Thread: Blank Slate (Dane Stalling & Malicious Lullaby)

Pablo sat in his one bedroom apartment and ignored the television. He had seen his face on the screen earlier, standing awkwardly behind the PR schmuck with the microphone and it pissed him off. Somebody out there was making a database of FBI faces, and he didn't want a record with his face attached. He'd had the shades on, but he could see the pink year-old scar just above his close cropped hairline clearly. A sure marker for anyone who was paying attention. Damn. He'd have to grow his hair out longer. The bullet had only grazed Pablo's head last winter, and he remembered seeing Danny Davitt's pale face turn to Sueco. The scene replayed itself cruelly in slow motion in his mind- the big .357 in Danny's hand coming up faster than his partner could draw, the perfect tongue of flame blooming around the muzzle, Sueco's knee hitting the pavement next to Pablo's bleeding head. The bullet had entered the front of Sueco's throat in a crisp hole and taken out the back of his head. By the time his partner's body had fallen on top of him, Danny's footsteps were pounding away, his nervous giggle echoing off the walls of the buildings. The case had been nibbling at him for months. Lately, though, it seemed to be devouring him in huge chunks. Somebody was protecting Danny. They always knew what the FBI was going to do next. He finished his first glass of whisky for the night and turned the cylinder on his revolver. Lucky bullets, he thought, get their own little merry-go-round. He knew where each one would end up. Tomorrow, unless everything went all to hell, they would pancake themselves against the back wall of the shooting range, one by one. He poured himself a second shot, rattled two fresh ice cubes into the glass, and set it next to his gun on the table. His phone rang. Herrera, he said. Hey, Pablo, it's Scott. The intern's voice grated. Pablo frowned. Yeah. What's up? It's a long shot, but Buddy Wilson is having a shindig tonight. It's the sort of thing your girl gets into sometimes. Like I said, it's a long shot, but you said to tell you if there was any possibility she'd show up. Wilson's in one of the target groups that hasn't been hacked yet. When does it start? About an hour ago. Pablo set the phone on the table without hanging up and rubbed his eyes. He brought the phone back up to his head. You couldn't have told me earlier? Don't answer that. Who else have you told? Well, you, obviously, and I emailed the chief just now because he doesn't like calls while he's, uh, you know. With his wife. You little shit ! Herrera pounded the table. How many times had he said it? She's a hacker, genius. She owns our email. Shit- she owns the whole damn LAN. Why do you think we've all been writing notes to each other on fucking post-its for the last two weeks? She watches you when you surf to that bimbos in bikinis site. Until we get her, no electronic communications about her or her brother. Oh- sorry. Shit . I bet she's getting a ping about it right now. I'm going to run down there and see if anyone rabbits. Pablo was already on his way to his car, a jacket half on. He was yelling again. Turn off your computer, turn off your phone. You find a pencil and some paper. And Scott? If you have to look at naked girls, you can fucking draw them on your fucking paper with your fucking pencil !