THE SWEENEY - Log 10
Apr. 19th, 2026 03:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
xp_changeling posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
xp_logsThe trail finally leads to The Sweeney.
WARNING: Explicit content and language.
It had already occurred to Trevor Fitzroy that even if he hadn't needed to escape a horde intent on assassinating him and dragging his dead body through the street, it still would have been better to escape his home dimension for this new one. The advantages of the much younger body aside, the violence of his home had ruined many things, including the beautiful view of the Mediterranean from a private beach house in Spain, with a fine bottle of chilled wine at his elbow. Granted, he'd helped destroy it in the first place, but why assign blame.
He scowled for a moment as his phone rang. The number was extremely private, known only to a select few, or at least that's what his fixer had assured him. He thumbed on the receiver.
"You've been naughty again, Fitzroy."
"Who is this?"
"Mucking around with government intelligence assets is significantly more dangerous than bilking the rich weirdos of the Hellfire Club. And the penalties are a lot higher."
"It's you."
"Your little bounty on Alistaire Stuart is cancelled. I'm sure you'll bluster and make threats, but His Majesty's government, with help from the EU, has already seized two of the accounts you were thinking of transferring the money from to pay it. If you're very quick, you might be able to transfer your other accounts in North Africa out before they get seized as well."
Fitzroy covered the phone for a second, barking for his fixer and his guards.
"This is your second warning, Trevor. The next warning goes through your left eye before you even know what you did wrong." He paused. "Enjoy Spain."
What had been a quiet afternoon enjoying the sun turned into a desperate scramble to switch accounts, houses, and even countries just a few steps ahead of the authorities.
***
This was not the usual drug den. It wasn't a bombed-out hole, a repurposed industrial site or even just a sketchy home. It was a stately manor, set on an estate that looked straight out of a BBC period piece. Pulling up to the home meant passing through well-tended grounds, past an ancient and perfect garden, and parking next to several luxury cars. A hard looking man in a suit waited at the bottom of the stairs as they got out, his scarred face set and expressionless as he looked them over.
Stephen slid out of the car first, holding the door open and moving to assist the women inside it out of pure habit as opposed to actually believing any of them needed the help. He'd looked their welcome committee over once and then turned back to the women, giving the impression he was a) accustomed to having the help waiting on him and b) that the man was of no real consequence.
Clea was the next to slide out of the car with the help of Stephen. The red headed witch looked up at the impressive manor. Memories flooded back of her childhood visiting Bas and his family. Never did she think their search would lead them here.
"You are a darling, you know that, yes?" Marie-Ange let Stephen take her hand to help her out of the car. "Avert your eyes if I pull any cards, so you can have plausible deniability." She dusted herself off and gave the grounds a once over. "Perhaps this one will be reasonable. I am tired of the wardrobe changes this trip."
"I had to cosplay teenage Amanda," Topaz said as she climbed out on the other side. "I win for worst wardrobe change."
"Hah, hah." Amanda mock-complained as she followed Topaz. As she straightened, she took in the location, gaze sweeping over the facade, looking for ambush points, other thugs - since the man waiting for them most certainly wasn't a typical butler type. "Stay on your toes, this could get ugly," she told the others in a lower voice.
The goon merely led them into the house - manor more accurately - as they all fell into step behind him, passing the odd similarly-suited hard-looking man. They were finally led into what must have once been a ballroom or a gallery, with a full wall of heavily filigreed windows, polished wood floors and a long table surrounded by chairs. There were a dozen men milling about, and on the table, a collection of piles of plants. They could smell the marijuana from the door, but the others were less obvious, a pile of fungus, a collection of green looking pods, several grasses of unknown origins.
The side door opened and an older man strode in; a big man gone to paunch with age and success. His finely tailored suit and elaborate waistcoat did their best to keep a trim figure as he walked over to the table and sat down across from them. "What a fucking shower indeed." He muttered, looking at them. "Right, sit down. You've caused a right load of cunt-erey to get here. So-" He paused for a second. "Fucking hell, I know you. You're that bird that used to hang around my nephew Bazer. What the hell is this all about, right?"
"Oh I am sorry, we have you at a disadvantage. You only know one of us, but all of us know you." Marie-Ange glanced around the room. "Goodness, you are industrious. Is that peyote? How are you growing peyote in this climate?" She shook off the question, and smiled - and sat down, crossing her legs. "Marie-Ange Colbert, not of the Columbian District Colberts, much to my pity. We would like to discuss some business."
Clea smiled, "Bas and I still keep in contact now and then. I think the last time I saw you was about 10 years ago." It had been a very long time ago, and Clea was surprised he still remembered her as their meeting was brief at one of Bas's family dinner parties. "Your name popped up in conversations which lead us to this meeting, for business." She iterated what Marie-Ange said.
"We know you have Stuart." Amanda had taken up a position behind Marie-Ange's seat, resting her hands lightly on the chair's top. She caught the glances of her teammates and shrugged. "Enough beating around the bush. You arranged the abduction of a government man. We want him released."
"Whether I do or do not have a specific geezer is up for debate. A costly one." He said and affixed his gaze on MA. "And yes, that is peyote. The sleepiest ever. That is my Caesar. This little nugget will fuck you up ten ways to Sunday and fuck the missus on the way home. And this, my White Widow Super Cheese, the finest to ever be involved in a smoke and poke in these isles. My brother might like to swan about telling the punters how he's making algae that eats oil and that's why he's 'Doctor Druid', but we both learned from our mum, and she taught me to provide what the street wants and needs. And providing that involves costs. Costs which your geezer is going to cover. So, I'll make it simple. I'm getting thirty million quid to stitch him up and send him out. You have a better offer, it starts at thirty-five, no matter how much Adam bloody Destine scowls at me."
"Ta Ludgate. Thought you'd forgotten me."
"I never forget a cunt. 'specially you. You still owe me for Spitalfields."
"Bollocks. You went into my territory, you got burned. That's the law of the jungle, innit it?"
"Back to the point at hand," Stephen murmured, unbothered by the fact that he'd apparently made far less of an impression on Bas' uncle than Clea and all the things that might imply. He toyed with his family ring, not looking up at the man as he propped himself up against Clea's chair and ensured his awareness of the many fancied-up mob-men around them. "Thirty-five is out of the question. But you knew that. I doubt you're getting more than five for him, given who and what he is, not to mention what he does. Be realistic, would you? The nattering of downward negotiation and bluffing is so tedious."
"It would be more fun if it was about the absurdly named sativa strains. At least then one of us has to say Skywalker Kush without smiling." Marie-Ange added. "Our dear doctor is correct, thirty five million pounds is so very much money for someone of Mister Stuart's abilities." She uncrossed her legs and recrossed them, watched Ludgate fail to react and then sat up primly. So much for for sex appeal. "I can do four, which is quite generous, and we can discuss payment methods." She glanced at Topaz. "See, my assistant is all ready to move money for me."
"Right, yes, of course," Topaz said, making a show of taking out her phone and concentrating on it as she ran a mental check on Ludgate. "What currency were you wanting?"
It was a pretty predictable run of emotions. He was a greedy son of a bitch, suspicious of this group that had strolled in to try and take control of the narrative, and smug in an ungodly way. He knew he was getting the money he wanted. This was a game to him. He was suspicious, especially of Marie-Ange, but he wasn't taking them particularly seriously.
She sent the assessment to Marie-Ange and continued pretending to wire money, muttering something about authentication codes holding up the process.
Marie-Ange tapped her fingernails on the tabletop. "Perhaps not bitcoin? That way lies memes and what is that phrase, sigma men? I do not know. Computer currency is alien to me. Pounds, dollars, yen, what coinage do we prefer, Doctor Ludgate? Please say it is not bitcoin, I have a computer genius in my office who will shriek about it in the most awful way."
"I'm sorry little bird, but you get nothing. Whether or not he's worth thirty-five million quid to you is bollocks since he's already worth thirty million to my old sal. So You get... oh fuck me." He paused as someone else was walked into his private sanctum; Kevin, rebuttoning the bottom of his suit. "Oh fucking hell. Now we have Yankee Doodle fucking Dandy show up." He turned to his men. "Is this a clandestine underworld location or bloody Waterloo Station?"
Kevin smiled at him, as unreadable as always. "Call your buyer. I think you might not have a deal any longer." He said quietly, being ushered to a seat with a gun to his head.
"Yeah, you really should," drawled Amanda with a nasty grin. "I can't wait to see how it goes."
"And why should I bloody-" Ludgate started and then paused. There was something about Kevin he couldn't quite place, but he'd been around long enough to recognize a proper hard man from the pretend tough. He took out his phone, thumbing in a number and walking away as he spoke in a low tone, so they couldn't properly hear him and with his back turned, they couldn't read his lips. However, they really don't have to, seeing the way his whole body suddenly slumped. That was a language they all spoke. He turned back at them.
"So, you said five million quid?"
Kevin shook his head. "Our new offer is nothing. Or, to be more specific, our offer is nothing in terms of fiscal payment, but we will put in a good word with the current head of MI6 who has given this kidnapping her special attention. If Stuart is produced alive and unharmed as rapidly as possible, we might be willing to forget who was stupid enough to take him in the first place when we talk to her."
One of his men started forward and Ludgate growled him back. "Don't. We've been stitched up proper like. Go and get him." He said and scowled when the man hesitated. "I said get him, you daft cunt!" The man quailed and turned, heading out of the room.
Glancing over to Ludgate from the man holding Sidney at gunpoint, Stephen switched his fiddling to his sling-ring just in case and asked, "Why'd you take him, anyway? Stuart, I mean. Of all the magic monitors in all the world..."
"Boredom? Money? The thrill?" Clea responded, looking at Ludgate with a very judgmental look on her face. "Power does go to people's head sometimes and there are a lot of twisted people who would do anything for just that."
"Money. Never asked why he was worth the thirty million quid. Just needed it." Ludgate said, staring out the window. "You know that my drugs are bespoke; excellent. Best of the best thanks to the magical training from mum. The best cleanest highs, no chance of a fucking overdose. The white and the brown made from my products can't be overdosed. No sense killing off loyal customers, but then that filthy fentanyl comes in at rock bottom prices. Worse, getting my product to the continent or overseas... fifty, sixty percent of the profit eaten up by the middlemen to start. Then I get my opportunity. Seaport. Shipping centre. Needs a hundred million quid to refurbish, but at the end, no middlemen. Just my little darlings going straight to a tasty world. Stuart was the final down payment to getting it done."
"And he approached you?" Kevin said quietly.
"Told me he wanted to deal with an established man; a proper villain who wouldn’t be tempted to make some side deal.”
At that moment, two of his men walked in with a rather unremarkable looking man; skinny, early thirties, with a flop of brown hair and a pair of prominent ears. He looked more like a frustrated shop owner than any kind of magical enforcer. But there was steel in his gaze as he caught sight of Ludgate.
“Have a butchers at the new kingpin of London.” He sneered and Ludgate winced. “You know the rules. This one is going to cost you to make right.”
Ludgate sighed and nodded. “Right. What will it be?”
“Your operation in Liverpool sounds about right.”
“Come over. There’s over ten million quid in product and equipment up there.”
“I know. See, I’d be more inclined to be generous if your men hadn’t been running their norths that you were selling me to the French for parts or summit. So, let’s say the police grab that operation and all your lovely mindbending treats with it. Figure there’s a year of production lost while you set up a new shop; maybe ten million in startup costs… I’d say that puts you out the thirty you stitched me up for. Now, if you think that’s unfair…”
“Fine, fine.” He agreed quickly. “Just go. I’ll make some calls to my men; tell them to leave the super cheese for our fine police officers.”
Alistaire nodded and as a group they left the house, heading for the cars. Other than a bruise on his temple, he didn’t seem out of sorts and as they reached the cars, he held out his hand to Marie-Ange. “Appreciate the support, even though I don’t know any of you.”
Marie-Ange let him shake her hand briefly - more like a single clasp, efficient and polite. "Ah, yes. That has to be disorienting, rescued by no one you know. We have a mutual associate, Sonya Falsworth. She informed us of the situation, and it was in our interest to help." She paused. "She appealed to our better natures, which is to say we owed her a favour."
“Sounds like Sonya. She’s going to be insufferable that I got jumped.”
“We don’t come cheap. Falsworth must value you.” Kevin said, opening his car door. “I’ll drop you off on the way. The rest of you, I’ll see you back home.”
WARNING: Explicit content and language.
It had already occurred to Trevor Fitzroy that even if he hadn't needed to escape a horde intent on assassinating him and dragging his dead body through the street, it still would have been better to escape his home dimension for this new one. The advantages of the much younger body aside, the violence of his home had ruined many things, including the beautiful view of the Mediterranean from a private beach house in Spain, with a fine bottle of chilled wine at his elbow. Granted, he'd helped destroy it in the first place, but why assign blame.
He scowled for a moment as his phone rang. The number was extremely private, known only to a select few, or at least that's what his fixer had assured him. He thumbed on the receiver.
"You've been naughty again, Fitzroy."
"Who is this?"
"Mucking around with government intelligence assets is significantly more dangerous than bilking the rich weirdos of the Hellfire Club. And the penalties are a lot higher."
"It's you."
"Your little bounty on Alistaire Stuart is cancelled. I'm sure you'll bluster and make threats, but His Majesty's government, with help from the EU, has already seized two of the accounts you were thinking of transferring the money from to pay it. If you're very quick, you might be able to transfer your other accounts in North Africa out before they get seized as well."
Fitzroy covered the phone for a second, barking for his fixer and his guards.
"This is your second warning, Trevor. The next warning goes through your left eye before you even know what you did wrong." He paused. "Enjoy Spain."
What had been a quiet afternoon enjoying the sun turned into a desperate scramble to switch accounts, houses, and even countries just a few steps ahead of the authorities.
***
This was not the usual drug den. It wasn't a bombed-out hole, a repurposed industrial site or even just a sketchy home. It was a stately manor, set on an estate that looked straight out of a BBC period piece. Pulling up to the home meant passing through well-tended grounds, past an ancient and perfect garden, and parking next to several luxury cars. A hard looking man in a suit waited at the bottom of the stairs as they got out, his scarred face set and expressionless as he looked them over.
Stephen slid out of the car first, holding the door open and moving to assist the women inside it out of pure habit as opposed to actually believing any of them needed the help. He'd looked their welcome committee over once and then turned back to the women, giving the impression he was a) accustomed to having the help waiting on him and b) that the man was of no real consequence.
Clea was the next to slide out of the car with the help of Stephen. The red headed witch looked up at the impressive manor. Memories flooded back of her childhood visiting Bas and his family. Never did she think their search would lead them here.
"You are a darling, you know that, yes?" Marie-Ange let Stephen take her hand to help her out of the car. "Avert your eyes if I pull any cards, so you can have plausible deniability." She dusted herself off and gave the grounds a once over. "Perhaps this one will be reasonable. I am tired of the wardrobe changes this trip."
"I had to cosplay teenage Amanda," Topaz said as she climbed out on the other side. "I win for worst wardrobe change."
"Hah, hah." Amanda mock-complained as she followed Topaz. As she straightened, she took in the location, gaze sweeping over the facade, looking for ambush points, other thugs - since the man waiting for them most certainly wasn't a typical butler type. "Stay on your toes, this could get ugly," she told the others in a lower voice.
The goon merely led them into the house - manor more accurately - as they all fell into step behind him, passing the odd similarly-suited hard-looking man. They were finally led into what must have once been a ballroom or a gallery, with a full wall of heavily filigreed windows, polished wood floors and a long table surrounded by chairs. There were a dozen men milling about, and on the table, a collection of piles of plants. They could smell the marijuana from the door, but the others were less obvious, a pile of fungus, a collection of green looking pods, several grasses of unknown origins.
The side door opened and an older man strode in; a big man gone to paunch with age and success. His finely tailored suit and elaborate waistcoat did their best to keep a trim figure as he walked over to the table and sat down across from them. "What a fucking shower indeed." He muttered, looking at them. "Right, sit down. You've caused a right load of cunt-erey to get here. So-" He paused for a second. "Fucking hell, I know you. You're that bird that used to hang around my nephew Bazer. What the hell is this all about, right?"
"Oh I am sorry, we have you at a disadvantage. You only know one of us, but all of us know you." Marie-Ange glanced around the room. "Goodness, you are industrious. Is that peyote? How are you growing peyote in this climate?" She shook off the question, and smiled - and sat down, crossing her legs. "Marie-Ange Colbert, not of the Columbian District Colberts, much to my pity. We would like to discuss some business."
Clea smiled, "Bas and I still keep in contact now and then. I think the last time I saw you was about 10 years ago." It had been a very long time ago, and Clea was surprised he still remembered her as their meeting was brief at one of Bas's family dinner parties. "Your name popped up in conversations which lead us to this meeting, for business." She iterated what Marie-Ange said.
"We know you have Stuart." Amanda had taken up a position behind Marie-Ange's seat, resting her hands lightly on the chair's top. She caught the glances of her teammates and shrugged. "Enough beating around the bush. You arranged the abduction of a government man. We want him released."
"Whether I do or do not have a specific geezer is up for debate. A costly one." He said and affixed his gaze on MA. "And yes, that is peyote. The sleepiest ever. That is my Caesar. This little nugget will fuck you up ten ways to Sunday and fuck the missus on the way home. And this, my White Widow Super Cheese, the finest to ever be involved in a smoke and poke in these isles. My brother might like to swan about telling the punters how he's making algae that eats oil and that's why he's 'Doctor Druid', but we both learned from our mum, and she taught me to provide what the street wants and needs. And providing that involves costs. Costs which your geezer is going to cover. So, I'll make it simple. I'm getting thirty million quid to stitch him up and send him out. You have a better offer, it starts at thirty-five, no matter how much Adam bloody Destine scowls at me."
"Ta Ludgate. Thought you'd forgotten me."
"I never forget a cunt. 'specially you. You still owe me for Spitalfields."
"Bollocks. You went into my territory, you got burned. That's the law of the jungle, innit it?"
"Back to the point at hand," Stephen murmured, unbothered by the fact that he'd apparently made far less of an impression on Bas' uncle than Clea and all the things that might imply. He toyed with his family ring, not looking up at the man as he propped himself up against Clea's chair and ensured his awareness of the many fancied-up mob-men around them. "Thirty-five is out of the question. But you knew that. I doubt you're getting more than five for him, given who and what he is, not to mention what he does. Be realistic, would you? The nattering of downward negotiation and bluffing is so tedious."
"It would be more fun if it was about the absurdly named sativa strains. At least then one of us has to say Skywalker Kush without smiling." Marie-Ange added. "Our dear doctor is correct, thirty five million pounds is so very much money for someone of Mister Stuart's abilities." She uncrossed her legs and recrossed them, watched Ludgate fail to react and then sat up primly. So much for for sex appeal. "I can do four, which is quite generous, and we can discuss payment methods." She glanced at Topaz. "See, my assistant is all ready to move money for me."
"Right, yes, of course," Topaz said, making a show of taking out her phone and concentrating on it as she ran a mental check on Ludgate. "What currency were you wanting?"
It was a pretty predictable run of emotions. He was a greedy son of a bitch, suspicious of this group that had strolled in to try and take control of the narrative, and smug in an ungodly way. He knew he was getting the money he wanted. This was a game to him. He was suspicious, especially of Marie-Ange, but he wasn't taking them particularly seriously.
She sent the assessment to Marie-Ange and continued pretending to wire money, muttering something about authentication codes holding up the process.
Marie-Ange tapped her fingernails on the tabletop. "Perhaps not bitcoin? That way lies memes and what is that phrase, sigma men? I do not know. Computer currency is alien to me. Pounds, dollars, yen, what coinage do we prefer, Doctor Ludgate? Please say it is not bitcoin, I have a computer genius in my office who will shriek about it in the most awful way."
"I'm sorry little bird, but you get nothing. Whether or not he's worth thirty-five million quid to you is bollocks since he's already worth thirty million to my old sal. So You get... oh fuck me." He paused as someone else was walked into his private sanctum; Kevin, rebuttoning the bottom of his suit. "Oh fucking hell. Now we have Yankee Doodle fucking Dandy show up." He turned to his men. "Is this a clandestine underworld location or bloody Waterloo Station?"
Kevin smiled at him, as unreadable as always. "Call your buyer. I think you might not have a deal any longer." He said quietly, being ushered to a seat with a gun to his head.
"Yeah, you really should," drawled Amanda with a nasty grin. "I can't wait to see how it goes."
"And why should I bloody-" Ludgate started and then paused. There was something about Kevin he couldn't quite place, but he'd been around long enough to recognize a proper hard man from the pretend tough. He took out his phone, thumbing in a number and walking away as he spoke in a low tone, so they couldn't properly hear him and with his back turned, they couldn't read his lips. However, they really don't have to, seeing the way his whole body suddenly slumped. That was a language they all spoke. He turned back at them.
"So, you said five million quid?"
Kevin shook his head. "Our new offer is nothing. Or, to be more specific, our offer is nothing in terms of fiscal payment, but we will put in a good word with the current head of MI6 who has given this kidnapping her special attention. If Stuart is produced alive and unharmed as rapidly as possible, we might be willing to forget who was stupid enough to take him in the first place when we talk to her."
One of his men started forward and Ludgate growled him back. "Don't. We've been stitched up proper like. Go and get him." He said and scowled when the man hesitated. "I said get him, you daft cunt!" The man quailed and turned, heading out of the room.
Glancing over to Ludgate from the man holding Sidney at gunpoint, Stephen switched his fiddling to his sling-ring just in case and asked, "Why'd you take him, anyway? Stuart, I mean. Of all the magic monitors in all the world..."
"Boredom? Money? The thrill?" Clea responded, looking at Ludgate with a very judgmental look on her face. "Power does go to people's head sometimes and there are a lot of twisted people who would do anything for just that."
"Money. Never asked why he was worth the thirty million quid. Just needed it." Ludgate said, staring out the window. "You know that my drugs are bespoke; excellent. Best of the best thanks to the magical training from mum. The best cleanest highs, no chance of a fucking overdose. The white and the brown made from my products can't be overdosed. No sense killing off loyal customers, but then that filthy fentanyl comes in at rock bottom prices. Worse, getting my product to the continent or overseas... fifty, sixty percent of the profit eaten up by the middlemen to start. Then I get my opportunity. Seaport. Shipping centre. Needs a hundred million quid to refurbish, but at the end, no middlemen. Just my little darlings going straight to a tasty world. Stuart was the final down payment to getting it done."
"And he approached you?" Kevin said quietly.
"Told me he wanted to deal with an established man; a proper villain who wouldn’t be tempted to make some side deal.”
At that moment, two of his men walked in with a rather unremarkable looking man; skinny, early thirties, with a flop of brown hair and a pair of prominent ears. He looked more like a frustrated shop owner than any kind of magical enforcer. But there was steel in his gaze as he caught sight of Ludgate.
“Have a butchers at the new kingpin of London.” He sneered and Ludgate winced. “You know the rules. This one is going to cost you to make right.”
Ludgate sighed and nodded. “Right. What will it be?”
“Your operation in Liverpool sounds about right.”
“Come over. There’s over ten million quid in product and equipment up there.”
“I know. See, I’d be more inclined to be generous if your men hadn’t been running their norths that you were selling me to the French for parts or summit. So, let’s say the police grab that operation and all your lovely mindbending treats with it. Figure there’s a year of production lost while you set up a new shop; maybe ten million in startup costs… I’d say that puts you out the thirty you stitched me up for. Now, if you think that’s unfair…”
“Fine, fine.” He agreed quickly. “Just go. I’ll make some calls to my men; tell them to leave the super cheese for our fine police officers.”
Alistaire nodded and as a group they left the house, heading for the cars. Other than a bruise on his temple, he didn’t seem out of sorts and as they reached the cars, he held out his hand to Marie-Ange. “Appreciate the support, even though I don’t know any of you.”
Marie-Ange let him shake her hand briefly - more like a single clasp, efficient and polite. "Ah, yes. That has to be disorienting, rescued by no one you know. We have a mutual associate, Sonya Falsworth. She informed us of the situation, and it was in our interest to help." She paused. "She appealed to our better natures, which is to say we owed her a favour."
“Sounds like Sonya. She’s going to be insufferable that I got jumped.”
“We don’t come cheap. Falsworth must value you.” Kevin said, opening his car door. “I’ll drop you off on the way. The rest of you, I’ll see you back home.”
