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"Team One, you have Captain Shea and SWAT waiting for you in the bullpen. Charlie has a location." ACRU BullpenApril 28th, 11:30 PM"…" |
Team One and Liza's desks crammed together, files and personal belongings swept aside by uncaring arms, are a makeshift meeting room to circle around. Over this has been spread a localized map that Cole leans over to circle on with a half-spent magic marker, one hand pressed to stop something of Andrew's from creating that unsightly bulge between Beverly and 1st at the corner of S Serrano. His circle's south and east of there: Shatto Recreation Center. Surrounded by a squash of dreary Koreatown suburbs and limping family businesses, none of it screams 'professional job'. Half-buried by one corner of the map, Race pecks away at Archie's own computer to palm blueprints off of an official database.
"What are you doin'? That ain't secure … There's something wrong with her, Jesus. Look at her! We gotta get rid of her fast before someone notices it's damaged goods," chatters the spy satellite of C.H.A.R.L.I.E. through the grainy bullpen speakers.
Standing at the head of the arrangement, as much as there is one, awaits their captain; Shea, hearing them enter — in triplicate — has one arm braced around him, holding the other so that the top of his hand might rest against his mouth.
It's Val, characteristically gripping the left side of her SWAT-grade vest's neckline, that greets the entering detective squad — plus Kev. "The time for investigation is over, gentlemen. This is cut and dry hostage territory." Her other fist smacks her chest, twice, hard, then drops to wrangle Kev's. "Suit up."
"Team One." The summons comes from Shea, whose posture appears less convinced than the unit leader's.
Kev separates from the pack immediately to do as he's told, as cleanly and quickly as if Val had pressed his own, personal eject button.
Unusually quiet (probably because he'd taken off the tuxedo Adidas to loan to Archie — the mental source of all of his superpowers), Andrew has lingered back just a stitch. "Investigation may be over," Andrew concedes to Val, "but I think it's premature to put SWAT on this one. Suiting up isn't going to keep Alice safe. Going in there with guns blazing isn't going to do anyone any favours." He arches a single eyebrow before facing the captain, "Archie-bald," because he would never call his beloved partner by anything but his real name, "and I have an alternate plan." His eyes twinkle with newfound mischief, "We want to pose as buyers. We can get Alice out and then make the appropriate arrests and minimize risk to the kidnapping victim and any collateral damage— "
It is already clear that Archibald dislikes Race pecking at his computer. He has everything set up a particular way and it is clear that Race is going to mess it up by his touching the computer. The tall, thin man paces nervously, arms crossed, fingers tapping anxiously at his own biceps. The word from CHARLIE is all that it takes to set him off. "You've bungled it!" Unable to contain himself, he gestures wildly at the screen - interrupting Andrew. "We should be out there already, they know they have a damaged goods and we'll be lucky to find her n—" Realizing that other people may be listening, he attempts to dial back. "Yes, we planned to pose as opposing buyers. But, I doubt that matters anymore. They're already on to the fact that she's not what they bargained for. They'll be willing to pass her off to anyone. If we want to bring this girl back alive, we've got to move now."
Jack tramples into the room. Her feet move at a clipped, nearly staccato'd rhythm and her eyes wide with wonder. Unlike the others present, the rookie holds her tongue for a moment as the conversation transpires between the officers present. Her lips turn down slightly as she looks over her shoulder towards Liza. She knows that she has no business sharing her thoughts, and yet…. "I think we need to bust in and hedge our bets— " it's a rookie's opinion, put what weight in it you want.
Glancing down at her phone from behind said rookie, Liza's immediate appearance is one that would suggest she's not so gung-ho nor as logically insistent on imminent action as everyone else; furthered when, lifting her head, the detective's response to the gathered is a large, indolently long-lasting shrug. "Hey, don't look at me, I just work here," she jokes. But there's a watchfulness (easily missed) in her dark eyes that belies the fact that she's more ready to move than she looks, and that the urgent seriousness of the missing girl's situation is at the forefront of her mind. She looks to Shea.
… whose counterpart appears as if, in usual fashion, from nowhere, or at least as silently as a procession from nowhere of nothing, having emerged from the direction of the basement level door. Ramsay's stern countenance is only further etched at the moment as he clutches his radio, prepared to be in contact with the remainder of his own team if need be. He, too, looks to Shea; in this way, with the faintest adjustment of tension on his face, stern to sternly questioning, he silently communicates his query to his co-captain — what's he thinking; does he agree with Team One — a communication that, in this case, has little to do with Shea's telepathy.
Their contemplative captain holds off another of their precious seconds, hesitant despite the hand he just held up that cut off any further input from the team. From the slightly downcast shade of his eyes, it's difficult to discern whether he's in his own thoughts or someone else's. Only C.H.A.R.L.I.E, immune to concerns of man, peppers the back of the conversation with the occasional off-color comment in 'his' mildly programmed voice. "Time's a factor here," he finally voices— not as something they don't all know but a discontent conclusion; in this way, he waives responsibility over to his hardened peer. There simply isn't the time to establish credible covers, convince CIs to vouch: any of the things required for a potentially successful bust by any other means than the one Officer Kev carries.
Then, haggling with himself, he tacks on, "But I want Team One there. They'll hold back," a purposeful eye locks on Andrew and Archie; it's less a reassurance to Ramsay as a command to the detectives involved, "but they can assist in covering exits." According to the— a few years old— schematics Race has pulled up on Archibald's computer while studiously ignoring the detective, there are plenty of those.
Andrew's expression hinges on severe at the news. His lips draw downwards and his arms fold over his chest, encasing whatever thoughts he has on the matter. Having grown up in a family of police officers, insubordination hardly seems appropriate save for one thing, "Can they keep her safe? Because that's the bigger issue, isn't it? I met her, she's a kid and needs protection." But he concedes to Shea's leadership as his arms drop to his sides. He's not happy, that much is obvious. He shoots Archibald a look, wondering if his partner is as thrilled about holding back as he is.
"Yeah… standin' right here," mumbles— any member of the ACRU SWAT — all of whom are assembled in the room around the detectives' desks, suited up, and looking antsy but professional; they've basically got the go but Val hinges on official word from their individual captain now that the detectives' one has turned things over.
There is no checking in with Andrew. The pent up anticipation and annoyance causes Archibald to straighten to his full height, eyes narrowing. Can this man hold back from anything when he doesn't wish to? It doesn't not seem like it, even with the warning look from Shea and the questioning one from Andrew. "You're turning it into a hostage situation." Hands unwind from being entangled with each other and are tossed up in the air. "If you go in there bursting down doors they will slit her throat and not blink an eye. We are losing time but we can still salvage this if we send someone in as a buyer - someone important, brokers no arguments. Have them insist on inspecting the girl and then you can toss in your gun monkeys and head shrinkers to take care of the criminals. The 'buyer' can duck and cover and the SWAT will either get the men, or mess it up. Either way, the girl is in our hands. Sending in SWAT now only ensures you'll have a dead girl on your hands."
The Rookie now takes to silence as she slides against the wall, ready for whatever orders they have for her. She's already given an opinion and now it's her time to take orders. That's her duty as a rookie.
It's about then that Kev strides back into the periphery — and he does stride, rather than shuffle. The SWAT gear, heavy-looking but streamlined, accentuates the fact that he's the brawn — and boosts an air of confidence about him. Up until the second he takes note of the conflict going on in the bullpen and comes to a slow halt, staring like a deer-in-the-headlights. One of his fists clenches, antsy. The girl's out there, waiting for them to find her.
"Hey, whoa." It's the smooth gravel of Detective Sloan, instead; Liza speaks up with a slow hand extended in Archibald's direction, pacifist style — although she's no Angela King when it comes to negotiating hostile situations, usually brimming with her own impassioned opinions. "I know I'm the new detective on the block but I know enough about these gyts," she glances to the geared-up crew that-a-way, first on Val and sweeping around the others, "to know they're not like a giant hammer swinging around breaking shit." She turns her head to spot Kev and seems to reconsider for his exception, but remarkably refrains from making a joke, taking the timing into account. "Maybe we just like chill and listen to the boss-men."
Throughout, Ramsay gives a slow nod to Shea. When his voice — though he does not so much as raise it — makes itself known, it might as well be on loudspeaker. "You heard it said," by C.H.A.R.L.I.E., "time is a factor. We'll coordinate communication in the field. This will be a team effort." And that means both brands of teams. Beyond his unmoving features, there's a pressing concern; something nearly impatient in his eyes, in which there is, also, no room for argument. "We're moving in. My team, let's go."
A skeptical stare is sent towards Liza, but Andrew leaves his remarks to himself. He can, and will, follow orders. When they're orders. Right now, working as a team is everything. His gaze turns up towards Archibald, "We're being circumvented here. We'll get the car and watch some exits." And then, less convincingly, he states: "It'll be fine. Alice will be fine." Because in the end that's all that really matters.