by TheTimeTrust, Captain Sammitch and GoozX
La Perdita:
Kit Piper and Blackwulf the Everchanging were supposedly talking business over lunch in the old cafeteria in the Fish Factory and enjoying a meal of steaming-hot Caribbean Fish Chowder as prepared by Carmelita Luis, a middle-aged local Del Mar resident hired as a cook. They were supposed to have been discussing the revised training program Blackwulf had come up with over the last few months, which awaited final approval. In reality, they skimmed over it rather quickly and got to talking about other things, like their ex-wives and the joys of the opposite sex.
The intercom rudely interrupted their hearty conversation when a nasally sounding, amplified version of Shirley Francis' voice broke out and filled the 1950s-era cafeteria dining room. "Kit, there's a call for you on line two."
"Maybe it is being your ex-wife, eh, comrade?" Blackwulf began, still laughing in his way.
"Maybe, maybe," said Kit as he pushed away from the table and walked, almost dancing as he hummed a James Brown tune -- "I Feel Good" -- to the phone. It was still a happy day. The sun was shining, the salty smell of sea air wafting in from the beach filled the cafeteria, as every window and door was open. Caribbean Januarys weren't bad. "Hel-lo!" he said cheerily. "Kit here. What can I do ya for?"
There was silence at the other end of the line for a moment. Finally, a voice spoke, "Mr. Piper..."
"That's my name."
"Mr. Piper, I want you should listen, and listen carefully," the voice said seriously, betraying a slight Sicilian-American accent. "Mr. Gambini don't like the reticincy with which ya pay the debts you rightfully owe 'im. Especially considerin' what Mr. Gambini's learned about your little... operation there on that beautiful Caribbean isle o' yours. What'd they call it? 'La Prita' or somethin'? Don't matter. Mr. Gambini knows what kinda expenses you been pullin' down lately. Seems he's a bit ticked off that you've got so much cash-flow goin' on, and you still can't pay yer bills."
Kit's cheerful expression quickly turned to one of dismay as the familiar voice spoke. He picked up the telephone and went around the corner out of anyone's earshot. "I-I've got your money ready," Kit stammered, "it just took some preparing, some saving up, to get it all together. They really don't pay me all that much here, I--"
"Mr. Gambini's not satisfied with da tardiness of yer payments, especially considerin' yer operation. M-B-L? ... 'Mabel Consulting' or somethin' like that? Mr. Gambini says you owe him interest for the past year-and-a-half. Mr. Gambini wants a thirty percent cut of this consulting biz ya got there."
"Th-thirty percent?!" Kit exclaimed, running his hand over his bald head. "B-but that's impossible! I don't--!"
"'You don't'? You don't what? Don't understand? What Mr. Gambini wants, Mr. Gambini is gonna get. An' we got some insurance ta make sure ya keep yer word." Kit could hear the telephone on the other end sounding somewhat muffled as it was transferred to someone else.
Finally, a voice came over the telephone: "Daddy?"
Kit's heart sank, and blood drained from his face. "Denyce?!" His daughters had spent the holidays at home with their mother, his ex-wife, in New Orleans. Their next scheduled visit was just a couple of weeks from now.
"Daddy, I don't like it here," the young girl cried. "I wanna go home!"
"Ohh, baby, I'm gonna come get you... as soon as I can," Kit said, tears beginning to run down his face as he tried to control himself, but slid down the wall to the floor. "I-is Latisha with you?"
The harsh voice was back. "Yer other girl's kept elsewhere, along with 'er ma. If Mr. Gambini finds out you speak ta anyone, especially these Mabel Consulting guys, you hint at it even a whiff... BANG! They're both dead. You try a rescue, or mount some kinda assault on Mr. Gambini or any o' his associates... BANG! They're dead. You succeed in rescuin' one o' yer daughters... BANG! The other one's dead. You try anything to make Mr. Gambini the slightest bit nervous... BANG! They're both dead." He paused to let it fully sink in. "Get the money. One of Mr. Gambini's associates will be expectin' you at the airport in twenty-four hours."
"Tw-twenty four hours?! But I can't--"
"Then they're dead. It's your choice. Time ta pay the piper, Mr. Piper. You got twenty-four hours."
Click.
Kit Piper dropped the receiver and slid down to the floor, sobbing like a little child.
At the MBL Consulting apartment complex in Puerta Mibela, Phil Smith was rummaging through his room on the seventh floor when he heard something hit the floor behind him. He turned.
A newspaper had appeared out of nowhere and fallen to the floor. Phil bent down and picked it up.
It was the New York Times. It was one of the pages near the back of the local news section, and a small story had been circled with a yellow highlighter.
Forensic detective says "Unidentified" killer's death staged
Phil's eyes widened. He read on, not liking any of what he read.
"Not a good time to be in the hero business."
Phil turned. Gabi stood in his doorway.
"What are you doing here?" Phil asked.
"I just thought I'd give you a little warning," Gabriela said. "The cops let us slip past them back in New York, but I don't know if your luck is going to hold out much longer."
Phil scanned the article. "It says here that the NYPD officers who witnessed the crash made no attempt to verify that we were actually in the Explorer when it sank. No bodies were recovered, obviously, but the author says that the officer with jurisdiction over the case closed the case before anything conclusive was known."
"He's saying there was a cover-up," Gabi said, "and that the officer with jurisdiction just let us go."
"And if a Times hack knows this," Phil said, "then I'm sure the FBI is well aware of it." He frowned. "And I'm sure Fisher is pretty eager to track me down, too."
"Now might not be the best time to stay in one place," Gabi advised him.
"I'm out of the country," Phil said. "And La Perdita has no extradition agreements with the U.S. government."
"Do you think any of that matters to Agent Fisher?" Gabi asked.
"Fisher will do whatever it takes to get me," Phil said. "Once he finds out where I am, anyway."
"If I found out where you are," Gabi told him, "then there's no doubt in my mind that Fisher knows you're here." She looked out the window. "We have to leave."
Phil held up his hands. "Hold on, Gabi. I live here. I have a responsibility to these people."
"Do you?"
"Yes, I do," Phil insisted. "They've given me a place to stay, and I belong here. And so at least for the time being, I'm staying here. I can't just up and leave them."
"What are you going to do about Fisher, then?" Gabi asked.
Phil shrugged. "Whatever it takes to get him off my back." He thought a moment. "He'll never stop chasing me as long as we're both still alive. So there's only one way to solve that."
Gabi paled. "I thought you were through with killing people."
"I won't let him find out about the MBL," Phil said. "He's trying to locate any metahumans that interest him and make a record of who they are and where they live. Their strengths, their weaknesses, everything. I'll die -- and I'll kill -- before I let him do that."
"It wouldn't be necessary," Gabi insisted, "if you'd just leave with me."
Phil sighed. "I... I can't think about that right now." He paused. "Nobody here knows who I am, and nobody here has managed to connect me to what happened in New York. They should be in the clear on the off chance the law tries to come here. If Fisher wants to push the issue, I've got a room full of ammo downstairs that has his name on it." Phil looked at Gabi. "But I can't risk him getting a hold of you. He'd run tests on you and stare at you through a microscope for the rest of your natural life."
"Then what are you going to do?" Gabriela asked.
"I'm going to keep doing what I've been doing," Phil said. "And you're going to stay right here with me."
"What about Leslie?"
Phil smiled at her. "What about her?"
Gabi grinned. "You wanna see if you can give me any other super-powers?"
"You know it," Phil said.
His phone beeped.
Gabi rolled her eyes and threw up her hands, and Phil gritted his teeth and yanked the phone from his pocket. "Yeah?"
"Hope I'm not interrupting anything," Grissom Montag said.
"Not at all," Phil replied flatly.
"This computer core is calling your name," Grissom told him. "I would appreciate if you'd come down here and help me out with it."
Phil sighed. "On my way." He hung up and looked at Gabi. "We will definitely have to continue this conversation later."
Priest and Grissom looked over blueprints for the new design of the apartment complex, which would now truly fit the nickname of the Complex.
"What I did was work the new building in a radius around the remaining section of the old complex," said Grissom. "Pushing it back a little gives us more room to properly secure the area. We bought out the two warehouses on the east end, so we have more movement around the complex and space to work out in the sun."
"Why didn't we just knock down the small remaining area, build up from nothing?" Priest asked, curious as to why the team was keeping a weak spot directly in the center of the building.
"Danny asked me if there was any way to preserve part of the original building. Out of respect for a friend. Don't worry, though, it's all going to be reinforced and just as strong as the rest of the building."
Priest nodded and looked at the complex. The outline was up, and they had gotten a good portion finished over the last few months since the storm, but so much work was still needed.
Charlene Montoya approached. "Phil's back, already down in the core and working on it."
Grissom shook his head. "That guy's gonna make me go gray early." He began walking and turned back toward Priest and Charlene. "Priest, follow Charley and give her a hand. She knows exactly what to do."