9 - The Offer

Yuma. Big name for this busy city. At night, you get the sense that no one wants you anywhere, despite the flashing billboards. The highway roads and connecting path just seem sparse in the bright moonlight. Taking a left, I turned out onto an almost invisible pathway just near the city limits, far from any of the real city centers. Straight away, a building appeared in the distance, although at this distance, the night was more prominent than the lights in the window.

Beside me in the passenger seat, Melissa slept quietly. She had passed out somewhere along the Arizona border, and for a while, the silence was kind of nice. Said border crossing lasted all of three minutes - apparently, whoever these people are had also gotten connections in the government as well, considering the lack of checking for any weapons in the backseat. The air had grown drier the farther we had gotten, and soon, the temperature approached winter mid-day levels. Which might be a problem - I wasn't sure if this car had A/C.

---

Getting nearer the building, I started slowing down and reducing the headlights. A driveway came up and I turned in. The building was two stories tall, simple doors lining each floor, and a multitude of windows around each side. Too open, so the man knew something would happen.

The sign gleamed in the night and nearly burnt my eyes from the shine of it. Jackal's Overnight Motel, with a simple Free Wi-Fi just underneath.

Parking, I looked over to Melissa, who had just started to wake up from the car jolting to a stop. She rubbed her eyes and looked around, disappointed. "We're here."

She pouted. "Half-expected to wake up with a bear in my hands."

"You have a teddy bear?"

She shook her head, then pulled out her phone. A hand went over to the folder that Leigh had given her, then she dialed numbers into the phone. A second passed, then she placed the phone on the armrest in speaker mode.

Leigh's voice came out loud and clear through the small screen. "You've arrived in Yuma, then?"

Melissa spoke. "Yeah, Liam just pulled in right now."

A shuffling sound came over the phone, then Leigh spoke again, her voice cold now. "Alright, here is what is going to happen: you are to approach Mr. Buchanan with an offer for three hundred thousand dollars, advanced, invested, on his property. Then, a fifty-thousand dollar offer for his assistance, personally. You are not to tell him anything - what it's for, why we are asking, and most importantly, why we have 'hired' you to do so."

 Melissa looked at me, searching for an answer. I piped up. "Are you going to tell us what the deal is for, then?"

A pause, then Leigh responded. "No. Too much risk to take, especially on you two."

I rolled my eyes, then looked at Melissa. She had turned to the shotgun in the back, eying it with suspicion. Turning back to the phone, I spoke. "What's the risk here?"

"The risk is, Buchanan expects aggression and decides to hire help. In which case, weapons are free. As well, the possibility of him turning down our offer has happened before - however, as this is his third offense against us, you are to then eliminate him cleanly. I would prefer if you brought him back, however. Too much violence means too much cleanup." A sigh came through the phone. "Look, Mr. Ferguson, Ms. Faelin, I really just want him to take the offer." Her voice was exhausted, seeming almost like she was pleading. "This back and forth business has gone on long enough, and he knows that he is in debt. Get him to agree, please."

The phone hung up, and the two of us sat there for several minutes. Finally, I opened the door and got out, grabbing the shotgun from the backseat. Melissa followed suit, taking her phone in her hands, and we began to walk across the parking lot.

---

The pavement and concrete have pretty much fused after, what I assume, has been a decade of Arizona summers. The door to the building was covered in multiple building code violation papers and numerous complaints, with a Closed sign desperate to cover it all up. On the sides, above and below the hinges, the stucco threatened to keep the door shut.

We knocked on the door. A sudden clatter came from somewhere far inside, and footsteps began. I turned to the doors lined alongside the motel side; if I was a little paranoid, I might've thought someone was watching us.

The doorknob turned, and a frowning, balding man stood behind the door. He was in a small plaid shirt and beige shorts, with a purple sun-visor atop his head. His glasses were close to falling off his misshapen nose, but his deep brown eyes seemed fine.

Buchanan spoke. "Hey, don't know if you saw, but we're, uh, closed." His voice had a weird sort of accent - I couldn't exactly place it. He pointed at the Closed sign with a thick, hairy arm to make his point. "I mean, I'd be happy to help ya out in the morning, but, uh, yeah." He paused, then his eyes widened. He noticed the sling across my back, pointing at it. "You, uh, you taking your daughter hunting or something?"

I shook my head. "You Buchanan?"

His eyebrow rose. "Yeah. What's it to ya?"

I sighed, looked at Melissa. She frowned and turned to Buchanan. "Ms. Stafferson sent us."

He crossed his eyes, before the realization of the name came to him. Then he slammed the door in our faces. The rumbling and rustling of locks told us he wouldn't play nice with us.

I knocked on the door, rattling the lock chains. "Mr. Buchanan!" I shouted, careful of where my voice was carrying. "Mr. Buchanan!" More knocking, more shouting, more rattling.

His voice came out muffled, further into the building. "I tell you the same damn thing I told Leigh, Nathan, Pavel, Mickey, all them freaks in that rusted hunk of shit bar - ain't no way!" The overturning of a table came through louder than his voice. "I've had enough of it!"

Melissa jingled the door handle, trying to pull it open. "Look, Mr. Buchanan, we can talk this out," she called out over the clatter inside. "Please, open the door!"

I drew the shotgun from behind and cocked the handle, pointing it at the doorknob. "Melissa, get back."

She turned to me, her eyes going wide, then stepped back. With a loud pop, I pulled the trigger and blew the doorknob clean off the door, leaving shredded wood chips and metal bits in its wake. The door started to drift open. I kicked it in, watching as it slammed against the wall inside.

The floor of the motel management room was covered in the remains of the doorknob. Gears and screws, all scattered across. The walls were a weird looking beige, possibly due to the light of the moon. The management desk was covered in a unruly mess of documents, keys, and dollar bills, all grey against the night air. The dim, dirty light in the nearby hallway cast rough shadows across all about the room.

Some of the furniture heading into the hallway was overturned, giving us an idea of where Buchanan ran to.  Melissa withdrew her pistol, her hands shaking near the trigger. "Melissa, I want you to do something for me."

She looked up at me, trying to seem calm. "What?"

I nodded my head towards the side of the motel, then lowered my voice. "There might be a backdoor. See if you can head around." I cocked the shotgun, letting loose a shell.

She nodded, terrified but determined, and walked out of the motel. The clatter of her footsteps started and stopped.

I turned back to the hallway, still dimly lit. I slung the shotgun over my shoulder and pulled out the pistol, checking its weight. Hefting it up in front, I started down the hallway. Generic paintings of landscapes and log cabins decorated the walls, trying to distract from the crusted beige stucco. Turning the corner, a doorway was barred by a square table, facing me. Behind it was the face of Buchanan, holding a tire iron and staying near the door frame. In the light, every set wrinkle was brought out, showcasing just how many years this man had endured. A bandage on his wrist was also still noticeably red. Behind him, in the room, was a backdoor; hopefully Melissa found it.

I lowered the pistol, making sure to meet his eyes. "Mr. Buchanan--"

"Shut up!" He smacked the wall with the tire iron, leaving a large dent. "You think you're the first one to come down here, spouting off that stupid corporate shit?" He threw a book at me; it missed entirely, clattering against the wall opposite me and onto the floor. "Fuck Mickey! I paid my debt. I did my time. You, him, Leigh, and the rest of the Council can go fuck right off - I'm done with your stupid underground bullshit!"

Another object, this time a knife, struck and stuck into the wall beside me. He was getting better with his aim.

"Look, Mr. Buchanan. Ms. Stafferson is offering an advance payment on your property--"

Another blade, closer this time.

"She always offers money, you fuck." His voice was quieter, if still filled with anger. "It's always about the money to them. That's how they got me! That's how they got me and Jameson and Ferguson and everyone, man!"

I paused, staying behind the corner, thinking. Who the hell was Jameson? Why am I doing this anyway? By all accounts, Buchanan was probably right - it was all about the money. That's why I'm standing here, armed with law-enforcement weapons, in a motel at five in the morning, trying to reason a man into some stupid shadow conspiracy. And for what? A debt over sixty years old, brought up by a man with no discernible background besides a nod and a whisper?

A sudden clatter, a door slamming open, and a gasp from Buchanan brought me back to the hallway. Melissa's voice filled the hallway, nervous but trying to seem tough. "Freeze!"

I looked past the hallway corner: Melissa was standing there, pistol aimed directly at Buchanan's back. He stood there, heart pounding behind his hairy chest, hand slowly loosing it's grip on the tire iron. Melissa walked slowly, keeping her azure eyes on him and the pistol high, if shaking.

Walking towards the door, Buchanan turned back toward me, frightened. Melissa yelled, "Hey, towards me!" Buchanan did as told, returning his gaze back to the college-age woman with pistol trained on him. Her ears were uncovered now; it probably took some focus to keep them hidden. I pushed the table out of the door frame, moving it against the wall.

I sunk my pistol into Buchanan's back, watching as he tensed up from the cold metal pressing into his skin. He was sweating tremendously now, the stench of it forcing a hard breath from me. As I kept him scared, Melissa lowered her weapon and exhaled, visibly relaxing.

Buchanan lowered his arms and relaxed as well, despite the pistol still pressing on him. "Faelin. That your name, kid?"

Melissa flinched, then nodded.

Buchanan gave a sad smile. "Shit, kid, I'm sorry." He scratched the back of his red neck. "I know Adrianne, and she's not the kind of woman to see you like this."

Melissa froze. "H-how do you know my mother?" She looked to me, then back at Buchanan. "How?"

Buchanan frowned. "Adrianne never mentioned me?" He looked at the floor, disappointed. "Damn. Look, me and Adrianne go way back, kid." He smirked, still sad. "Hell, she's the reason I'm in this situation. The motel thing, I mean."

"Speaking about that..." I chimed in, pushing the barrel against his spine. He turned himself to me, the pistol against his stomach. "We still have a deal to work out."

Buchanan squinted, studying my face. "So, what's your story? Which ditch did Mickey dig up to find you lying at the bottom of it?"

I punched him in the face. He recoiled, his hands going to his face. A bit of blood flew against the wall; coming back, I saw that I clipped him across the nose. "Shit!"

Buchanan rubbed his nose, looking as if he was moving it back into shape. Melissa picked up an overturned chair and motioned for him to sit down. He hesitated, then sat, the chair creaking under his weight.

He sighed, clutching his head. "Goddamn. She can't leave me in peace." He reached into his pockets and pulled out a beaten leather wallet, filled with several envelopes and cards, folded. "How much do they want this time?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Actually, they're offering you money."

He looked up at me, his eyes red with exhaustion, pain, and anger. "What. What is she offering now? A slap on the wrist if I even mention elves and the U.S. in the same sentence?" He looked at Melissa. "Tell me, Fae, is Mickey paying off Adrianne for this?"

Melissa looks at me, unsure about the question. "Liam?"

I sighed. "Ms. Stafferson is offering a sum of three-hundred thousand, invested, on your business and its related property."

Buchanan eyes open wide, unsure of the number. "D-did I fucking hear that right? That much?"

I nodded. He turned to Melissa, who shrugged and nodded, confirming the number.

He laughed. "Anything else?"

"The initial offer also comes with a secondary sum of fifty-thousand, paid for you directly." I pulled the shotgun out, cocking out a (unknown to him) live shell. " And the offer is final."

He sat there, looking at the shotgun and mulling offer the price. His lips moved as if he was muttering something, but nothing but silence filled the air. Whatever energy filled him before had left upon hearing those numbers, like a buffalo in a cage. "What, uh... what is the offer for?"

I shrugged. "She wouldn't say. Too much risk."

He shook his head. "Damn it." Scratching his neck and looking towards the wall, he seemed more like a sad old man than the crazy paranoid owner that freaked out at Leigh's name. He looked towards us, given his best sad smile. "Guess I don't have a fucking choice. Or did Leigh give you a back-up plan?"

Melissa held up the pistol, barrel pointing towards the ceiling. "These were our back-up plan, Mr. Buchanan."

He glanced at the weapons, then chuckled again. "The, uh, the name's Archie, by the way."

Melissa smiled. "We know. We saw your medical records."

"Of course you did." Archie sighed. "Did you bring papers, or is Leigh sending them?"

A knock brought our eyes to the hallway door. A voice called out from the lobby. "Buchanan? You here?" Footsteps came through the hall, followed by the sight of a humanoid figure. A man, with pointed ears and tusks and stretched skin, clad in another black suit, carrying a pistol at his side. His jaw was hidden behind a full, trimmed red beard, but I got the distinct impression of him smiling as he saw us with Buchanan. "Ah, Ferguson. Faelin." His eyes narrowed in on Archie as he walked through the hallway. "And Mr. Buchanan."

Archie chuckled. "Gratch. The hell you want?"

Gratch placed the pistol in his coat and fished out a lighter from his back pocket. "Keeping tabs on Mickey's newest agents." He took a cigar from his suit and lit it up. "Hoping that we didn't have to resort to any extreme measures to get you to agree to the offer."

Melissa looked around the room, then back at Gratch. "Wait, Ms. Stafferson sent you... to keep an eye on us?"

Gratch blew smoke. "Not on you, exactly, Faelin." He pointed at me. "Ferguson, here, definitely."

Archie turned his head up at me. "Ferguson? You Henry's gran-kid?"

I nodded.

Archie smiled. "Goddamn, Mickey knows how to make me feel like a piece of shit."

"In any case," Gratch continued. "I see that you have made the right decision and that our agents proceeded in the correct manner. I will send my report to Ms. Stafferson soon, then." He turned from us and left the hallway. In a few seconds, we heard the door of the motel slam shut.