7 - The Plan

"You're not the first to get yourself into this mess, Ferguson." The wolf growled at me, whether with disgust or pity. "Thing is, you're just a bit feistier than most of the others."

Others. Every single instance of that word made my blood boil. How many others were down here, anyways? This secret of an operation, yet as open as it was, more than me were bound to come upon it.

"For the record, we ain't trying to kill you."

I stopped walking, which prompted him to pause and look back at me. "Are you seriously trying to sell me on that, mutt?"

The wolf growled at the word, but kept his composure. "First of all, it's Pavel. Second, I ain't selling you on nothing, boy." He walked up to me, staring me down from a foot higher. "We don't do murder... unless it's mandated by the Council." He drew his claws and bared them in front of my face. "These don't come out unless Mickey or Charlotte give me the say-so, got that?"

I narrowed my eyes, matching his stare. "And when's that, Pavel?" His name felt weird when I said it, like it didn't belong to him.

A second of silence, and he spoke. "When Mickey or Charlotte have decided that you're no longer of any real worth - to the surface or otherwise, boy." He turned, shoving his claws into the pockets of his suit. "Now, come on. Stafferson don't like people being late."

I hesitated for a second, then continued walking.

Several minutes of walking passed. We crossed through a number of hallways, trying to stay out of sight of the other patrons of the bar. Here and there, Pavel would pause, tell me to hide, and watch as people moved from restroom to backroom to parlor to pantry - none of which managed to catch a slight glimpse of me; or, if they did, their eyes (or ears, or antennae, or otherwise) did not betray them. Once they left - usually after being frightened by Pavel - he checked, then gave the command to move. This happened several times before we arrived at a hallway with a door at the end.

Pavel turned to me. "This is Stafferson's private room."

I raised my eyebrows. "'Private room'?"

Pavel grinned, showcasing his row of sharpened canines. "No meeting in the public office. Mickelson's order. Too many witnesses, he says."

My blood chilled. Witnesses. So, the order was given, then. "I assume, then, Melissa is in there as well?"

Pavel shrugged. "I got the order to take you down here, sight unseen. No questions, no details - they told me, 'get him down there, then go.' Anything else, Stafferson will tell you herself, boy." And with that, he sauntered off, leaving me in the dim hallway, staring at the oak door.

A minute of contemplation passed. I was alone; I could bolt out of here, make it back home. Fuck the patrons and fuck Mickelson; I'd make it before they'd catch me.

I looked back at the hallway I came from. Aside from the hallway lights and the sounds of the nearby parlor, it was dead silent and pitch black. Pavel had moved fast enough to get back to his other duties, whatever they were. As far as I could see and hear, I was alone. For a minute, I squinted at the dark, almost making out what could be mistaken for a pair of eyes; nothing, however, came to me or emerged from the shadows, so I turned back to the door.

On the one hand, I could've left immediately; however, the more I thought of it, the more unlikely it seemed. Mickelson had pretty much saw to it that I wouldn't be leaving easily - if he allowed Pavel to leave as soon as I got to the hallway, he might've also made sure to leave an extra guard in the cellar to catch me.

That, and he's been keeping data on me; he might know where I live, exactly. Which isn't the best thing for someone who has it out for your family to know about.

With a deep breath and heavy feet, I walked over and pulled open the door.

The room was larger than I expected for her. It seemed almost a carbon copy of Mickelson's office, just with the desk arranged against the wall and the cabinets built inside it, allowing for more movement and more guests. Which, considering this was supposed to be her 'private room', doesn't exactly make a lot of sense, but then again, I'm standing here, deep below the earth, in a secret bar, staffed and maintained and visited by fairytale creatures, all of them probably wishing to put a bullet in my head - sense has flown out of a window and was probably shot by a skeet shooter at this point

Standing in the center of the room was Melissa and Leigh, both heads turned towards the new arrival. Melissa was holding a thin folder - just handed to her by Leigh, I assume - and was in the middle of leafing through it.

Leigh looked at me, eyes tired, then turned back to Melissa. "Right. You have your orders. Mr. Mickelson wants it done quick and clean; otherwise, no payment on this one." She turned around and walked behind the desk, crouching and fumbling through the drawers.

I walked next to Melissa, who handed me the folder. Forms, detailing the information of one "A. Buchanan." Forty-six, divorced, no kids, owner of a small motel just outside Yuma. Medical info, business records, travel - unlike the previous reports, this one was in-depth, almost a clinical study. They wanted to keep full account of this guy, whatever his importance. I kind of feel bad for him, whoever he is.

Melissa's eyebrows were raised, giving the thought that she was feeling the same way. A rustling and thud from the desk brought us out of our invisible conversation and turned our heads toward Leigh.

She had placed two handguns on the desk; Smith and Wesson, unloaded and polished to a bright silver hue. Ammunition boxes were placed nearby; .40 S&W, standard, two-hundred rounds worth. A hand popped out from behind the desk, as Leigh pushed herself up. She hefted up a shotgun, black, pump-action from the bar, and placed it on the desk. From her pocket, she produced a box of shells.

A minute of silence before Melissa finally decided to speak, pointing at the firearms. "Are those for...?"

Leigh nodded, then sat down, taking a clipboard from the desk. "Smith and Wesson Model 4006, cleaned, stock, two with one-hundred allowed." She pointed her pencil at the guns. "Remington Model 870, cleaned, stock, one with fifteen allowed."

Melissa swallowed hard. "A-are we gonna... need these?"

Leigh sighed hard. "Mr. Buchanan has proven in the past to be ridiculously uncooperative with our demands, despite our polite demeanor and... the benefits of working with us. Thus, it should be assumed he might resort to lethal force, should our agents show themselves on his premises again." She wrote something on the clipboard. "These weapons have been reprimanded from California Highway Patrol officers. We don't want any activities to result in exposure."

A switch flipped. "Wait, if these are government weapons, would firing them result in..."

"The American government has deigned to allow a few officers to take the fall, should any incidents arise." Leigh spoke, with such a coldness in her voice.

Melissa placed a hand over her mouth, muffling a gasp. "You mean, if he fights back and we're forced to... kill him..."

My forehead furrowed at the thought. "We have a patsy in the officers."

Leigh looks at me, stopping her writing. Her eyes bled a cold air, almost like she was trying to stare daggers through me. "A job needs doing, Mr. Ferguson. A bullet finds a victim. A corpse needs a killer. A newspaper needs headlines. And people need a word." She turned her head back to her clipboard. "In this case, you need a way to pay off your debts."

"My grandfather's."

"Your debt. You're the only one who's in a position to do so." A look of realization came over her, and she reached into her pocket to pull out a box. "Oh, you will also want to have these."

I hesitated, then walked over to the desk. Melissa followed behind, unsure of everything. I picked up the two pistols, handing one to Melissa, then pocketed the other one. I gripped the shotgun in my arm, testing the pump and opening the well. Nothing - it was clean for them moment. Slinging the weapon over my shoulder, I looked over at Melissa, who was aiming the pistol at the wall, unsure of how exactly to hold it or whether or not it would explode right there and then. After a minute, she assumed a stance, pointing the gun toward the ceiling, trying to look like the wingman gunner in an action movie.

I turned towards Leigh, and within a second, I withdrew the pistol from my coat and pointed it at her, point-blank and aiming at her forehead. She didn't flinch, merely staring up at me. Her eyes caught me - cold, unfeeling, uncaring. Whatever happened, it didn't matter at all to her. She opened her mouth.

"The gun's unloaded, you know."

I smiled and pressed the trigger. A click confirmed it. "Just testing." I replaced the pistol and looked at Melissa, who's face had gone slightly pale and who had widened her eyes. Turning back to Leigh, I spied the box on the desk. Picking it up, I studied it.

Specialty .40 S&W rounds, 'enhanced'. I opened it, revealing ordinary ammunition cartridges covered with a magenta band. I raised an eyebrow, picked a cartridge, and studied it in the light. An almost-faint, light shine glimmered around them, as if it was seeping into the air. Placing the cartridge away, and putting the box in my coat, I looked back at Leigh, who was smiling.

"Enhanced."

"With iron. The bullets are tempered silver coated in a thin iron shell, allowing for an anti-magic weapon that works cleanly."

Melissa walked up to the desk, nervous. "Are we really going to need cold iron for this, Ms. Stafferson?"

Leigh looks at her, her smile warming considerably. "Hopefully, Buchanan will decide to cooperate this time.  If not, at least you two should be equipped to deal with all threats that will be presented in the situation." She waved her shooing us away. "Now, away. Nathaniel will be waiting outside with the last thing you'll need."

And with that, we turned away and walked outside.