Marchese, the leader of Team Moustache awesome, meet Mr. Dyreng. Dyreng has something he wants, and he'll get it one way or the other.
“What do you say? Are you prepared for something like this?”
The hushed voice reverberated through the wall that Marchese was resting his head against. A thick, white candle sat in the middle of the stained table, it’s flame flickering close to extinction. The wax had melted down and around the candle, forming tiny stalagmites, canyons, and rivers of cooling wax. It had been burning a long time, and the night was giving way to a cold dawn outside the window that occupied the area of wall between the two men. As the last remaining stars twinkled out of existence, Marchese lets out an exasperated sigh and runs a hand over the fu manchu that outlines his hard, masculine mouth. The man across from him asks his question again, leaning in as if he hadn’t quite caught the answer.
The man lets out a held breath and relaxes back against the wooden chair he’s been sitting in for hours. Marchese had accepted, and that meant the others would too. He was always the hardest to convince. Stuffing a meaty hand into his jacket pocket, Dyreng grabs for something. Finding it, he withdraws his hand quickly and Marchese tenses.
“Please, Mr. Marchese. It’s only a map of the mountain. Try to relax.”
“I understand full well that you can’t afford to relax, especially considering the circumstances. I wouldn’t have even come to you with this if you weren’t so qualified for the job.” says Dyreng with a glance at the moustache before him.
With a grunt of disapproval, Marchese snatches the map from Dyreng’s hand, who recoils in anticipation of a blow. In the absence of one, he clears his throat and straightens his disheveled hair, attempting to regain a measure of dignity. As Marchese studies the map, Dyreng raises a shaky hand to order another drink before remembering the bar had closed hours ago.
“Damn. I say, what time does the bar open?”
“Whenever Clay wakes up.”
Without looking up from the map, Marchese takes a dingy, silver flask out of his back pocket and offers it to the nervous man across from him, who declines. Marchese just grunts again and takes a swig himself. As he surveys the map, he comes across a name scrawled in the bottom righthand corner. Deamer. Marchese knew the name, and he subconsciously puts a hand on the scar across his chest. Goodrich was not going to agree to this. Not if Deamer is involved. Dyreng was too busy trying to stay awake to notice, his sullen, beady eyes staring out the window. Marchese folds the map back up, places it in the inside pocket of his coffee-brown, leather jacket, and takes another hit from his flask.
“The others wont agree to this. Not if Deamer is involved.”
“Deamer? Who in God’s name is that? That name kept coming up whenever I talked to someone about the map.”
“Who did you talk to?” questions Marchese gruffly, “Why didn’t you come to me first?”
Realizing his mistake, Dyreng scrambles for an excuse. He finds none.
“I, uh… I only asked a few others about it. I wanted to verify the authenticity of the map before I brought it to you! The last thing I would want to do is provide you with false information.”
“Who did you talk to? I want names.” Marchese growls, leaning closer to Dyreng.
“Nobody! Nobody important, that is. Only a few people, mostly experts on this sort of thing. And an actor, but he doesn’t matter. He didn’t know anything.”
“You don’t know that. Who was the actor?”
“He’s friend of mine, he wouldn’t say anything to anyone.”
Dyreng nervously wipes the cold sweat out of his eyes and grips the briefcase on his lap tightly.
“Who, goddamnit?!” curses Marchese, staring hard into the face of the man before him.
“Bacon! Kevin Bac…”
Before Dyreng could even finish the name, Marchese sends a .45 slug through his brain, coloring the wall behind him with dark, crimson blood and chunks of grey matter. Marchese’s hand remains steady, still pointed into the wound he had just created, and he takes a deep, peaceful breath. The rage that contorted his face melts away, disappearing into his cold blue eyes. Footsteps thunder down the hall behind him, and he spins around the meet the intruder with another bullet. He holds his fire, though, when he see’s it’s just Ashton Clay, the owner of the bar. He holsters the pistol, and tosses a couple hundred dollar bills in the direction of the bartender.
“Sorry about the noise. Go back to sleep, I’ll have someone clean this mess before you open.”
And with that, he walks out of the door and into the sunrise. He grabs for his cell, and punches in the number that he knew by heart. The others are going to want to hear about this. On the other end of the line, a man’s groggy voice picks up.
“What the hell do you want?”
“Sorry, Goodrich. Didn’t mean to wake you, but you’re gonna want to hear this. Call the others, tell them to meet me at the usual place. We’re getting the band back together.”