didntseeit: (closer I said)
[personal profile] didntseeit
Leon goes back to the little hotel, eventually. And when she does she makes sure the boy at reception sees her (you see, officer, I was here all night). Not that she thinks anyone would be able to track her back here, at least not while she’s staying, but it never hurts.

She changes; short denim skirt, worn and comfortable (tight enough to attract attention without being too sluttish) with an emerald top complete with a plunging neckline and a clasp at her neck. Could be classy, could be trashy; depends on the eye of the beholder, not to mention how she wears it.

Leon doesn’t care what people think, so she carries it fairly well. She pulls her hair back and up, leaving most of it to curl down her back while the remaining locks are pinned into place with two chopsticks.

The one on the right doubles as a stiletto.

A final glance in the mirror, and this time she leaves via the fire-escape.


The club, whose name she can tell is supposed to be a joke but one which she doesn’t get (maybe it’s a local thing?), has a queue. Which she jumps, heading for the bouncers. Not always the smartest move, but it may work.

If it doesn’t, she’ll just shoot him as he gets to his car.

Amazingly, it does work; his name is an Open Sesame, and she gets a backfull of glares as she walks in.


The music is loud, obnoxiously so, but it always is in these places. There are lights here and there and everywhere, swirling in blue and white patterns over the crowd and the walls. It’s been too long since she’s gone clubbing, and for a moment she eyes the moving, writhing crowd in longing. Just a moment, because she’s got a job to do.

She’s gestured to go up the stairs, and like a good girl she follows the instructions. Up the stairs that curve along the wall to the right and she’s on a balcony. Couches and low tables, and there is her party. Sitting towards the other edge, watching the crowd, but César stands and walks over to her before she can do more then glance at the other people. She could think, nice of him, but he pulls her close, hand resting on her hip and she’s just the night’s entertainment. Maybe two, if she were any good, but she knows the type; playboy, cocky mama’s boy to whom girls are either saints or whores.

She takes no offence – he’s going to be dead soon enough, anyway.

César takes her to dancefloor, which she doesn’t expect. It’s been so long, so long, and she lets herself be taken away by the loud music, the heat, the crowd, and the way his hands play up and down her body.

(though not as much as she might have before Nicholas Wolfwood)

His kisses taste of alcohol and nicotine, and for just a moment she thinks, what a waste.


He tries to get to her drunk, and she acts it well enough for him not to notice any different. Laugh at his jokes and flirt with a grin and a smirk, and she’s having fun. Such fun. But she never forgets why she is here, and when he pulls her up the stairs to his office she feel her nerves tighten and coil. Not as much as anyone else would think, though. It’s a combat-zone, despite the music, and sometimes being a borderline sociopath has its uses.

“Nice place,” Leon tells him, leaning against the office door to shut it before walking forwards. He murmurs something, it doesn’t matter what; he pushes her against the wall and nuzzles her neck and all that she is aware of is his heart beating underneath her hand. César is too busy kissing her, running his hands against her breasts and stomach and hips to notice much else. He’s too drunk, too focused on her and his own damn lust.

He never notices her hand curl up into her hair, tugging the right chopstick free.

He never notices her hand come back around and rest against the one on his chest.

What he does notice is her sliding the stiletto between his ribs, the blade guided by her fingers. César goes stiff against her, knees buckling and she catches his weight to avoid his body falling to the ground. Because that’s all he is, now. A body. Like before, he was just a job.

Beatriz Barillo looks down at him, pulling the thin blade out and wiping the blood off on his clothes. She tilts her head and waits. She waits for some form of remorse, some remembered Rider scream of ‘REPENT!’, but there is nothing. Just her own heart beating, her own lungs breathing, and if she slits César’s throat it’s only because she’s heard too many stories in her Mexico of men surviving when they shouldn’t.

“Huh,” Beatriz says, softly.

And then, incredibly for some people and understandably to others, she smiles in relief. She moves his feet and slips out of the door, locking it behind her before moving back into the club.

She has no idea when they’ll find his body, but she knows from too many years being cartel and too many years being a Fed that she had better run before they do.




In the end, she manages to leave the club and hail down a taxi before anyone raises a cry, but she never stops being aware of the streets around her. They aren’t the streets of Culiacán, nor Miami or San Antonio or even Mexico City, and at the moment that jars her finely stretched nerves.

So she just gnaws on her bottom lip in annoyance, and asks the driver to drop her off at a hotel a block away from hers and tips him. Not too much, not too little, just the amount expected but she can’t help but smile in thanks. Before she closes the door, she asks the time.

10:20pm? Thanks, honey, and he drives away. 10:20pm, Random and Ramon should still be…wherever it is that they were going to be; she forgets where. A performance? A quick shrug, and she starts to walk back to her hotel and the window by the fire-escape.


The next morning, grey and early after dawn, she’s sitting in a cafeteria, eating breakfast. She’s hardly alone, either; this is a big city, and all kinds of people work the night shifts. There are nurses and hookers, taxi drivers and guards, even one or two cops here and there. She, wearing her short skirt and high boots, fits right in, so she smiles and flirts and charms and waits for Random to come and take her back to (prison) Milliways.


didntseeit: (Default)

October 2007


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