Thread: Caught Between [LeatrixSage x Mr Quixotic]

Clear. Clear. Downstairs clear. Holding the elevator Roger. On our way. Cole Whittaker released the microphone button and glanced at the bespectacled figure pacing the room. The thin, nervous middle-aged man looked exactly like what he was. An accountant, named Elliot Adler. An expression of contempt passed across Whittaker's rugged features when Elliot's head jerked up as he addressed him, and he could see the fear in the man's eyes, like a deer in the headlights. Time to hold up your end of the deal, unless you'd prefer to chance it out there? Cole nodded at the drawn blinds, alluding to the city outside. Not that man any longer possessed the choice, it was either testifying before the Grand Jury today, and at the subsequent trial, or spend the new few years avoiding bending over in the shower at Otisville Federal. Elliot had rolled in two seconds flat without so much as putting a fight or even requesting a lawyer. The second the cops had knocked on his door with a search warrant, he'd spilled everything he knew. Which, thankfully, was enough to send his employer, Rafael Esposito, and the man's suppliers down for at least a nickel. It'd also take a boatload of heroin off the streets and with so much at stake the Federal Government had stumped up an offer of Witness protection for Alder in exchange for his testimony. I said, fucking move. The man had remained motionless, contemplating the consequences of his decisions, and Whittaker was not in the mood to be stuffed around. Adler made him nauseous, with the cowardly asshole's willingness to rat out his friends in order to save his own skin almost as deplorable to Cole as the crimes his superiors had committed. And he'd spent the night mollycoddling him. Sorry. Adler threw up his hands, breathed deeply to compose himself and nodded. I'm ready. 'Then let's go. Cole reached under the tail of his shirt, removed the Glock .45 from its holster, checked the safety and indicated for the man to walk on ahead. After nervously shuffling to the door, Adler paused and waited for Cole to open it, where the duo were greeted by Whittaker's partner, Rod Murphy, gun drawn and who'd secured the hallway. The Agency had commandeered the entire floor. Cole nodded at him and indicated to Adler. Once we're free of this prick, I owe you a beer. Elliot didn't object to the insult. 'Sorry, can't, the wife's expecting me home to mow the lawn and she wears the pants. Both laughed, and Cole shook his head. The other man's six feet, four inch frame and two-hundred and fifty pounds of muscle towered over Cole's six foot one, one-eighty athletic build and his wife was half Cole's size, but both knew the statement to be true. The duo encountered no problems as they bundled Levine into the service elevator and rode down to the basement. An SUV flanked by two agents awaited, rear passenger door open. Enjoy the rest of your life. Whittaker placed his hand on the man's head, forced his knees to bend and half manoeuvred, half-shoved Adler into the back seat. After the other two entered either side and slammed the doors shut, he slapped his hand on the hood and watched the vehicle take off. A nondescript undercover vehicle fell in line behind the SUV when it exited onto the road. Another task complete in the exciting life of a US Marshal. If only the general public were aware of the boredom that accompanied the profession. Unlike what was portrayed on television and in film it wasn't a thrill-a-minute adrenaline rush comprised of never-ending gunfights, high-speed pursuits and rappelling down the sides of skyscrapers. Instead, it consisted of reams of paperwork and days and nights of ass-numbing surveillance or babysitting assholes like Elliot Adler. The higher up in the bureaucracy you got, the greater administrative duties and red-tape you encountered. Fortunately, Cole hadn't made it that far that his days weren't still spent mostly in the field and despite the drawbacks, he loved the work. Both his grandfather and father had been cops in New York and it was in his blood. To Cole Whittaker, Law enforcement wasn't a career, it was a calling. You drive. His shift now over, he addressed his partner and fumbled for the keys in his pocket. Simultaneously, his cell vibrated. The keys caught at the hem of his trouser pocket, before he managed to urge them all the way out and toss them to Rod, then reach back in for his phone. Be with you in a minute. He held up a hand. Rod nodded and headed on to their parked vehicle. Cole recognised the voice before she'd even told her name, Valentina Ricci, and the breath caught in his throat and he opened his mouth to reply. However, before the words came out, she continued and the next name she mentioned had every fibre of his being on high alert. Victor Curic Realising he'd stopped right in the middle of the car park, in danger of being run over by any vehicle proceeding down the ramp, Cole moved aside and gathered his thoughts. Had he heard her correctly? Ill give you Viktor Curic on a Silver platter. Why, and could she do it? Valentina possessed the contacts, of that he knew for sure. Again, why? All you have to do is keep me alive. When he spoke, Cole displayed no hint of his inner excitement at the possibility that, after all these years, he might finally be provided the opportunity to take down Curic. Valentina, a pleasure to hear from you, it has been a while and whilst I appreciate the call, who says that I still require your help. Or, for that matter, that I'd be interested in keeping you alive. Cole smiled down the phone, then swiveled away from the prying eyes of Rod as his tone turned more serious. However, I'm curious to know what you've done to piss off Curic and how bad of a jam you're in, which I'd rather not discuss over an open line. When and where shall we meet?