06-08-2014, 05:06 PM
The first block or two away from the burning apartment building, Hood was a little heavy on the gas. But once they were out of sight of the flames, he began to slow down and drive more casually; he had little worry of them being chased. None of the slavers had survived, and any witnesses to what had happened were scattered into the night. The folks that lived in those sorts of buildings weren't the types to talk to police unless under duress. Sure they had lost everything, but they'd probably loose any more if they caught the police's attention.
So they wanted to go for a drink did they? Well, he knew a place. His night was already ruined; the police would surely be doing a sweep of the district, but he doubted that sweep would be so expansive or indepth as to reach the safehouse. He just had to hope he didn't have any Atharim come a-runnin' in need of help while the cops were around. That would draw unwanted attention for sure.
The biker's constant insistence on peace and good will was getting annoying; the man was painfully idealistic. The world was no where near as pleasant as he seemed to hope, and some problems really only had one answer in life. Violence. And those were the problems he was most familiar with.
He glanced at Connor in the rear-view mirror, but didn't even seem to care as Jensen suddenly threw open the sliding door and jumped out. He slowed the van enough that the man didn't break anything on his tumble, and didn't show any intentions of stopping to wait for him to catch up. The two men had each other's numbers; he'd just call if he needed directions.
But sure enough, Jensen caught up and rode alongside the van, and Hood led the way towards a nearby bar. It was a hole-in-the-wall kind of place, in a part of town where folks just didn't ask questions anymore. Zamoskvorechye district wasn't the home to the curious. He gave Jensen the directions through Connor.
He ditched the van a few blocks off, made sure it was clear of his prints then tossed the keys on the hood, making sure some near-by teenagers saw the gesture. It'd be gone in no time, off to some chop-shop. That done, his duffle was tossed over his shoulder non-nonchalantly, not caring that it was now stuffed with a small arsenal, and walked to the pub in question where they would meet with Jensen again.
That late, the pub was mostly empty; a handful of middle-aged men, likely all of some unpleasant background. Druggies, dealers, even a few prostitutes whom seemed to know better then to bother Hood as he walked in and took a seat at a corner booth. He waited for Connor and Jensen to place their orders (his was a beer for the moment), and for the drinks to be delivered before deigning to speak to either of them.
"You two ever think of pulling a shit-brained stunt like this again, let me know. I'll dig the pauper's graves myself."
If their bodies were ever even found and sent to the coroner, they'd be too disfigured to even ID. More likely they'd be assumed homeless vagrants and criminals and dumped in an unnamed grave somewhere.
So they wanted to go for a drink did they? Well, he knew a place. His night was already ruined; the police would surely be doing a sweep of the district, but he doubted that sweep would be so expansive or indepth as to reach the safehouse. He just had to hope he didn't have any Atharim come a-runnin' in need of help while the cops were around. That would draw unwanted attention for sure.
The biker's constant insistence on peace and good will was getting annoying; the man was painfully idealistic. The world was no where near as pleasant as he seemed to hope, and some problems really only had one answer in life. Violence. And those were the problems he was most familiar with.
He glanced at Connor in the rear-view mirror, but didn't even seem to care as Jensen suddenly threw open the sliding door and jumped out. He slowed the van enough that the man didn't break anything on his tumble, and didn't show any intentions of stopping to wait for him to catch up. The two men had each other's numbers; he'd just call if he needed directions.
But sure enough, Jensen caught up and rode alongside the van, and Hood led the way towards a nearby bar. It was a hole-in-the-wall kind of place, in a part of town where folks just didn't ask questions anymore. Zamoskvorechye district wasn't the home to the curious. He gave Jensen the directions through Connor.
He ditched the van a few blocks off, made sure it was clear of his prints then tossed the keys on the hood, making sure some near-by teenagers saw the gesture. It'd be gone in no time, off to some chop-shop. That done, his duffle was tossed over his shoulder non-nonchalantly, not caring that it was now stuffed with a small arsenal, and walked to the pub in question where they would meet with Jensen again.
That late, the pub was mostly empty; a handful of middle-aged men, likely all of some unpleasant background. Druggies, dealers, even a few prostitutes whom seemed to know better then to bother Hood as he walked in and took a seat at a corner booth. He waited for Connor and Jensen to place their orders (his was a beer for the moment), and for the drinks to be delivered before deigning to speak to either of them.
"You two ever think of pulling a shit-brained stunt like this again, let me know. I'll dig the pauper's graves myself."
If their bodies were ever even found and sent to the coroner, they'd be too disfigured to even ID. More likely they'd be assumed homeless vagrants and criminals and dumped in an unnamed grave somewhere.