Thread: Reign of Fire (Hellhound x Autore)

It had taken Mort over an hour of criss-crossing and retracing his steps to lose the two goons who had followed him from the street. He hustled down the last stretch of alley and found his car just as he'd left it. Thank God, he whispered into the cold evening air. He opened the driver side door and threw his camera bag across to the passenger seat before climbing in and cranking the motor over. He pulled onto the street and drove as calmly and casually in the direction of downtown. Once he was a few blocks from where he'd lost his pursuers, he called Detective Barrett. Whaddaya got? Barrett said as he answered the phone. Probably just what you expect, Mort said. Well, Mort, said the detective. You tell me what you think I expect, and I'll tell you if you're right. Deep shit is what I got, Barrett, Mort said, turning onto a sparkling boulevard. Like up to my knees deep shit. This ain't our first date, Barrett said, impatiently. You don't gotta beat around the bush all night. I got the King and the Governor, both showing up at a little place uptown, plus their spouses. I got private security, and some slimy asshole I never seen before. And someone else, I guess a girlfriend or something. Good work, Mort, Barrett said. Send me what you got. No way, pal, Mort said quickly. I don't know what you're getting me into, but I don't what my name attached to any official report about how this evidence was gathered. I'm going to keep these as insurance for a while. Until I figure out what's happening. Listen, you fuck, Barrett growled over the phone. We had a deal. I get pictures, you get two grand. What kind of fucking professional are you? The kind that don't like being played, Mort said. Oh, and fuck your two grand. Mort pulled into the garage behind his pub and killed the motor. He sat there a moment, thinking in silence. Hopefully, those two bruisers from the alley hadn't recognized him. If so, he could expect company. Mort shrugged and grabbed his camera bag. He shut the car in the garage and walked around to the front of the bar, pushing through the door with his head down, deep in thought. He nearly ran into a woman who was just inside the door. Oh, pardon me, ma'am, he said, not looking up as he chewed his tongue. He went over to the bar and grabbed a bottle from the shelf. He gestured to Lodea that he was taking the bottle and was hanging the car keys back on the ring by the cash register. Lodea eyed the bottle suspiciously. That kind of night, huh? She said. Mort knew she didn't like it when he drank too much. He gave the girl a shameful shrug and turned, walking up the stairs to his office. He thought of sitting at his desk, but he was feeling paranoid. What if a shifter hit man was camped out, watching his window? What if one of the Governor's assassins was on a rooftop across the street with a rifle aimed at the office? Mort decided to roll his chair to the opposite side of the room, where a window looked down onto the main room of the bar. He flipped open the shades and sat down, gazing into the patrons who were coming in for the night. He poured himself a whiskey and sighed, studying the crowd absently. The liquid caught in his throat as he saw the woman who he'd walked past on the way in. He recognized her cream sweater, her tan pants, and the body which filled them. Fuck me, he said, coughing and staring through the window, assuring himself that it was her. He waited for her to turn, and he saw her eyes. It was definitely her. Those were the eyes he saw through the window earlier. What the hell was she doing here? Mort stood and looked at himself in the mirror over his fireplace. His black hair was messy, but that was usual and people seemed to think it suited him. He needed a shave, too. He straightened his dress shirt in his pants and stepped back to look at himself, then felt foolish. Ah, what the hell, he said and drained his drink as he left the room and jogged back downstairs.