. Stay calm. Stay fucking calm.” They readjust their hold on the gun, try and take a deeper breath. “Fucking – think. Breathe.”
They sound like Oluwande, telling them to calm the fuck down. A fresh spike of fear runs through them at the thought of him, and they take another breath, try and force it down. The gunmen weren’t shooting anyone. They were shooting the air. Oluwande is still alive.
Jim forces their mind to work, thoughts sluggish and frantic all at once. They need a way to connect with people outside. They need to call someone, but the phones aren’t working.
They have to try another floor. They have to keep looking. Maybe if they go up to the roof they can – fuck, they don’t know. Flag someone down.
Gripping their gun tighter, Jim heads back into the stairwell. Races up three flights, until they hit the 35th floor, as far as they can go.
But when they crack open the door and peer inside – there’s more fucking men, passing down a bare hall. They have a cart between them, with big metal boxes that look distinctly military in origin, half-covered by a tarp. There’s text on the side. Jim makes out “guided missile,” and barely manages not to slam the door closed.
“What the fuck,” they breathe, back pressed against the cold metal of the door. “Is that a fucking rocket launcher?”
It doesn’t matter right now. They still need to find a way to get contact with the outside world.
A man in a suit is ushered into a conference room, a gun at his back and a man with a silver nose at his right. Just a few questions, the man with the silver nose says. Simple and easy.
All we need to know is the code for your vault.
Jim slips down to the thirty-fourth floor and eases inside an empty hallway. Soft carpet lines the floor under their feet, a beautiful change to the concrete from the stairwell. This floor reminds them of the thirtieth – all rich wood, gleaming metal, and glass. The offices of wealthy people.
The hallway Jim slips down is short, and leads into a room filled with gleaming tables and models of buildings that speaks again to wealth and extravagence. It’s a bizarre juxtaposition to the empty room still under construction, but at least it might mean there could be something here that will be useful.
A voice in the next room over stops them in their tracks. A cultured British voice, one that they don’t recognize. He’s hard to hear, voice just a smidge too quiet. He’s saying something about a code, maybe. But that doesn’t make any sense.
They should leave, but they’re stupid, and desperate to know what’s happening. Jim slides underneath one of the tables with a large model on it, crawls forward on their belly with their gun held out. When they peer around the end, they can just make out someone – Alfeo de la Vaca, they think – sitting at the end of a long conference table. There’s a man sitting beside him – no machine gun, a computer in front of him – and another sitting on the table itself, machine gun held easily in his hands. Whoever is speaking is just out of view, only his hands visible on the long wooden table.
The glass doors have a large piece of gleaming wood that cuts them in half. It’s artful, and rich, and completely fucking blocks Jim’s line of sight. They could shoot the man with a machine gun, but not in the head, and there’s no guarantee they would hit him. And even if they did, there’s no way he’s the only man in there with a gun.
Alfeo speaks – they catch the word code again, and locks, and it still doesn’t make any sense. But then the British man picks up a gun, levels it at his head.
“One.”
Jim’s heart beats faster. They know a count down when they hear one. They try inching forward, but any more and they’re going to be seen, and their gun isn’t a match for machine guns –
“Two.”
Alfeo stays silent.
“Three –“
“I don’t know the code,” Alfeo spits out, leaning forward in his seat almost aggressively. “And it wouldn’t help if I did. It’s not enough to open it alone.” He bares his teeth. “I told you. You’re just going to have to kill me.”
There’s not even a moment’s hesitation. Just that nasally, cultured drawl, “Alright.”
The gunshot is loud, echoing through the space. Blood splatters the beautiful glass doors.
Jim freezes, staring at the blood. Alfeo is dead. Just like that. He wasn’t even armed, and they just shot him –
“I suppose we’ll have to do this the hard way,” the man in charge sighs, sounding put out and irritated. “Tony, get that out of here. Carl, go check over Henry’s work –“
The men in the room stand, moving towards the door. Jim jerks back, scrambling around the side of the table and bolting back the way they came, pulse pounding in their throat. If they get seen –
Footsteps run towards them. There’s an office with a frosted glass door on the other side of the room, and Jim slips inside and eases it closed just before they hear the bloody glass doors slam open. Their luck, shitty as it is, holds out, and there’s a fucking lock on the door. Jim bolts it, then backs up until they can crouch around a corner, gun held at the ready, finger on the trigger.
More footsteps. Another door opens. Then someone tries their office door, rattling it against the lock. Jim tenses, holds their breath. Sweat breaks out on their forehead.
The door goes quiet. Footsteps head away. There’s quiet, indistinct voices in the other room, and then more doors opening and closing. A soft ding announces the arrival of an elevator.
Jim closes their eyes, exhales slow and quiet. Tries to calm their racing heart.
“Archie, tell me you heard the gunshots,” they whisper to themself, even though it’s completely fucking unlikely. They’re thirty stories up. If she didn’t hear the machine gun fire before, there’s no way she heard this one. Hell, the people on the floor below probably didn’t even hear.
But they can’t help but hope, because there’s no one else. “Please, call the fucking cops.”
They haven’t prayed in years. And they don’t now, even though the plea to Archie almost feels like one.
They wait just long enough to hear the ding of an elevator, the whoosh of closing doors – and then they bolt back for the stairwell, pointedly not looking at the blood.
Thirty three stories below, in a concrete underground garage, music booms from a little grey car. Archie sings along with it, half-way through her second can of beer. It’s her first night off in a while. Jim’s taking their time, and that’s fine. She has no problem waiting.
Far above, two men walk into a shining vault room. There are seven locks to open the vault. A timeline is set; two and half, three hours. They’ll be easy, one man says. All but the last one. It has an electro-magnetic seal, and cannot be cut by local means.
No matter, the man with the silver nose responds. Don’t you know that Christmas is the time of miracles?
And even further up, close to the roof – men unwind cables, press plastic explosives into place. Just another day on the job.
Jim runs to the only floor they know for a fact hasn’t had men with goddamn guns on it. The 32nd floor, full of construction and cold concrete that grates on their bare feet.
“Why the fuck didn’t you stop them?” they snarl at themself, pacing back and forth to expel some of the wound up energy. It’s nervous energy, their heart still racing, hand sweating on the handle of their gun. Turn, pace the other way, answering their own question. “Because then you’d be dead too, pendejo!”
They can’t stop seeing the blood from Alfeo’s head splattered across the pretty glass door. They’ve been expecting violence since they heard the first gunshot, but this feels far more brutal than they anticipated. Alfeo was unarmed, and unsuspecting, and there was no honour in it. Even though they gave up revenge a long time ago, Jim still wanted him dead, there’s no question of that. But this feels like a hollow victory.
And even worse – all they can think about is Oluwande. He’s next in command, from what little Jim understands of the company structure. What if they turn to him next? He isn’t like Jim. He can’t protect himself. He doesn’t have weapons, or training, and if they drag him into a room, ask him questions he can’t or won’t answer – he’ll die, just like Alfeo.
The thought of it terrifies them. This whole situation terrifies them. It’s so much bigger, so much worse, than most of their jobs. And yeah, they’re good in a fight. Really fucking good. But they’re only six months back in the game, and they’ve never faced this many men all on their own.
Terrorist is a word that’s thrown around too damn often. It’s used to justify state violence, and Jim hates the hype that it brings.
But they can’t think of a better term to use. If they could call the cops, terrorist would evoke the sort of immediate response they need. They need someone here, and now, someone who can help. There are hostages two floors below – at least thirty, from their slow meander through the party. Someone needs to negotiate for their release.
That can’t happen if no one knows. And it can’t happen if they’re going to shoot unarmed civilians who did nothing wrong.
Jim paces through the room, trying to force their spinning thoughts to do more than panic. They have to call for help. The fucking phones don’t work. They don’t have a radio, and there’s no way to get out, because if the terrorists are as good as they seem, they’ll have people covering all entrances and exits.
Their eyes scan the room, looking for anything – and land on a fire alarm.
Now there’s an idea.
Two floors below, the man with the silver nose gets a call. Someone pulled the fire alarm. Fire trucks are probably already on their way.
Easy enough to fix, he says. Call 911, give them the guard’s name and the building code and cancel the alarm, then disable the entire system.
The man with the silver nose pauses as he scans the crowd of scared hostages. None of them have moved.
His voice calls over the radio once more. What floor was the alarm on?
It only takes two minutes for Jim to hear sirens. They must be right down from a station. The glass walls of the tower mean they have a front row seat as they watch a line of fire trucks drive down the dark boulevard, cars parting to let them pass. They can’t hear them, but they can imagine the sirens, red lights flashing off the dark streets.
“That’s it, come on,” they whisper, bouncing on their toes with nervous elation, “come on, you’re so fucking close, get your asses up here –“
They’ve never been so fucking excited to see fire trucks in their entire goddamn life. Finally, someone else knows something is wrong here, someone else can come and fucking help.
But then – the sirens stop, lights going dark.
“What the fuck -“
One by one, the trucks slow, pulling u-turns to drive back the other way.
Any composure they had disappears. Jim slams on the glass window with the palm of their hand, furious and desperate. “No, you motherfuckers, no!! Don’t fucking turn around, don’t fucking leave us here, lo juro por Dios –“
The elevator dings. Jim’s attention snaps to it, fear flooding through them. The light overhead is green, doors ready to open.
Someone is here.
They barely have two seconds to hide. Jim bolts to the side, ducking behind a pile of building supplies and gripping their gun in both hands. Just in time, because they hear the compressed whoosh of elevator doors sliding open, followed by the neat click of boots on the concrete running down the hall.
“I know you’re here,” a British voice calls as the footsteps enter the room. Not quite as cultured as the main asshole, but not as soft as Oluwande’s lovely accent, either. “Please come out. I promise that I won’t hurt you.”
If they weren’t so fucking pissed off and afraid Jim would laugh. They can see the stretch of his shadow across the ground, see the silhouette of his machine gun.
Lights flick on overhead. All it does is make his shadow longer, easier to see around the edge of their hiding place.
There’s a sharp sound, his shadow whirling around, followed by the staccato burst of machine gun fire. Jim uses the movement to burst into action, running on silent feet around the corner, weaving between metal support beams. There’s more building supplies, more empty space.
“I will find you,” the gunman says, still in the other half of the room, and the thin veneer of kindness is gone, “did you really think the little stunt with the firetrucks would work?” He scoffs. “No one is coming to help you.”
Jim needs him to follow them. But they need to hide while he comes looking, need to get behind him and get their gun against his head.
There’s a table saw standing near their hiding spot. If they can get over, turn it on, and then run behind him during the noise –
“So you may as well come out, so you can join the others.”
Jim creeps out, flicks on the table saw and runs. They don’t hear the gunman move over to the noise, but they do hear the sharp burst of more gunfire. They duck behind bare drywall, watch around the corner as he strides towards the table saw, reaches out and flicks it off –
Bare feet makes them quiet as fuck. Before he can start to turn around, Jim’s behind him, pressing the barrel of their gun to his jaw from behind. “Don’t move, pendejo.”
The gunman freezes. He’s tall, broad, with pale blond hair and wire framed glasses. He wears jeans and a grey sweater, and would look like any other man walking the street if it weren’t for the black machine gun cradled in his hands.
“Or what?” he drawls. “You’ll shoot?”
Later they’ll wonder why they hesitated. He wouldn’t be the first man they’ve murdered. But they don’t want to be that anymore, don’t want to kill men when there could be another option. It’s why they started doing bodyguard details in the first place. They want to use their skills to protect. They don’t want to just kill without question.
There’s a small part of them, this whole time, that has wanted Oluwande to be proud of them. That wants him to know that they’re trying, so damn hard. So that maybe, one day, if they explain where they went, he won’t hate them.
Dios, they hope they get that day.
“Put your fucking gun down and we won’t have to find out,” Jim hisses. “Now, asshole.”
He doesn’t put the gun down. “And you won’t hurt me if I do?”
“Yeah?” They’re so angry, and they dig the gun a little harder into his jaw, trying to keep their body out of reach as best they can. “Why not?”
“I’m assuming you’re police, or a security guard. There are rules for your kind.”
Jim almost laughs. They can’t help but lean in, drop their voice to a whisper. “Then it’s a damn good thing I’m neither.”
They cuff him with their gun, hard as they can. But as soon as it leaves his jaw the man is already moving, throwing his body back into them, knocking their gun aside. He has weight and height and when he keeps going, trying to back them into a wall, all Jim can do is toss an arm around his throat, try and hang on. His machine gun fires, spraying bullets into the nearby wall, pinging off metal, and they’ll be fucking lucky if neither of them gets shot in the ricochet.
Debris throws the gunman off balance, and he stumbles as he runs, both of them nearly going down. Jim slams their fist into his hand, and he drops the machine gun with a cry, tries to grab at them over his head. But they manage to hold on, wrapping both legs around his waist like a fucked up piggy-back, tightening their grip on his throat. If they can choke him out –
He turns, stumbles backwards, slamming through thin metal beams leaning against the wall. Jim holds on, snarling out a curse, and then he’s running backwards, grabbing their arms around his throat to keep them in place. Their back slams into drywall, all the breath exploding out of them as it crumples under the force. He keeps moving, slamming them again, trying to get them off.
It hurts. It hurts a fucking lot. But if they let go, then they’ll die. So Jim does not let go.
The man is gurgling now, clawing at their bare arms and shoulders. Jim clamps their arms tighter around his throat, ignoring the pain in their back, their ribs. He’s getting desperate, and so are they. He tries to toss them over his shoulder, but they grip his waist tighter with their legs. Then he’s moving, stumbling backwards again, running them through another line of light metal supports, something slicing at their arms and back as they go.
They’re not expecting it when their back hits a fucking hard wooden door. Pain blooms, the door breaking underneath them as he falls, weight crashing on top of them. But it’s even worse, and there are stairs, and they’re both tumbling down them, Jim still clinging to his back, hard metal and concrete biting into them as they go end over end –
They land with a sharp crunch and a gurgled scream. For a moment Jim is sure they’ve broken something, fear and panic washing through them. But when they shove away from the man, they’re – they’re fine.
But the man who was trying to kill them is not. He’s lying still, body slumped, head twisted at an odd angle. Jim scrambles away, but he keeps lying there, doesn’t even react.
When they reach out and turn his head towards them, his eyes are already glassy. His head lolls.
He’s dead.
Relief floods through them. Jim collapses back against the stairs, and tries to breathe.
Two floors below, the first door of seven slides open. A man laughs in victory, the vault one step closer to being theirs.
When they’ve caught their breath, Jim takes stock. They aren’t hurt badly. There’s a few cuts on their arms, and scraped knuckles on one hand that are bleeding freely. Their back and ribs ache, both from being slammed into the wall, and from the fall down the stairs. There’s one particularly bad line across the side of their ribs from the hard edge of a stair that they’re sure is already bruising. But all told, they’re alright. It could’ve been much, much worse.
Still, they’re smeared with blood, because they don’t have any way to stop it. A quick search of the floor reveals a distinct lack of first aid kits, which makes them growl under their breath.
“Stupid fucking rich people and their stupid fucking unsafe towers,” they mutter under their breath as they rifle through the dead man’s pockets and satchel, looking for anything useful. “You’d best have something that can help me on you, cabrón.”
He doesn’t have much. A lighter, a pack of cigarettes, ammunition, and the machine gun. A quick pat-down reveals a wallet, with a fancy fake ID, and a black watch that screams military. Even his sweater is plain, tags cut off the back. Jim almost steals it, because all they’re wearing is jeans and a tank top. They’d stripped right down to wash up, and then the gunmen had arrived, and they’d been left so unprepared it’s ridiculous.
In the end they leave the sweater. They’re already sweating through their tanktop just from all the running up and down stairs, and he’s big enough that trying to drag it off his unwieldy body will be a pain in the ass. And if his sweater is far too big for them, it’ll just give anyone they fight more opportunity to grab them.
They’re just damn glad, not for the first time, for the top surgery they had more than half a decade ago. Doing all this in a binder would’ve made them want to kill someone even more.
Out of all of it, though, the most important thing Jim finds is a fucking radio. It’s a little hand-held walky talkie, but really fucking good. Military grade, maybe, they’re not sure. It’s definitely good enough to radio for help, if they can find the right frequency.
Jim shakes a cigarette out of the pack – odd, it’s not an American brand – British maybe? – and lights it, staring at the man still lying crumpled in the stairwell.
“Can’t leave you here,” they mutter, taking a long drag, trying to calm their nerves. “And I don’t have a shit ton of time.”
They don’t want to be tripping over him every time they come up and down. And they don’t want to hide him, because sooner or later someone will come looking.
A plan slowly forms. They need more information, and the best way to get people to talk is to make them angry, unable to hold back anymore. They also need to be able to listen, and there aren’t a lot of places where they can eavesdrop from.
It’s not the safest plan, but it will be a fun one.
Besides. They’ve always been a bit of an asshole. They want the motherfuckers downstairs to be scared.
Jim grinds out their cigarette and tosses the butt down the middle of the staircase so no one finds it later. “Right. Let’s do this.”
He’s heavy. And sure, Jim has been lifting weights with Archie, but they sure as shit aren’t used to hauling around 200lb assholes. Somehow they get him back up the flight of stairs and down the hall to the elevator. They find a chair, and bring that along, too. Leave the satchel, but take the machine gun, sticking the extra clip he had on him in their pocket. Grab a long stick they find among the piles of construction materials, and they’re all set.
They can go into the elevator, start it, stop it halfway between floors, wiggle out the doors again, and use the stick to turn off the emergency switch. They’re not afraid of heights. They don’t mind riding on top of the elevator down a few stories, and it might give them a chance to listen in and find out something about these fucking assholes who took the building over.
Just before they start, Jim stares at his feet. It’s a stupid attempt – he’s so much fucking bigger than they are – but they can’t help but drag off his boots, try and put them on. A sweater they can do without. Shoes, not so much.
But when they pull them on, there’s a solid two inches of space at their toes.
“You just had to be a fucking giant,” Jim grumbles at the dead man as they toe off the boots. Even if they can walk in them, they’ll be a tripping hazard at best. Stealth is the most important thing, right now, and clomping around in too big boots is out of the fucking question.
Bare feet still freezing on the concrete, Jim drags the chair, and then the man, into the elevator. Looks around, seeing if there’s anything they’re missing –
Their eyes land on a pile of holiday decorations that someone must have dragged up here and forgotten. Slowly, a smile creeps onto their face.
“I must be honest, I was expecting more from the Republic Corporation,” the sleek British man with the silver nose is saying, lip curled as he gazes out over the crowd. “I wanted to keep this professional, neat and tidy. Unfortunately, Alfeo de la Vaca did not feel so inclined, so he will not be joining us for the rest of his life.”
Oluwande feels sick. When they’d dragged Alfeo away he’d tried to reassure Lucius that it was nothing, that he would be fine. Fuck, how wrong he’d been.
He’s sitting on a rock beside one of his staff. He’s been making the rounds, subtly slipping between groups, checking on people in hushed voices, careful not to call the attention of the armed men. Everyone is scared. Half of them are still drunk, which makes everything worse. Oluwande’s just glad he hadn’t touched the champagne yet when everything went down.
“This can go one of two ways,” the man continues. “You can walk out of here when we’re done, or be carried. The choice is up to you. But make no mistake, we are in charge –“
The elevator dings, then slides open. As if on cue, a woman screams. Oluwande startles, staring at her, then in the direction she’s looking –
Oh, fuck.
There’s a dead body in the elevator. One of the gunmen, thank fuck, not one of Jackie’s staff. Oluwande recognizes him, he was in here just ten, fifteen minutes ago, machine gun in hand as he talked to the sleek man up front. Now he’s sitting on a chair, head lolling to the side, blood smeared on his pallid face.
A Santa hat is sitting on the man's head, nearly the same colour as the blood on his face. Oluwande stares at it, caught by the absurdity. Then armed men rush to the elevator, and he loses sight. The silver-nosed man goes too, shouting at another of his group to move the crowd away.
Oluwande is still close enough to hear as the crowd gets ushered back.
“Now I have a machine gun, ho, ho, ho,” the man with the silver nose says, voice soft and irritated as fuck. “What the devil is this?”
Hope comes flooding back in, near dizzying in its intensity. There’s only one person it can be. Only one person who’s enough of an asshole to do something like this when they’re trapped in this fucking hell-hole.
Jim is still alive.