Wendigo
Member
If Vasquez stayed in Pittsburgh, he was fucked.
Peters was dead. Very dead. Super fucking dead. There was too much blood on his clothes for there to be anything else. The fact they were delivered in a cardboard box to his doorstep meant that the fucking Scarecrow, or Slasher, or Cryptid, or whatever he was called, was still alive. That meant that the bruiser hired to take care of him was dead, too. And when that creep Obsidian’s man didn’t come back, Leo was dead. If the Slasher didn’t get him, Obsidian’s freak show would. Or the ringmaster himself.
That was fucking horrifying. He didn’t want to die the way Martin, Garcia, and White did, eaten with a single goddamn touch. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to die the way however the fuck Peters and Obsidian’s man did.
Leo didn’t back down from a fight. He had his place on the food chain from being tough, and scarier than everyone else. And from being able to do math alright. But this? This wouldn’t be a fight, it’d be a fucking slaughter, and he wasn’t going to die like an animal if he could help it. If living meant running, then he’d hole up someplace for a few weeks, maybe a month. Just until the heat died down. Lay low, even if it meant staying in a chintzy shithole like Kittanning.
Kittanning was the kind of charming small town that tricked out-of-staters into thinking that Pennsylvania was a well-preserved history museum of little villages and old buildings. It was an hour outside Pittsburgh, which felt like too far for one of his problems to put his stupid combat boots through a window.
And Obsidian couldn’t know about all of Leo’s safehouses. Sure, he knew one or two offices, his home and work, Maria’s house. Let Obsidian clear all that shit out, let him have the bitch, let let him burn himself out chasing empty leads. Leo could afford a little vacation time in the tiny two-bedroom cottage style house he’d bought some years back for a similar situation. There was a lot of property around, just enough space around the house that any kind of ambush could be seen from the windows, just far enough cover that the house couldn’t be seen from the road.
He brought seven. The seven guys who’d have his back no matter what came around. Eight guys in one cottage house wasn’t cozy, but in this case the more the merrier. Taylor was on lookout, rotating day-night shift with Gabrielli in a car hidden in the bushes at the front of the property. Any sign of the freak show – or anything else – and a call would go through to one of Leo’s personal guard. Butler and Raymond played cards on the front porch, did patrols, slept within arm’s reach of each other. Rowe, Estez, and Coleman were rotating out personal bodyguard duty, but after the first few days they’d taken up shifts, too.
Leo himself was armed. Never went anywhere unarmed. Knucklebracers, hunting knife, handgun, semi-auto rifle. To list everything he’d brought would take up the entire day, but suffice to stay it was enough to outfit a small army.
And Leo would kill the man who’d done the outfitting, if he showed his shadowy mug.
Peters was dead. Very dead. Super fucking dead. There was too much blood on his clothes for there to be anything else. The fact they were delivered in a cardboard box to his doorstep meant that the fucking Scarecrow, or Slasher, or Cryptid, or whatever he was called, was still alive. That meant that the bruiser hired to take care of him was dead, too. And when that creep Obsidian’s man didn’t come back, Leo was dead. If the Slasher didn’t get him, Obsidian’s freak show would. Or the ringmaster himself.
That was fucking horrifying. He didn’t want to die the way Martin, Garcia, and White did, eaten with a single goddamn touch. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to die the way however the fuck Peters and Obsidian’s man did.
Leo didn’t back down from a fight. He had his place on the food chain from being tough, and scarier than everyone else. And from being able to do math alright. But this? This wouldn’t be a fight, it’d be a fucking slaughter, and he wasn’t going to die like an animal if he could help it. If living meant running, then he’d hole up someplace for a few weeks, maybe a month. Just until the heat died down. Lay low, even if it meant staying in a chintzy shithole like Kittanning.
Kittanning was the kind of charming small town that tricked out-of-staters into thinking that Pennsylvania was a well-preserved history museum of little villages and old buildings. It was an hour outside Pittsburgh, which felt like too far for one of his problems to put his stupid combat boots through a window.
And Obsidian couldn’t know about all of Leo’s safehouses. Sure, he knew one or two offices, his home and work, Maria’s house. Let Obsidian clear all that shit out, let him have the bitch, let let him burn himself out chasing empty leads. Leo could afford a little vacation time in the tiny two-bedroom cottage style house he’d bought some years back for a similar situation. There was a lot of property around, just enough space around the house that any kind of ambush could be seen from the windows, just far enough cover that the house couldn’t be seen from the road.
He brought seven. The seven guys who’d have his back no matter what came around. Eight guys in one cottage house wasn’t cozy, but in this case the more the merrier. Taylor was on lookout, rotating day-night shift with Gabrielli in a car hidden in the bushes at the front of the property. Any sign of the freak show – or anything else – and a call would go through to one of Leo’s personal guard. Butler and Raymond played cards on the front porch, did patrols, slept within arm’s reach of each other. Rowe, Estez, and Coleman were rotating out personal bodyguard duty, but after the first few days they’d taken up shifts, too.
Leo himself was armed. Never went anywhere unarmed. Knucklebracers, hunting knife, handgun, semi-auto rifle. To list everything he’d brought would take up the entire day, but suffice to stay it was enough to outfit a small army.
And Leo would kill the man who’d done the outfitting, if he showed his shadowy mug.