( he traces the trail to bogotá. cocaine coming in stateside through a fucking tourism racket of all things, catering to rich white americans with private yachts and too much money to burn. it's an all-over problem.
he thinks at first maybe the guy's just a foreigner that runs his mouth and gets into his fair share of bar fights. but frank catches him passing off a brown package to a dark-haired woman that's roughly the size of a key. that's what really gets his attention, though not anywhere half as much as the fact a shoreline guy he recognizes from the s-a-fucking-s back in afghanistan going into a dark alley again and this guy — this fucking guy coming out the other side all furtive and guilty and none the worse for wear. frank watches the whole thing go down through a scope and he realizes if somebody's taking out hired muscle without breaking a sweat, that's the guy he wants to talk to.
well.
'talk'.
like he bothers with any of that any more.
he tails him back to the shitty hotel he's got in the south side of the city. drug dive where you're lucky if all you wake up with's a columbian necktie. settles in at the adjacent bar. watching. always watching. the guy has a brief, animated talk with an older guy in a hawaiian shirt that pretty much has bay of pigs stamped all over him. he catches something about some place called tierradentro and someone (something?) called a mohán. frank watches them in the fractal reflection of a glass of beer, murky and yellow like the pisswater swill they serve here.
he waits until the old guy peels off, and when the younger one gets up frank gives him a head start. why not, right? then he pays out his tab and follows after him. the guy wasn't drinking, so he'll be hard to take off-guard, but frank, well. he's got his ways.
the mark's a sturdy guy. solid muscle, bitch to move. one-ninety if he's a fucking ounce. boxer's fractures, healed, redone. healed again. bruised knuckles. but nobody likes the butt of a gun to the back of the head.
the how of it doesn't really matter. a few hours later and frank's got the guy in a warehouse. he doesn't have a lot of his usual hit, but he's got a claw hammer and a knife and his own bloodied fists and that's been good enough for plenty. he pulls a chair up in front of the guy and starts to sharpen his m9. the slow, torturous scrape against the whetstone is like nails on a chalkboard. )
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
@nonscriptum
Date: 2020-02-17 02:24 am (UTC)he thinks at first maybe the guy's just a foreigner that runs his mouth and gets into his fair share of bar fights. but frank catches him passing off a brown package to a dark-haired woman that's roughly the size of a key. that's what really gets his attention, though not anywhere half as much as the fact a shoreline guy he recognizes from the s-a-fucking-s back in afghanistan going into a dark alley again and this guy — this fucking guy coming out the other side all furtive and guilty and none the worse for wear. frank watches the whole thing go down through a scope and he realizes if somebody's taking out hired muscle without breaking a sweat, that's the guy he wants to talk to.
well.
'talk'.
like he bothers with any of that any more.
he tails him back to the shitty hotel he's got in the south side of the city. drug dive where you're lucky if all you wake up with's a columbian necktie. settles in at the adjacent bar. watching. always watching. the guy has a brief, animated talk with an older guy in a hawaiian shirt that pretty much has bay of pigs stamped all over him. he catches something about some place called tierradentro and someone (something?) called a mohán. frank watches them in the fractal reflection of a glass of beer, murky and yellow like the pisswater swill they serve here.
he waits until the old guy peels off, and when the younger one gets up frank gives him a head start. why not, right? then he pays out his tab and follows after him. the guy wasn't drinking, so he'll be hard to take off-guard, but frank, well. he's got his ways.
the mark's a sturdy guy. solid muscle, bitch to move. one-ninety if he's a fucking ounce. boxer's fractures, healed, redone. healed again. bruised knuckles. but nobody likes the butt of a gun to the back of the head.
the how of it doesn't really matter. a few hours later and frank's got the guy in a warehouse. he doesn't have a lot of his usual hit, but he's got a claw hammer and a knife and his own bloodied fists and that's been good enough for plenty. he pulls a chair up in front of the guy and starts to sharpen his m9. the slow, torturous scrape against the whetstone is like nails on a chalkboard. )