2010-08-03: Shakedown



Guest Starring:


and other guest stars

Date: August 3rd, 210


It's cops vs gangsters vs family vs explosions and it spells the end for one side.


New York City

"My head hurts." Is the simple statement from the crime boss as he stares out from the window at the area surrounding him, a bag of skittles on the table next to him.

Roberto smirks as he shoves a hand in his pockets and tilts his head to the side. "I want to.. I just.." Roberto looks over his shoulder and snaps his fingers. Four people are leaning against the wall. "Allegra, Luis, Robbie, Simon." The four young people look up towards their uncle and stiffen. Dressed all in black, they look like some sort of military squad.

"Bring her to me, it's time to welcome her to the family." He says softly and then the oldest, Allegra smirks. "Little bitch." She snorts before she leads the other three out of the room without another word. "Almost there Libby.. I'll bring em to you."

What was at first a quiet, near-invisible presence watching the building from afar has — not gradually, but suddenly, on one cue: move in — escalated. The dim city landscape surrounding the warehouse paints a very different picture from the one inside; scattered on side-streets around the building are police vehicles, lying in wait, in preparation. The streets in and out are blocked by police barricades.

They're out of sight — but won't be for long. The hideaway of a crime lord and his gang of rough Irish crew isn't the kind of place one politely knocks on the door and shows a warrant; the NYPD are instead prepared to storm the castle.

Plan for the worst, hope for the best.

Amidst the noise of vehicles arriving and the crackling transmissions of busy radios as various members of the PD communicate, Detective Powers, her own radio in hand, shuts the door of her car behind her and eyes the general direction of the warehouse under lowered brows; she can't see it, from here, but the radio keeps her updated by people who can. Like everyone else, she's fitted with a bulletproof vest, taking no chances.

As Roberto sends his nieces and nephews to do his bidding, across the way over a few buildings and on the roof stands a man dressed in a stylish dark grey suit. Harley smiles softly as he looks behind his shoulder at the two people behind him.

"Hey little bro, you wanna listen in for us?" he winks at his younger brother before he steps closer to the edge of the roof and then looks back over to his father. Bo looks ahead with a grim expression, "We know where Lark is, after tonight.. we'll get Libby and Lark and.. and finish this." The oldest Hanner says and then he's looking down at Robin. "I'm sorry you have to meet your family this way." He lays a hand on Robin's shoulder.

As Roberto begins to eat some more skittles, Allegra and the others enter the room and between them is a woman with dark hair and light brown eyes. Her head tilted to the side and eyes look dead and straight ahead.

Roberto grins widely and holds his arms out. "Kitty, my little cat. Welcome." He says with a dark smile. "Are you ready to join our family?" Luis and the others have stoic expressions, not even caring.

Maggie taps a thumb against the side of the radio clutched in her hand as the updates keep coming — bodies moving into position. She's less frenetic with energy than most, unmoving in a sea of officers buzzing on the potential for a takedown. While many double-check their weapons and vests and start soldiering toward the corner they're meant to approach from, Detective Powers stays where she is — standing — staring.


The nearby shout from Baleman, a tall and deceptively tough-looking detective who works Gangs, draws Detective Powers out of what he probably thought was a daze. She looks to him without delay, completely present. He's thrown for second before he asks with a nod toward Maggie's car, "Flying solo?"

No exact answer, since it's no surprise. "We're all part of the team. And one half of a taskforce — there's no word yet on whether the FBI will bother showing up now that we're moving in."

"It's their loss, our win. The city's win."

Silence from Detective Powers.

Her radio, on the other hand: "…south-east exit covered, we're ready to move…" She brings it up, starts upholstering her gun, shares a stark look with Baleman and those around her. Go time. "Move in, all units— remember we don't know what the situation is in there, be on your toes and on the lookout at all times. And watch out for the guards."

As Maggie starts jogging toward the street corner to advance closer to the warehouse front-side, shots ring out from the back. If the people inside didn't know the situation outside, they will soon. Maggie immediately brings her radio up. "Whose side was that— "

Robin, standing by his father, has a slightly distracted look that shows even before he says it, "Already listening. Cops sure use their radios a lot more than the AP did." He nods a little to his father's words and says, "Yeah." Before he hears more, he apparently hears something, as he looks back to Harley and then his father, "They're moving in."

As Kitty is placed in front of Roberto, he reaches out with his hands and tilts her head up so she can look at him, or stare at him. "One simple thought.." he says as he trails a hand through her hair. "And you're have your own mind.. just have to obey me." He says and then he's staring in her eyes and is going for the mental trigger when- shots are being fired?!

The older man stands quickly and races towards the windows and spots people surging in.. "WHAT THE FUCK!!" Roberto looks over to Allegra and the other Hanner siblings. "Take the guys and put a stop to these idiots! I need to finish with Kitty!"

Across the way, Harley dips his head at Robin as he hears the shots. "Okay, let's go, it's time. Remember, we're getting in and getting out. Our family is in there." Bo nods his head and then he walks over to Robin, "Come on son, we have some people to save finally."

The guards are putting up a good fight. Firing at everyone that isn't apart of the gang. One guard charges outside and after Maggie, "Bitch!" he yells.

The men posted at the door were the source of the gunfire at the back of the warehouse, it turns out, so say the curt radio messages; no one's hurt, but the sounds of conflict don't stop — not right away. Not until the two backdoor guards force the police to return fire, enough to approach— and to drag them away with rapidly-cinching handcuffs. Good thing they brought a lot of manpower. A group of officers file through the cleared back door in a strong, cautious formation.

The exterior front of the warehouse, too, is filled with activity — authoritative shouts of "WE HAVE A WARRANT" and "STAND DOWN", none of which bode well with the gang. Meanwhile, Maggie joins those shouting officers covering the front entrance from the left, including Baleman. They're covered by the building adjacent, getting a glimpse at the door and the front guards while narrowly missing the gunfire aimed in their directions; so far, without reciprocation from the law. What was it Mason said about guns blazing — this isn't the ideal set-up, and Maggie's hardened features as she keeps a close eye and ear on the happenings illustrates her tense discontent with the forceful nature of their arrival.

Robin nods to his father, nerves obvious on his face but at the same time, he doesn't let it stop him. With everything he went through in the fight against the Alpha Protocol, this is only a little more dangerous. He checks to make sure the gun Harley gave him is still tucked in his belt as he turns to follow quickly after his father and brother.

A whistle can be heard and the guards stop shooting, some muffled orders can be heard as the men shuffle inside in a rush. Tons of feet can be heard in the warehouse.

The door is left open and the doorway is dark facing the policemen. Critters can be heard. As the police are entering from one side. Harley and the others are entering from another side. "Okay, quiet and we have to go all the way up the stairs. We get in and get out, if you have to shoot. Shoot to maim, just injury them. No need to kill these idiots, they don't know what they're doing, not really." Harley says to Robin softly as they come to a side door.

The police who approached from the back door continue searching the space they've found themselves in; the noise of feet moving somewhere in the warehouse echoes back to them, and they use flashlights held atop their weapons to scan this way and that with precision as shouts overlap into the space: "POLICE — don't move!"

Outside, Maggie and the detective next to her, along with the officers surrounding tem, watch the dark warehouse door suddenly devoid of guards. What should be a good thing — access — leaves none of them feeling encouraged. "I don't like this," says Baleman, and Maggie's darkly focused silence agrees.

Provoked by a noise at her radio, she brings it up. "Powers." "We have three unidentified males approaching from the north side, it looks like they're entering the building— " There isn't much the police don't have their eyes on; they have to cover every angle. "10-4, we're close, we're on it." She looks back to the others, "I'd stay holding, keep me updated if you change your mind." She's not the only authority in a group effort like this one.

With a few gathered officers, Detective Powers is off and running, briefly in the open before she skirts briskly along the side of the warehouse, hoping to catch the three unidentified males — Harley, Bo, and Robin — in the act. Whatever that is.

Robin looks to Harley, nodding to his instruction but comments, "Wasn't even thinking of killing anybody." It takes just a moment for Robin to register that they're talking about them on the radio, long enough he can't jam the broadcast even if he'd considered it. He quickly but softly says to the others, "They saw us."

As Robin relays the message, Harley freezes and then he looks over and pushes a few boxes together and then he's trying to boost Robin up towards the window while Bo climbs up and opens the window to climb in, "Nobody is here! Hurry up sons!" he says softly to which Harley nods and smiles at his younger brother. "Let's go little bro!"

Over in the warehouse, the lights flick on and the brights are meant to disorient the policemen. Standing around the room are Roberto's goons and they immediately begin opening fire as the four Hanner siblings hang in the back and watch. Just following orders.

"Stop! Police! " comes the powerful yell of a woman's voice as the family hurries to get into the building, loud over the sound of boots colliding with the pavement of the narrow space alongside the warehouse, that of Detective Powers and two uniformed officers. Immediately — before she's even near enough to make out any details of the skulking group — her weapon is aimed on Harley. As she comes to a halt by the boxes, it steadies even more. "Climb down from there— " A glance to the window, a quick wave of her weapon in that direction, and her intense focus is back on the young man, who gets the forceful shout of: "HANDS IN THE AIR!"

Robin hurries up the boxes at Harley's words, and is almost through when Maggie shouts, and he hesitates. He can't just leave his brother behind, but nor can he really do much to help. He ends up looking further inside, to his father, for some kind of guidance.

Bang, bang. Meanwhile, inside, the flood of light spotlighting the quickly heated meeting of goons and cops provides ample distraction away from a set of swiftly opening doors further in. Doors that lead into protected storages and areas and that, through a couple twists of fate in the last months, only one person has the keys to open. Now, they open to allow in a whole group, creeping in the wake of their leader in the maroon leather jacket.

A crisp gesture from that leather-sleeved arm calls out several of their number, then directing towards the confrontation of gunfire beyond. Each indicated man peels away from the whole, sneaking between set-ups on the warehouse floor until they have each found cover from which to pop out — and fire upon the unsuspecting backs of their fellow Irish.

Not a stray shot goes police-wards; no small comment when it becomes clear that these guys have had their hands in the goodie bag. Brand new, top of the line automatic weapons are just a taste of the art they bring to the show.

The flashing lights and multitude of shots being aimed in the direction of the police does its job in distracting them, but not in deterring their efforts: two things they have in common with the thugs defending their territory. They're evenly matched in the midst of chaos until their enemies start to fall faster than the officers' bullets alone could have made possible. The shift in numbers allows the crowd of cops a brief hiatus to take better cover.


Bo pulls his son in before he can protest and Harley swings around with hands up. "I need you.. to help me. My brothers and sisters are in there.. hostages and you don't know what you're dealing with.. Roberto is.." before Harley can finish a loud explosion can be heard in the warehouse and screams can be heard. Pretty soon, smoke and flames can be seen as well.. WTF?

The fact that there's something slightly off about Harley and what little Maggie can see of the teenager before he disappears — something that doesn't quite read as fitting in with the same crowd as the gang inside — has the detective watching with a new kind of criticism even before he speaks. Even his words don't soften her stance, however— she stands weapon poised until the loud noise from within breaks it.

As the ground reverberates underfoot, a slew of shouting follows — hers, the other officers', hurried, authoritative yells all culminating in one message: MOVE.

When it becomes very obvious very fast that there's no time to run, Maggie gets down, hitting the pavement — — and, presumably, so do those with her; it's a blur. For the detective, it's unprotected elbows slamming into the ground, scraping, hands clutched over her head as debris and heat almost instantly fill in the narrow space between buildings — around her, over her. Next she looks up, it looks for all the world like she's been transported. The alley is gone — or rather, hidden and buried — and it's the warehouse, dark, hot, the glow of fire somewhere just out of her vision, that the detective sees as she slowly lowers her arm from her head and looks over it.

Shouting all around has become that of dismay, though every so often a crack of a gunshot still makes it through the thick and muffled atmosphere that's fallen over the disturbed building. Every direction just beyond Maggie's position seems to suggest it — danger. The last breath of air before the smoke is already dusty. But every noise of chaos happens in a radius around Maggie. Her comrades either tossed to safety outside, or crushed in the destruction behind her; she's alone.

And it would have remained so, except for a flash of movement. A hallway stretches like a gauntlet to her right, and where it intersects another on that horizon, a figure passes by. Just a vision of maroon and the glimmer of a serious weapon.

By the layout of the warehouse, and the distant cries of others — the only person heading towards the source of the explosion.

Weapon still clasped in her right hand, an arm bloodied and dirty at the elbow hovers near Maggie's forehead like a tentative shield as she squints into the smoky space. Chaos, hallways, the figure who moves past; it all registers, but without movement from her at first. The room is moving enough on its own. Clarity rushes back like lightning, however, striking away her disorientation before long — the question is, where is she going. The windows are either now non-existent or too high to reach. There's no door from here. Just those corridors — the gunshots, the voices, and … the other direction. The source.

First things first. Small bits of debris and dust tumble off the back her NYPD vest as she starts to push off the ground — easy as water off a duck, but not so fast, Maggie. A more significant weight bearing down on her legs makes moving difficult and cumbersome, but as she rolls onto her back, sits ahead and, coughing, shoves at the old brickwork until she can get to her feet, she frees herself from the aftermath of destruction. It's with a wince, but no bruises stop her from quickly checking through the debris for signs of life — someone did just jump through the window before she arrived. Finding no one, she runs into the hallway weapon at-the-ready, halting but before the crossroads.

Indecision reigns as her thoughts weigh this way and that, but one direction just barely wins over the other. She's a cop more than a victim and getting out apparently isn't as important as the logic that takes Maggie in possibly the worst direction possible: toward the fire.

Winding hallways become underground caverns, a dragon's lair of heat creeping up the walls, closing them in more and more, further and further in. This hotbox of a rat maze is navigate-able only for the glimpses of that other person every so often in flashes of maroon — at first passing far ahead and then in closer and closer instances as Maggie's pace eclipses her white rabbit's.

Minutes pass by like hours in the heat and uncertainty.

Maroon. Close now, the next corner. Almost reachable.

But at the rounding of that turn, there's already a figure there, lying in wait. With the gun rising as he slides around to meet the detective halfway at the tip of the corner, the triumphant gleam in the Weasel's eyes is as sharp as his aim.

"Ye know, I was really hopin' it would be yoouuu. Almos' as good as…" A brief, ill-advised but quickly corrected glance over his shoulder. Beyond him, the winding finally breaks into a wider stock room, but the gangster blocks the way efficiently in his threat. "Ye never quite learned ta travel in packs like the rest of 'em, didye?"

There's something important up ahead, the detective seems sure; for every uncertain gleam in eyes already a sheen of water squinting against the heat, there's an opposite certainty in every deliberate step ahead. Maggie's wrist presses under her nose against the smoke that's found its way into the air as she follows the flash of colour and the sense of space around her, gun-first.

Slow and steady wins no races in this picture, but Maggie's carefully paced steps do well enough for her self-preservation up until the point she comes face-to-face — or gun-to-gun — with the oh-so-charming Weasel, her so recently released suspect.

Her only response is to steady her gun-hand, both hands put to use in keeping an aim on the man at least as confident as his own, and to regard him with a sober stare. Of the variety that does not mess around.

"Dun feel li' chattin' anymore, do yeh?" It's its own kind of fight, keeping a steady watch against another person in the growing heaviness, the smothering of air that shouldn't be breathed. Distantly, another rumble and boom signifies a secondary, smaller but more focused explosion, that rattles the walls around the two gun-wielders a few seconds later, like the delay of thunder.

It has a similar effect on Wilbur's nerves as his gun hand wavers, his greed for the kill pitted against that age-old desire to not die buried in a pile of burning rubble. He takes several steps as though to consider going around Maggie.

Maggie's strong-willed focus never leaves the threat in front of her. The unnerving rumble of the delayed explosion is definitely not bypassed; it's processed. Her clammy grip readjusts around her gun a result, though it does so with no more wavering than the vibrations from the explosion forces.

The movement of Wilbur isn't taken for granted, with her close watch on him; Maggie is quicker to follow up on his steps than she is on his chatting. He steps ahead, she steps ahead faster — or runs, more like it. She chances slamming toward him, her and her right forearm against his shoulder, neck, chest, a tackle meant to send him against the wall by that corner, the detective's free hand making a whirlwind grab for the guy's gun.

A slam is exactly what happens; Wilbur's back hits the hard but unstable wall even when highly tuned instincts get him halfway slithered away from her arm as she hits him. He takes too much impact to escape, only to have enough reach to keep that gun firmly in his vice-like grip. "Fuck!" Sheer reactive twitching pulls the trigger, firing into the ceiling and all that charged up, smoky air. "Fuckity— "

One knee is not very supportive, weakening his stance, but he kicks at her ankles with plenty of trapped ferocity. Attempts to angle the gun around her grab for it result in two more wild trigger pulls.

As angry concentration splashed all over a face perspiring to a sheen in the hotbox hallway, Maggie fights against the man's ferocity. The Weasel's kicking bangs at her shins and shuffles her boots against the warehouse floor. Just as resolute is her fight to grab his weapon — but keeping it pointed away from her while his trigger finger goes crazy would be good enough, a tenuous battle through-and-through, her hand strong, wrenching at his hand, his wrist, but every now and then slipping.

Wasting no more time in the struggle, she leans with all her might into the man, not to pin him further against the wall and hope it stays standing, but to slam her knee into his — the one so primed with injury already. "Rrrhh!" And with this, an impolite elbow to the face.

The arrgg of Weasel's gurgling pain as his destroyed knee is further obliterated gets interrupted by the equal cracking from his face. Blood spurts from his small nose as he crumbles to attend to it, somehow twisting enough to stumble away from her pin, and the wall. But his hands only clasp to his face protectively, gun propped against the side of his temple inattentively.

"Ohhh — bittttch." But the curse is hardly preempt to another threat; to the sound of the very foundations around them growing indecisive to standing, he backpedals just as fiercely as he previously attacked, though with the added grace of one leg dragging basically useless. "Both a'ye kin jus' GO TA HELL."

Maggie whirls around on momentum and re-settles her hands around her gun and her aim on Creevey. Slightly breathless and pitched high to reach above the rumbling of the building, and pointedly informs him, "You'll be in hell soon, too, if you don't get outta here." Never mind the fact that she was headed toward the hellish fire source. That and the continued shakiness of the building prompts her to add on, lower, more to herself: "If we're not already there."

She advances on him in as much of a circle as she can make, a gradual but urgent trek toward him, this time. "Move another inch and I will shoot you." Another fast road to hell.

Sniffling, snorting through the injured nose, wavering on the twice injured knee, Wilbur glares with a hatred to rival the intensity of the fire building all around. Shaky but meant movements test the edges of her bluff or truth, sliding his hands away from his face, but with the gun continuously angled high and away from her without hesitation. Then the calculating twinge to his mouth and around his eyes twists into the same despise as in them.

For a flash of an instant, his gaze jumps over her shoulder and then returns. For only another instant. With an agility fueled by self-preservation, the Weasel throws himself bodily to the side, towards that turn. Grappling for that which his fingers can find first tumbles boxes into her path, creating a swiftly growing obstacle course in that direction.

Partial line of sight remains in tact… but now — a roar. It builds from behind Maggie in an ominous timeline so different than the reality of the paltry seconds before all that expelled, panicked air will come rushing out to the terror of too many flames shot into too small of a space.

One half of Maggie is ready to shoot, the other half prepared to run the second the gangster is gone. Even as he does takes off, and leaves a disaster zone in his wake, her strong stance remains poised solid on the threshold between directions — until that noise. Widening eyes mark her realization, her head whipping sharply to the side and tangling hair following. A hellish reflection from down the glimmers in her eyes when she catches that glance. A glance is all it takes, and even that takes too long in this too-small space to bolt her into action. All Maggie can do is push herself to run. Or climb, or jump— anywhere.

Billowing flames pursue the fleeing detective, perhaps to have died out earlier but for the narrow conduit the hallway becomes, pushing more and more heat at her heels, threatening at any moment to throw her to the ground — consume and surround her. They reach, reach, reach—

A reach. Movement from behind a filing cabinet up ahead, the lone citadel in the otherwise empty and fire-welcoming corridor. As Maggie bolts towards it, she's secured by a grip faster than the coming fire — but only just.

This latch on that gets her by the shoulder spins her into an all-encompassing warmth so different than that of the destructive flames. Sight of that deadly hallway vanishes into a blur of purple and brown, but the roar is on-going, screaming of the fire cloud as it bursts past where she's been backed against the cabinet. Hot, terrible pressure springs up sweat, adrenaline — pain — it's too much heat for an instant — but the shield that has her holds. The fire breaks. Retreats. Yanked back by the greediness of its own destruction.

Now there's barely air in the hallway to be stifling anymore; it's almost a relief. But it will still take a second before the hold that has her wrapped tight becomes arms, a body. That presence is a face instinctively turned away from the fire's worst side, his cheek against her forehead. That shield — a leather jacket being lapped hungrily at by lingering flames.

All that Maggie knows is that one minute she's running, feeling the flames at her back— the next…

Her eyes have instinctively presses her eyes shut against the intensity of the heat and the shock. She doesn't breathe except after the fire has rushed out, several long, safe, reassuring seconds of staying completely still save for the thrum of adrenaline. Her breath rushes out too, a sudden relieved exhalation with the soft undercurrent of her surprised voice. It's in that same moment that she opens her eyes and snaps 'to, so to speak, coming to some ambiguous realization—

Maggie all but jumps backwards in something tentatively resembling alarm, pushing off of her rescuer by way of a small shove, her arms breaking away to the sides. Her hands, one of which still holds that ever-present gun, are then left to linger by her hips making unformed gestures as she stares ahead wide-eyed. It's a strange look that paints her face, created by the starts and stops of a whole slew of expressions that never quite form, leaving her just looking more or less— lost.

"You're … alive. You're… o-on fire."

Arms part as he's pushed away, though hands strive to linger disobediently by her — checking for the same situation that's now becoming more and more obvious at his own back. The reason the heat hasn't gone is because it's him. Rooting to the spot he's ended up in, Laurie scrambles to pull off the offending leather jacket, banking that the flames have kept there. As the article is ripped away and tossed, it becomes impossible to miss that some fiery run-off has found its way to his red and brown splotched shirt sleeve. There's little to attack it with: just the rest of the shirt pulled away from his stomach to partially cover the hand that bats at baby flames until they putter out.

The abandoned jacket is stomped at, somewhat more angrily than effectually, though at least the thick of his boots have nothing to fear from the dying light. "He told me this was authentic!" is the mantra to this retaliation, in some other world far beyond Maggie's face of a thousand expressions, the bizarre and rumor-defying fact of him even standing there, grumbling moodily, "I outta wring his scrawny neck." Stomp, stomp.

Having settled the score, Laurie seems fit to address his partner when his attention is deflected from finding her by some extremely persistent flame sparking back to life on his arm. "Hey yo!"

In the midst of her daze of sorts, Maggie reaches halfway toward Laurie, offering indecisive and ineffectual help with his rather extreme wardrobe malfunction; there's not much she can do about it, and she windsup only watching him, reflective, while she calms into a distinct expression. It's out of place while the building yet threatens to go up in a blaze, or down in collapsing debris (and as out of place as Laurie's antics in general). A smile. Genuine and dimpled with tinges of relief and amusement.

But there's a burning warehouse full of criminals to contend with. She looks this way and that before reaching for the least fire-prone of Laurie's forearms, and thus his attention. "What way do we go," she asks with urgency and authority though it's her mysteriously reappearing partner she looks to for answers. "I was outside — I got trapped in when the wall blew out. There might be civilians in here— I saw two of them come in and there was a report… well, sort of— of hostages. But I don't know what way's up anymore, we have to move."

Occupied with the more troublesome sleeve, Laurie glances at her touch once without registering it then double-takes and lifts his chin to find her looking at him, too. Finally, he faces her. Alive though he is, her partner's appearance — while mysterious — is as worn as she's ever seen it. His beard's grown in thick around the shape of the worst scar from Mandy, meanwhile unable to hide the generous smattering of bruised, unhappy skin that colors in purples and faded reds and make a strange but fashionable match to his clothes.

While some manner of debate closes his lips tight, he moves in towards her. Not to surround her as he did before, but just to reach past, making a bid for something else that was hiding by way of the cabinet. As he brings it around to his side, it's a ten-pound sledgehammer, hefted up once for a better hold and then motioned the way the fire came from — and since retreated. "Well," he says coolly, but the pressing note of something else being on his mind, "I'm going that way." His other arm raises, moving her touch on it, and he points further away down the same hallway in the opposite direction. "And you're going that one."

So she is, apparently. Maggie's steps shift to take her two or three paces backwards down the hallway, but they're reluctant, uncertain, and not prone to going anywhere as fast as she implied they both had to move. She doesn't protest, but she looks past the somewhat frightful image of the roughed-up man toting a sledgehammer, urgently curious gaze wishing she could suss out what's down that hall — the same dangerous direction she was prepared to explore before. The gaze shoots back to Laurie, with one addition: concern. And a simple no-nonsense demand to know: "Why?"

Sneaking in between the roars and groans that fill the warehouse with strange echoes is the wail of sirens, their distance and direction distorted, but nevertheless pressing urgency.

That sledgehammer is gripped a little more specially. "I've got something needs doing." In the same manner as she did, he lets himself glance away from her to her destination down the portion of hallway less lit by explosions. The path away. His eyes narrow on some point and he's suddenly taking a side-step towards Maggie, contradicting his words, but only, it is revealed, as a gesture towards some new presence.

"Tommy — don't." Calm but intensely firm, the instruction is given to to a large man who looks to be the exact description of the word 'Irish', as he appears down that way with an automatic weapon presented towards Maggie's back.

After a second, he shelves the weapon against his side and eyes who he sees as Roscoe. "Roberto?"

"No, get out now. Get the others," Though near her, Laurie doesn't have a glance for Maggie as he speaks in the low, demanding way of his alter-ego. "Get out. And, dammit Mick, don't you give those cops any trouble— "

Tommy's conflicted face contorts into exasperation — but obediance. "Yeah, yeah. Live to fight another day. I gots ya, boss." And lighter than his size would suggest, Tommy the Mick whirls right back about the way he came, and his boss angles his attention to his detective partner, a clear distinctively noticeable but unshared thought on his mind while he addresses her. "Go with him."

The detective tenses when she realizes there's someone at her back. Fingers that remain wrapped around her gun, which is pointed inertly at the ground, flex. Looking behind her is the second response. On the word 'boss' from the Irishman, she looks back to Laurie (or rather, Roscoe) with lifting eyebrows, either skeptical or impressed. Either way, it's gone a second later, and Maggie, who doesn't exactly relax when Tommy turns out to be some manner of ally, is rapidly eyeing Laurie in a way that could be described as angry. Muscles stiffen in her jaw, protesting, mouth thin and straight and full of silent opinions.

Her unvoiced protests are cut off abruptly by a series of coughs that she covers with the back of her arm. "Come— back," she barks afterward, insistent. Not now, this second; after. After he goes and does whatever it is he's planning to do. Come back. "Make sure you get out of here."

Urgency catches up. Maggie eyes Laurie one more moment, anger wavering off almost entirely before she turns shoulder and runs after the Irish gangster.

Her coughs are not unwarranted; the hallway is clouded with smoke now, all generating from that ill-omened direction that Laurie heads as soon as Maggie is seen to be moving away. An arm so recently smoking, itself, is raised against that cloud, pushing him past the corridor and into the adjoining room — to stairs. Up, up, up. Three at a time. Turn. More stairs. Some backwards symbolism of rising to that room that would be the depths of this despicable set-up — right above the hell-hole's pit.

A door looms ahead, its silver lock presenting no threat to the jangle of keys Roscoe's come to obtain, but heat rising off every surface bodes badly. Instead, it is the sledgehammer that's grasped, given as much exercise as it can get in that slim stairwell before it collides — BANG — with the frame. BANG — again. Cracking, warping. A well-aimed kick brings the rest of it swinging in surrender with a thud against the outer wall as half veers off its hinges.

Eyes. Just the glow of wrathful eyes before Roberto is just the glimpse of his back disappearing through another doorway beyond. Underneath him, the very floor warps up and down as though they were walking on water instead. A distinctive cracking from one corner, the crushing collapse of a wall — all registered, but bypassed by Laurie's resolve as he plows forward after the crime lord, unheeding as the support beneath him begins to fold in…

"Nope," comes a female voice just behind Laurie.

Tommy ditched, twisting and turning stairs leapt, broken door bypassed, smoke, warping, unstable floor and crashing walls braved — Maggie is there. Like a shot, she grabs onto the arm that wields the sledgehammer, locking own arm around Laurie's elbow. Her gun is holstered, now, and she has more faculties with which to try to haul him back away from the tumble the floor is destined to take — or at least into distraction from his path. She meets his resolve with an equal and opposite resolve of her own. Backwards instead of forwards.

Through her strong, scrambling efforts, Maggie looks knowingly off in the direction Roberto disappeared. It's questionable whether or not she caught up in time to actually witness the glimpse of the crime lord is questionable, but it doesn't seem to matter. "There is not any time, this place is going down!" she screams over the hellish noise, though it's just as much to get through to Laurie. Another harsh pull, her boots fighting to backpedal toward stronger ground. "Stop — come on!! He'll fall in there! We're going!"

Pulling, tugging, onward; the attachment to his arm is only a fought hindrance against Laurie's path of vengeance into a room that might not even be there anymore. With neither sound nor glance does he acknowledge knowing it's a human being giving him such trouble step to straining step. In a battle of physical means, he appears to pull ahead with the advantage, his own boots sliding onto worse ground to make up for her opposite pull. He can only see ahead of him — Roberto might not be there anymore, but he's there.

Even the doorway above cracks, creating the loudest cacophony of breakage so far as it looms right in front of Laurie, threatening to either strike him, or drop onto Maggie's linked arm. Either way, it seems that the destruction will inevitably sever… something… But for the sound of her voice. Stronger than her pull, the shouting accomplishes what the arm couldn't; Laurie hesitates to glance over his shoulder at her there. In a moment, he's really seen her, critical eyes scanning the insistence, the emotions that make her yell this way.

Foot slides to a stop in front of that doorway. "Powers— " CRACK "— get out — " All at once, the floor just isn't there anymore. There's no room beyond, it's an avalanche of concrete and wood that tears everything away in its perimeter. The doorway drops, and so does Laurie.

"You get out!!" Maggie's stubborn argument, shouted through viciously clenched teeth, has barely escaped before an even louder and more urgent shout comes on the heels of the crashing, disintegrating room beyond. "MILES— "

Her arm crooked around his and her determined grasp might have been ineffective at keeping him back, but they seem to tangle her to the off-balance consultant now for better or worse now. Even if she tried to let go, there would be no time to scramble back before she's torn along toward the building's avalanche in those first moments of the next room giving way. In the next moment, she's hauling backward again with all her might and full weight, her strength running on high-octane adrenaline.

The forward foot plummeting, Laurie becomes swiftly biased towards a fiery fall and a warehouse wall burial. As the dropping floor steals his balance, he tips in the direction of Maggie's pull, but with a slide downward on that increasing incline. Torn from his stance, bumping the hard, failing floor, his hand reflexively releases the ten pound weight of that sledgehammer and the tool weaves indecisively before giving a swift plummet the way gravity would like its owner to go.

But even as one hand scrapes against debris and unforgiving flooring for purchase, there's no grabbing on from his newly freed hand to Maggie. His fingers splay freely in the air next to her shoulder as she wraps the elbow. Strained lines on his worn face register his physical attempts to keep on, but not the full direness of the situation: not challenging the outcome.

Maggie isn't willing to let the cards fall where they may. Her knees hit the floor following Laurie's drop and the toes of her boots fight to keep a foothold. She spares an instant to lean forward instead of back, strengthening her link shoulder-to-shoulder instead of elbow-to-elbow.

"Hey, hey, come on." Her still insistent rallying kes a softer note as she tries to brace her arms around Laurie's; strong and sure enough that she reaches one around, all five fingers digging solidly into his back. "Just hold on! Hold on to me!" The return to shouting is full of demand, but up-and-down, fraught with the same anxiety that runs high throughout the struggle. "I've got you— " Questionable, but she's certainly putting up a good fight. "Fair's— " she groans through a tug, " —fair."

That thin, silky texture of the shirt is not friend to Maggie's attempts but some sheer determination gets past fabric's nature and spots damaged by fire, finding purchase there while he does around piping exposed by the dropping cement. But still he doesn't pull, he hangs, he's dragged on. His sleeve slips against Maggie's shoulder. But— then jaw clenches. "Alright— "

Fingers slack suddenly tighten around her jacket, accepting with this that his partner's helping, even as his return efforts drag on her, bias her forward towards that hole until he can transform more of his dead weight into a bid to climb away from the crumbling edge. "But only so— " Teeth clamp over the sentiment briefly as he grunts with the efforts, heaving upward, the metal toe of heavy boots testing each foothold for the right one, "— you'll stop whining."

A break in the scales; the two are rocked up and back by the combination of efforts, heaving onto ground not solid, but as close as it's going to get.

Maggie is hurtled backward as weight is suddenly coming toward her instead of threatening to pull her down. The shift rocks her back, off her heels, and with her bracing Laurie instead of herself, she falls onto the floor behind her. Eyes close in relief despite the jarring thud she experiences just then, but they fly open only a second later to take in what is still a world of danger. Also, Laurie who, whether he's looking or not, earns a knowing look for his prior comment.

"Okay. Nnnow— " she breathes out. Bullying her body past its various bruises and the overtaxing effects of heat and smoke, she's in a rush to get vertical and get out of here.

Laurie surges forward, one lucky dig of a foot getting that hanging leg away from the center of that hole, and he slaps down a hand in the nick of time to stop one half of his body from hitting Maggie as hard as the other half hits wary floor. Palm smashed into the cloud of dirt and debris by her waist, his eyes flicker sideways to catch that look but not to give any in return. Already, he's finding his footing, the arm at Maggie's side automatically going about her and pulling upwards as further momentum in her bid to stand. Tugs on jacket, then finds her arm and tugs on that, too. They're side-by-side managing to their feet before a nudge from him pushes her ahead. "B-Back—" a cough; they've risen, and that's where the smoke is. Driving forces for overworked muscles come in the form of the danger still behind, and that keeps the pace past that destroyed door, the stairs, turn, more stairs, the hallway and its cabinet — around where Maggie was supposed to have followed in Tommy's footsteps.

This, a warehouse open space, also ravaged by the rumblings as bits of ceiling make designs towards becoming floor. Whole metal grates overturned, boxes everywhere.

Exit in sight.

Laurie's speed increases to leap the first hurdle rather than pick a way around and as he skids to the floor beyond the pile, he twists, a hand displayed to help Maggie in the same. But the moment's interrupted by — a cry. Not a roar, or a crackle, but a thin and reedy human voice on Maggie's side of the impromptu barricade. To her left — leg trapped inescapably by one of those same metal grates, is the Weasel. His hand scrambles for impossible purchase as he spots her, squealing louder yet, "Hey— Heyy! Help — get me outta here!"

Hurriedly pounding footsteps come to a halt, stopping just short of following Laurie's hurdling when Maggie hears the cry for help. Its source brings a flash of conflict across her face, cutting into her determination to move as fast as humanly possible out the door. She takes in the sight of the man laying there — asking for help. Her help. She ahead to the exit, then left, taking a couple of impatient steps toward the prone Weasel to study the grate. Moving it — even two people moving it — is a big maybe. "Help is on the way," she shouts back to him. Sirens, shouts, a bustle of activity — FDNY has to be here by now. Somewhere. Not here. Even so, she takes the time to crouch by the man who many people probably would not miss if he burned. "Thanks for the lead." It could be an insult, given where the Weasel ended up for giving help he didn't even admit to — but there's no such thing in the detective's voice, though neither is it brimming with warmth. "I'll let them know that you're here. You'll be alright."

And then she's off again, running leap the pile of debris and warehouse odds-and-ends, reaching out for the hand that was there before, more necessary, now that she's lost her momentum.

The hand is still there; fingers wrap around hers, pulling her unhesitatingly away from conflict and danger, to the other side. It's the home-stretch. At least here the ceiling is high, and what smoke is propelling out of the epicenter of chaos stays, for now, there, allowing a sprint that taxes already hazy lungs but does not kill them. A few more paces, a couple more. Laurie's hand has stayed near Maggie's, near her back, always checking her progress before he'll up his own.

"Don't! Don't LEAVE ME!" Shrieking, high and inhuman. It follows them out, just that and then a string of curses lost to the atmosphere. This far at the building's edge, Laurie risks a grab and twist of the door, his forward pace somewhat knocking his shoulder against it even before the mechanism quite reacts. There's just a stutter of movement, then it swings—

Cars. Everywhere. Some kind of massive parade-like ensemble has taken over the outer ranges; men in protective gear towards the front, those in suits and vests past the firemen's line. Bright, authoritiative Fs, Bs, and Is painted on every chest.

Freedom. Clean air. At least what passes as clean air as smoke filters from the building into the already hot and polluted air of New York. It's welcome, though only several steps out, Maggie immediately leans over and braces a hand on one knee to launch into a fit of coughing, choking as she catches too-short breaths in-between. Her need to be alert quells her coughing spell quicker than is healthy, however, and she eases up to take in the bright display of emergency services, law, and the thugs that either escaped or were pulled out of the building into custody that are lined up near squad cars in cuffs.

Some of the company is less welcomed: the detective appears drug-out to begin with, put through the wringer of fire, but the look blase Maggie gives the line of FBI makes her appear especially tired.

Coughing is a shared past-time, and why shouldn't it be. They're both bathed in the smoke, dust, and scrapes of their misadventures inside. Laurie's difference is that, on lifting his head into the various emergency spotlights being shed on the inferno of the warehouse, he remarks, "Once again… the day is saved," in a tone that Maggie's look would appreciate.

Somewhere between the danger zone and that where surrendering Irishmen are being treated — if hurt — or herded into manageable groups — if not, though the injured are also being bustled about a bit more than necessary — two of these suited men appear with a purpose. Each gets a hand at Laurie's elbows and they use such to navigate him with an unapologetic slam directly into the side of a parked officer's car.

"Roscoe Peregrino," one of them gives an extra shove to go with the identity, "You have the right to remain silent…" is delivered in a dull, repetitive monotone to the percussive back-up of handcuffs being unclipped and opened for use. Laurie's answer is to sputter out a laugh that, between the impact and the coughing, is about the extent of what he can accomplish.

As the FBI swoop in and slam Laurie to the car, Maggie's brows lift with faint incredulity into her sweat-and-dust covered forehead — though nothing alters that dull expression she has for them at the moment. Instead of alarm at "Roscoe's" imminent arrest, a critical stare considers the men in suits, wondering how much they know — or don't.

A hint of a smirk touches the corners of the detective's mouth and she shakes her head, intruding between them. "Hey. Hey. Not so fast, agents," she says calmly into their midst with a voice made whispery thanks to the smoke. She reaches, again, for Laurie — this time to tug his arm casually back. "This one doesn't belong to you." She gives a small, considering tip of her head to one side and a quick arch of her brows again. "Anymore."

Protest in the form of an insistent hand trying to make Maggie back off is the arresting man's action as he's made to step aside at her approach. "Ma'am," his voice tends towards a whine in the way it isn't quite curbed to take the detective's words seriously. Yet he only holds up a hand of semi-helplessness, suggesting he can do naught else but his job here. "There are protocols to maintain…" In other words: he has orders, but he doesn't make them.

Laurie drifts backwards with the possessive tug by his partner, lifting off the car exterior with an expression quite similar to hers, but lacking some of the snark. Even as, taking several steps back now, he comes a breast of the hands-up FBI agent and calmly deposits the previously secured handcuffs into the unwittingly waiting palm of their owner. "I'm retired."

* * *

A short time later, the efforts continue to contain the fire at the warehouse, and the slew of authorities are still a bustle outside, though the organized urgency is gradually slowing. By a cluster of NYPD vehicles, Detective Powers stands kindly deferring the questions of a well-meaning paramedic while getting updates from a uniform.

Behind her, more of Roberto's men are gradually shoved toward patrol cars; many are already contained.

As the fire blows through the place, a scream can be heard. As the scream rings over everything, something clicks over Roberto's men. They blink and look around as if confused, some even drop their weapons. The men that were shot and previously acted as if they were fine, crumple to the ground in pain and screams.

As the policemen take the now compliant and confused minions to the patrol cars and the fire department shows up. A team of paramedics come rushing out with a man screaming. Something about the roaches in his brain and how he can't control them.

"SKITTLES!! SKITTLES!!" he shrieks as he bucks and tries to get out of the stretcher. Soon a sedative is given to the man and he relaxes and falls to sleep. His screams having stopped the scene of getting everyone out of the place.

"Who is that?" Someone asks Maggie Powers as they place a minion in the back of a van of crowded criminals. As the officer waits for Maggie's answer a group of people can be seen through the smoke. All adults, one looking very confused.. later.. when people are filing out their reports some will swear that the woman that was reported dead, Kitty Hanner was at the scene..


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