survivors_of_new_york | For The Lost

For The Lost

[You don't last long as a cop if you can't keep your head, can't spot a liar, can't notice patterns. Not anywhere, especially not where Benitez cut his teeth in Manhattan South, which - before the flu came - had the highest per-capita crime rate and third-highest per-capita homicide rate in the city.

Benitez has noticed a pattern, buried in the reports before him. Working a desk isn't the same as working the street, but feelings come back to him all the same. The numbers, the reports - something creeps up in his throat. The words come off the page and take on a life of their own, like a newly broken lock on a tenement door - a warning of horrors and dangers behind.

He pauses as he reads one sentence, ruffling a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. He re-reads it - then takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes.

They're losing people. Not to the flu, that's a given - even though Kandel says she'll have a vaccine out soon - but in the sense that they just...disappear. Here one moment, gone the next. Not at the rate that would create a panic - maybe a half-dozen a month - and most of them are civilians by the outposts, but some have been right out of the BoO. Some bodies turn up, but not nearly enough to account for even a fraction of the lost.

It's too steady. Too consistent. People don't disappear like this unless someone makes them disappear.

He hesitates - then snaps a rubber band around the report and heads off, looking for Lindianne.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Lindianne isn't too hard to find. For once, she isn't glued to AFO Neptune's hip. She's taken up a spot in the intel wing listening to the radio over a pair of reclaimed headphones that have clearly seen better days. It takes a while for her to look up in Benitez's directions. Rhodes is nearby, giving her the mother of all stink-eyes. She turns a dial, presses the headset tighter against her head, then nods in approval to the radio tech sitting at her side.]

Sounds good. Keep me posted if you get any more interference on this frequency.

[Something- movement, most likely- finally draws her attention towards Benitez. She cocks her head to one side, then hangs the headset around her neck. The ISAC beacon on her wrist glows the same orange as always. The radio chatter continues unabated.]

Captain? [A pause.] There something you need? You've got that look in your eye.

[She may not have been NYPD, but Lindianne's got the sharp eyes of a sniper and the second sense of a first-responder. She knows when something's wrong.]

[Mother and Panther are locked in the Situation Room with Faye again, discussing their next move. Who knows where the rest of them are - they'll turn up soon enough, Benitez supposes. That, or he could just follow the wreckage and the fireworks.

He holds onto the report for a half-beat, long enough to second-guess himself. This is a kind of hunch you'd see in a Sam Spade novel, something built on supposition instead of articulable facts, something he'd never be able to get authorization to investigate in the pre-flu days. The links between the missing are weak when they're there, and most of the time they're not. There's no common denominator when it comes to race, age, sex, or ethnic group. There's just no rub.]

Maybe, [he says, finally plopping the report down by her side and tapping it with his index finger.] Missing persons reports for the last few months. Was hoping you could keep an eye out for 'em when you're on the street. God knows we're not having luck with anything else we're doing.

[Presence patrols? Squad cars? Don't make him laugh. His ribs still hurt from that fall he took in the Lincoln Tunnel.]

Look, don't-

[He clears his throat, holds a hand up.]

I know you guys've got bigger fish to fry. So don't drop anything you've got for this.

[A shrug as he tucks his hands into the pocket of his loose-fitting NYPD jacket.] Even odds that most of these people are dead and we just haven't found the bodies.

[She glances down at the report for a moment in silence. She turns that unblinking stare on him. She reaches out for the report, paging quickly through the first few pages. Then she stops dead in her tracks.]

[The only sound is of the technicians going about their business: clacking keyboards, muffled static from radio transmission, hushed messages being passed from personnel to personnel.]

[She reads on at a much slower pace, mouth pressed into a thin line. It isn't until she reaches the end that she says anything. Then, in a quiet voice scarcely able to be heard:]

Third time's enemy action.

[Lindianne looks at Benitez at last and nods.]

This doesn't strike me as coincidence. Rhodes doesn't need me hanging around here wasting my time when somebody's hunting our people.

[Because that's what this looks like to her: a predator stalking its prey.]

You got a lead on the last one that went missing? You need me on this, Captain. This is just gonna keep happening unless we stop it. And I think we've lost enough people already, don't you agree?

[In more ways than one.]

[On some level, this was the reaction he dreaded - even now, he's not totally sure this isn't a distraction from something more important, something that could restore law and order to the island more quickly.

But, hell, he was the one who dropped it in her lap, wasn't he?]

No, [he says,] no leads to speak of. [Can you blame him for sounding depressed about it? She can pull up the record easily enough - Sam Yoon, 16-year-old male from Koreatown, came here to the BoO with his mom a few months back near the start of the pandemic, disappeared before breakfast eight days ago.]

You can talk to his mom, if you want, but we weren't able to get much out of her in the first place. Doesn't speak a word of English, by the way. You'll need an interpreter.

[Disappearing civilians would be the worst way to keep the JTF distracted. At this point, it's a rarity to find someone who hasn't lost someone they knew in the course of events. The Green Poison's scarred the living just as surely as it scarred the dead. Everything else snowballed from that one single twenty dollar bill in the wrong hands.]

[Lindianne's fingers are a blur as she stabs at a point in midair, the telltale glint on her contact lenses the only sign that ISAC is online. She frowns after a moment; it seems that the SHD neglected to put any sort of translating program into their bleeding-edge tech.]

[She'll have to do without, then.]

Tell you what, let me take a look around the perimeter, see what I can shake loose. If I need back-up, I'll let you know. Just... no trying to stop rioters this time, okay?

[The smile she flashes is cheeky. She definitely still remembers the Lincoln Tunnel, all right.]

[The BoO is, if not quite homey, is at least warm and trying to be. Someone under Rhodes figured out a way to kick on central HVAC, a blessing in this winter, and there are still some Christmas decorations that - true to form - haven't been taken down quite yet. You can get hot food straight from the kitchens the 42 ID has set up in the back.

The perimeter has none of those creature comforts. Outposts here resemble "COPs" from the Iraq and Afghanistan wars - positions outlined by sandbags, concertina wire, and HESCO barriers, with M2 HMGs and MK19s perpetually pointed uptown into "Indian country". The unpleasant smell of burning human waste carries on the wind as incoming and outgoing patrols crunch snow underfoot

Most of these guys are privates and specialists. There's one who looks a bit more important than that, though, huddled around a folding desk with some NCOs as they go over a map of their area of operations and talk shop to one another. There are muted captain's bars on his utilities and Oakley sunglasses tucked into a pocket on his tactical vest. His nametape reads HEPBURN, and as Lindianne approaches, he looks up, then turns his attention back to the map. One gets the sense he's carrying on a balancing act - so many issues, so few of him.]

Help you, Agent?

[There's a distinct shift in the air outside of the Base of Operations. Lindianne never risks going outside without packing a bulletproof vest and her sidearm at the very least. Even now, even here, the vest is clearly visible under the jacket she's shrugged on.]

[She stops at a polite distance, hands tucked into her pockets.]

Yeah. I'm working on an issue for Benitez, and I was hoping you could help me out.

[There are a lot more 42 ID than JTF at this point, but it's no surprise. The JTF didn't exactly survive the initial outbreak coated in glory and time has only exacerbated their personnel issues. She slips her hands from her pockets before approaching. She peers around his shoulder towards the map.]

Got a missing civilian from a little over a week ago, and I was hoping you could help me figure out what happened. Have you or your guys seen anything suspicious going on around the BoO lately?

[It's a stab in the dark, but Hepburn seems to have a good head on his shoulders.]

[Hepburn makes no attempt to obscure the map from her view. It looks like something taken out of a surveyor's office, repurposed with blue and red pushpins and plenty of grease pencil marks.]

Respectfully, Agent, all of my attention is focused on the other side of the wire. Out here, the BoO might as well be on the moon.

[It's only a half mile - maybe 3/4th at worst - to the post office, but out here, in the cold, you feel every inch.]

If they're missing, they couldn't have come out this way. Civilians aren't allowed to leave the wire - Benitez's orders - and my guys keep a close watch.

[A handful of dogfaces playing spades by the M2 spare Lindianne a glance before going back to their game. A lean, dark-skinned man by Hepburn's side with the stripes of a first sergeant and a nametape that reads GARCIA takes a drag on a cigarette before venturing into the conversation:]

Define "suspicious".

[Her eyes flick down to his nametape for a moment.]

Someone out of place while on patrol, someone who isn't somewhere they're supposed to be, someone's who where they're not meant to be, things like that. Anything that makes you pause.

[She scruffs the back of her head with a hand, frowning in thought. The last time someone asked these kind of questions, it led to crooked JTF personnel and a bunch of Mafiya boys with illegal hardware. The alternative to forging ahead is not an option; if she turns a blind eye, more folks are going to disappear.]

[She takes a deep breath. Squaring her shoulders, she looks Garcia in the eye.]

Hell, if we've got an unsecured entrance beyond the cordon that's letting folks vanish, it's my job to make sure it stays secured. These folks going out? Who's to say there won't be folks sneaking in next?

[Hepburn and Garcia share a look. Then, as Hepburn looks back to Lindianne:]

Hell, Agent, you of all people should know. The whole city gives you pause. Something wrong with you if it doesn't.

[Garcia picks it up:]

This many displaced persons on the island, everything's out of place and nobody's where they're supposed to be.

[He shrugs, taking another drag on his cigarette.]

I get what you're asking, though. But the answer's still no. It's like sending patrols out into a ghost town.

[Garcia takes another drag on his cigarette, motions to the COPs around them.]

Look around you. Our COPs have a commanding view of most of the roads leading into midtown, and what they can't get eyes on, we rig with motion sensors and tripwire flares. I don't doubt we're losing people, ma'am. I just don't think they're slipping past us.

[One of the junior sergeants, his nametape reading ERICS, clears his throat.]

Hey, sir-

[Hepburn isn't annoyed, but he's getting there.] Yeah?

[Erics continues.] What about that guy Third Herd brought in with them yesterday?

[Hepburn snorts.] Oh, yeah, him. [To Lindianne:] Third Platoon came back early from patrolling the Upper West Side the other day, brought in a civilian they thought was creeping on them, scouting them out. Slavic guy in ratty jeans and a coat he probably stole off someone else.

[Garcia:] We tried interrogating him, but all we got back was a bunch of "no English". Maybe some Russian or Ukrainian, too, couldn't tell which. [Another shrug.] We couldn't do anything with him, so we handed him over to Kandel. Far as I know, she's still got him cooling off in the locker.

[It's the "Quarantine and Isolation Ward" to Kandel and Kandel alone. Everyone else just calls it "the locker".

Hepburn shrugs.] I know you want more, Agent, but that guy's all I've got. You want intelligence, you're in the wrong place.

[Garcia chuckles and Erics joins in as they drag on their cigarettes, looking around at all the grunts doing work - filling still more sandbags and HESCOs, swearing and bitching to each other about the cold, conducting MRE trades in the foulest language imaginable.] Yeah, you're really in the wrong place.

[Panther's all smiles as he comes out of the interview room in the wake of the JTF railyard op. "Vegas is in there with him," he says, motioning to the goon on the other side of the glass. "He speaks the best Russian out of any of us. Just give it some time, Mother."]

[She should have known better than to look for intel with the grunts, but desperation can drive someone to take a gamble on impossible odds. She stands next to them, looking out at the other 42 ID members as they go about their daily routine. The picture of normalcy.]

[Or what passes for normal in a world falling apart, anyway.]

[For a moment, Lindianne stands there, chewing pensively on the inside of her cheek. Then she turns back towards the Base of Operations. Kandel is always strict about quarantine procedures for newcomers. With a little luck, their John Doe is still in the locker waiting to be left out.]

[The sun is just beginning to drift towards the horizon when she makes it back to the Base of Operations. Second shift is on duty now; the newer members of the personnel give her a wide berth still even as she strolls by looking like she just stepped out of the subway tunnels for a quick walk. She doesn't even spare them a glance. Her eyes are fixed forward.]

[She raps twice on the Situation Room door, as gently as she dares.]

Looking for Vegas. Where's he at?

[Mother and Panther glance over at Lindianne's rapping, then turn their attention back to the corkboard where Panther's pinning up another bunch of HVTs - Rikers with facial tattoos, hardened LMB lieutenants, Cleaners still at large.]

In the armory with Double-D, cleaning weapons.

[That's all she gets out of Panther before he goes back to talking shop with Mother, discussing the intricacies of the latest batch of intel, situations up and down the island. Faye's curiosity is not so easily sated, and one eyebrow quirks from underneath her newly-acquired eyepatch.] You've been in an awfully big hurry today, Agent. Mind sharing what you've got with the class?

Edited 2021-07-26 20:59 (UTC)

[Faye is the true brains of the efforts to retake Manhattan. Nothing sneaks by her, not even her fellow agent running around asking questions.]

[Lindianne has the sense to at least look a little sheepish. She tucks her chin in and laughs in the back of her throat.] Following up on something that Benitez pegged. [After a moment, she pulls the reports out from under her arm and holds it up as evidence.] Missing person cases. To be honest, it's got me worried, too, so I figured I'd see what I could shake out.

The only lead I've got speaks Russian- or something close to it, anyway. [Hence her looking for Vegas. She shrugs one shoulder.]

I'll keep you posted if you need to allocate resources, okay?

[The armory isn't much to look at; at one point in its life, it never saw anything more dangerous than a loose letter or two. But that was before. This is now. Lindianne sticks her head in, looking for the rest of Panther's boys. The relationship between them and her is a more professional one than the one between her and Neptune. There isn't much call (or chance) for socialization between them.]

Hey, uh, Vegas? I need you to translate for me for a guy in the locker. He's got intel I need and ISAC doesn't really do translations.

[It's not a "please", but the meaning should be clear.]

[That satisfies Faye, if only for the moment. She nods by way of dismissal.] I see. Then carry on, Agent.

[In the armory, Vegas looks up once Lindianne catches his attention, nodding once in acknowledgement before he gives some parting words to Deuce and Dusty, who return them as they tend to the minutiae of the Barrett. A quick adjustment of the watchcap on his head, and he follows Lindianne to the locker.]

Is this really necessary? -what am I saying, of course you think it is.

[The rescue of her ex-wife hasn't really changed Dr. Kandel's demeanor for the better. (Then again, it's not like she's gotten worse.)

She paces, fuming, pondering the latest request from the SHD and NCA's finest, one hand balled into a fist beneath her chin, lips pressed together in a pout and eyebrows scrunched together in one coterminous line. She pauses, shoulders drooping, and sighs.]

Positive-pressure suits for the both of you, purified air supplies with SCBA backups, decon and personal showers coming out.

[One hand shoots out like a knife towards Lindianne and Vegas, index finger pointed, pre-empting any argument from either of them.]

Don't argue. If he's infected and so much as a handful of particles get out, everyone in this post office could be dead within a week.

[With that out of her system, she waves them on.] Go on, then. Get what you need out of him. It's not like he's been any chattier with me and my staff than he was with the guys out at the outposts.

[Kandel's caution is well-founded; Gordon Amherst made the Green Poison contagious as all get-out and highly lethal for those unlucky souls who lose that particular game of Russian roulette. There are still patients breathing their last under Kandel's care in quarantine. Alexis Kwan beat the odds.]

[She's a rarity.]

[Lindianne's face is a twin to Kandel's: mouth twisted into a thoughtful frown, cheek resting on a balled fist, eyebrows drawn together in a wrinkle. It isn't until Kandel makes her stipulations clear that the tension goes out of Lindianne's shoulders. She lowers her hand and nods once.]

Okay, doc, you've got it. Just don't... you know, lock us in there or anything, okay? Faye'd have a heart attack.

[Rule Two: Thou Shalt Not Upset the Acting Division Commander.]

Your guys aren't Vegas. I think we can shake something out of the guy. And who knows? If he's not infected, he might be glad to see a somewhat-friendly face.

[The unspoken half of that sentence: if he is infected, seeing a friendly face may make the end easier.]

[At that, Kandel scoffs.] I'm not holding my breath.

[The prep required to enter the locker is really quite impressive. It takes a full hour to get Vegas and Lindianne prepped and fitted into the positive-pressure suits, hooked up to the air supply, and admitted entrance into the locker. The MPs monitoring the door look like they take this duty suitably seriously, and they give Lindianne and Vegas a wide berth as they open the door into the locker. From there, it's a short trek to the patient's room.

He's scrawny, but with some height and muscle to him. Even lying in bed as he is now, it's evident that he's maybe a little shy of 6', with a reach that would've made him a good fit in a boxing or MMA gym before the pandemic hit. He's not symptomatic - at least, not outwardly - but his complexion seems naturally pale. That jacket is by his bedside, and he's barefoot, with just a yellowed tank top and those ratty jeans to his name.

He looks at Lindianne and Vegas with an expression that verges on bored, as though it's an everyday thing to see two people dressed in astronaut cosplay to come visit your bedside.]

No English.

[The way he says it makes it seem like it's not strictly true; more like as though it's something this guy relies on as a quick get-out-of-conversation-free card.

Vegas shrugs - that's no problem.]

Russkiy?

[The guy doesn't react.]

Ukrayinsʹka?

[The guy pauses - then shrugs. Vegas gestures to himself and to Lindianne.]

My z kolehoyu khotily b zadaty vam kilʹka pytanʹ.

[The man rolls his eyes and gives a dismissive wave of his hand.] Ebatʹ vas i trakhayte svoho kolehu. Meni nema choho skazaty.

[Vegas' expression remains impassive, but it's clear from the way he crosses his arms across his chest that this guy is being pretty rude.] Chym bilʹshe vy budete spivpratsyuvaty, tym mensh bolisno tse bude.

[He looks at Lindianne and nods.] I introduced ourselves. Ask away.

[Life inside of a hazmat suit is unpleasant. Lindianne is still sweating bullets even as she folds her hand impassively in front of her. One wrong move, one errant twitch, one incorrect hunch, and both the SHD and Wolfpack will be down two shooters.]

[She doesn't intend to die . Not to the Dollar Flu. Not to the factions tearing across New York. She can't afford to.]

What were you doing following the JTF around?

[She stares at the man in the bed, face like a marble statue. The only betrayal of the nervousness coiling in her gut is the way the side of her mouth twitches. She takes a step forward. Folding her arms, she looks at him and lets the silence stretch out uncomfortably.]

You talk to him- [She nods at Vegas.] -He lets me know what you say, and I see about Dr Kandel making you comfortable. Or you play the mule, and you get to stay here and stew. Your call.

I'm only going to ask it once more: why were you following the JTF around? Who are you?

[As Vegas translates, the man looks at Lindianne as though even his contempt is too good for her, one side of his mouth curled up in a sneer. His reply, when it comes, sounds unkind and rather profane. Vegas polishes it up for him:]

He says he doesn't know what you're talking about and that his identity is of no concern to you.

[The man turns to regard Vegas now, eyeing him up and down, before saying a few more things, gesturing to Lindianne a few times as he does so. It's clear he's trying to get Vegas' goat, to rile him up, but it's not working.

After a few moments, Vegas walks over to a corner of the room, presses a button, and speaks a few words into an intercom. A few moments after that, a medic in another hazmat suit comes in and hands what looks like a digital finger-pad and a linked smartphone to Vegas. Vegas murmurs his thanks and walks over to the man. As he takes the man's wrist, the man resists, shouting, only for Vegas to twist his hand one way, press his thumb hard into a pressure point, and lean in to whisper something unkind into the man's ear. Try anything and I'll break your wrist, it feels like - and that's enough for the man to back down and let Vegas press his fingers to the pad.

It comes back with a beep a few seconds later, and Vegas shows him the screen.]

Teper my znayemo, khto ty. I teper vy znayete, shcho my znayemo, khto vy. Tozh davayte prypynymo vsyu tsyu nisenitnytsyu.

[The man snarls as Vegas steps back and hands Lindianne the smartphone. The display lists the mugshot, birthday, known addresses and aliases, and arrest and prosecution record of one Bohdan Illich Havrylenko, a low-level enforcer in Ukrainian organized crime.]

[It doesn't take a rocket scientist to understand exactly what the derogatory sneer on their guest's face is about. Lindianne's expression immediately sours, not unlike that of someone who just bit into a lemon.Between this guy and the Rikers, a lot of the enemy forces on the island tend to view her with absolute derision.]

[And it's their mistake to underestimate her just because of her gender.]

[She says nothing for a while. She stand by, arms folded, watching with absolute focus. If the man's no-doubt angry and mocking words reach her, she doesn't react. She merely watches. Waits. Absorbs every details as best she can.]

[It's only when Vegas hands her the smartphone that the intensity is broken. She glances down at the screen before scrolling through his rap-sheet.]

What is it with you organized crime guys? First those Russians, now this.

[Another glance at his records.]

All right, Mister Havrylenko, no more games. We've got your identity, so unless you want to be sitting in a locked room until hell freezes over? I suggest you stop blustering and start talking.

Now.

[As Vegas translates, Bohdan snorts, as though the answer ought to be obvious. The tone in his reply says as much, and Vegas follows along.]

"What do you think? I watch you pigs to make sure you don't mess with our stuff."

[There's more at the end of it that Vegas doesn't translate, stuff that's directed at him. Then Bohdan turns his attention back to Lindianne.]

"I'd done five years in a Russian prison by the time I was your age. There's nothing you can do that will scare me."

[Yep. Definitely familiar at this point.]

[Being menacing while looking like a bad 1950s spaceman is difficult, but Lindianne puts a surprising amount of menace in as simple an action as leaning forward. She crosses her arms with the telltale crinkling of plastic. Stares at Bohdan. Waits for his angry insults to fade into silence.]

[Then, in a tone of voice that makes icebergs seem tropical:]

I’m from the government, asshole, and I can make you wish you had the Green Poison. You’ve probably seen those guys with the red wristwatches running around by now. You know those guys?

[One side of Lindianne’s mouth curls back into a snarl.]

I kill those guys. So start talking. What “stuff”? Who do you work for?

Lie to me. I dare you.

[Vegas takes the liberty to mimic Lindianne's mannerisms with his translation, leaning in and making his voice just a touch more menacing. The wording isn't hard to pick up on: talk or we will make unpleasant things happen to you.

Bohdan looks to Vegas, then to Lindianne, then back to Vegas. He snorts, crossing his arms. Vegas follows along.]

"Pigs are pigs, and pigs die like pigs. It doesn't matter what colors they wear."

[He makes a gesture that is not rude in and of itself, but whose meaning is unmistakable - buzz off.]

"If you don't know, why would I tell you? You think any of this scares me?" [A mirthless sneer.] "I know you Americans can't lay a hand on me without it being called abuse. Your prisons are like summer camps compared to the ones back home."

[There's a pause as the air stills, before Vegas seems to act on a hunch he's had for a while. He gets up and walks over to Bohdan's jacket, rifling through its pockets. Bohdan starts to get up-

-and is quickly slammed back down onto the bed by Vegas, his hand like a vice on his forehead. The meaning is clear: stay down. Bohdan, teeth gritted, complies.

A few more moments of rifling produces an old flip phone from a pocket - no biometric ID or passcode required to get at the goods. He holds it aloft to Lindianne before handing it over to her - best not to throw things in these suits, clumsy as they are.

It would seem that Bohdan didn't think to wipe it before they came in. His contacts list has no proper names on it - it's populated with what seems like Ukrainian diminutives, and the last call received was around this time day before yesterday. The texts are mostly in Ukrainian, too, with some coded English interspersed with some contacts as appropriate - talk of "cargo", "hauls", "pickups", et cetera, but nothing in plainspeak.

The photos are another matter. Most of them are innocuous, or at least the type you wouldn't think twice about a dirtbag like him having - friends, guns, new clothes, et cetera.

But three of the newer ones break the pattern. They're out of focus and in bad lighting, to boot - but there's blood, rope, naked skin on bare concrete -

Upon further inspection, the subjects - one per photo - don't match Sam's description. One is a young black woman. Another is an older Asian woman, and the last looks like a Hispanic male of unknown age. All are bound with rope and gagged with what looks like bedsheets. It's hard to see their faces, but they look alive, with some bruising but no major injuries.

It's harder still not to infer from their body language that they're terrified. Like they think they won't survive the night.]

Edited 2021-07-31 05:11 (UTC)

[The images are seared into her mind. They will haunt her for the rest of her life, scars that make themselves known on the edges of sleep.]

[But that will come later.]

[Lindianne goes very, very still when she reaches the end of the phone's stored memory. It slips from her hands and clatters against the concrete floor. She doesn't react for a long time. She just remains there, staring dazedly at the wall of the quarantine room. There are no words she can say to put this into perspective. Nothing that anyone can say.]

[She doesn't look at Vegas. She takes a step to the window that allows visual access to the room before rapping on it with her knuckle. The tone in her voice is flat and to-the-point.]

Get Benitez and Lau down here. Now.

[Only now does she turn towards Bohdan. She crosses the room in what feels like three quicks steps, bodily hauls him from the bed he's in, and slams him up against the wall by his shirt collar. The blaze in her eye can't be mistaken for anything other than sheer rage.]

You fucking piece of shit- what did you do to those people?! Where are they?!

[She gives him no time to answer before slamming him against the wall and leaning in.]

I work for the government, you asshole, you try me and I will shoot you and throw you into the Hudson my own damn self-

[It's hard to say exactly what Bohdan was expecting, but it certainly wasn't that. His eyes go wide as Lindianne slams him against the wall and he sputters, squirming in her grip - nothing doing.

Two MPs in suits try to bust in to break it up, but Vegas shoots out an arm to block their path and shakes his head. Bohdan's a caged and cornered animal, but he's still got teeth. His glare - that of a hardened, remorseless street tough - matches her own, and the words come fast and profane from his mouth before he puckers his lips and spits a wad right onto her faceplate.

This is the scene Faye and Benitez come upon when they reach the observation window just a few moments later. Faye stands as still as a statue, ever the impassive observer. Benitez is...less so. In a voice muffled by the glass:]

Agent! Agent, what the hell is going on?!

[Despite the airflow to her suit, Lindianne feels like she’s suffocating.]

[Benitez may as well be talking to a statue for all the good it does. She remains standing there, one hand knitted in Bohdan’s shirt. The other remains at her side, hand balled into a fist and arm trembling from the tension. She says nothing. All she does is slam him against the wall once more before letting him drop.]

[She doesn’t turn to look at Benitez and Faye.]

Your missing persons didn’t go missing. They were taken. Trafficked.

[She scoops up the phone and presses it to the glass in one quick motion.]

He fucking deserves to pay for this-

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