|A Fin de Cuentas
Author: contrecoup PM
A few scatterings of one shots fueled by some of my head canon about Raul Tejada, including but not limited to the following: A) He got his quick hands from jacking cars; B) He got his quick wit from his grandmother; and C) for everything in between, snark makes an excellent plaster.Rated: Fiction T - English - Raul T. - Chapters: 3 - Words: 2,797 - Reviews: 1 - Favs: 1 - Published: 01-20-13 - id: 8926202
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
"Hey Raul, you bring it?"
It wasn't a question.
"Yeah, yeah, it's all in the truck."
There wasn't too many of them tonight. Four, maybe five guys. Standing in the glow of his 23' Highwayman's headlights, it was hard to tell. Not that they needed many more than that for the job. Too many hands and mouths going off and the only thing that'd get done would be waking up half the town.
These weren't exactly professional types he was dealing with after all. And neither was he.
The boys splintered off, circling the trucks, moving in tandem to scoop up their tools. Socket wrenches, crowbars, a car jack or two – it was all there, everything they needed for the night. With dusty hands imprinted with grit, their fingers curled around the handles with a familiarity that made them each smile.
Raul clicked off the headlights. His friends disappeared, each winking back into sight when they turned on their prospective flashlights. Blinding streaks cut through the darkness, whipping back and forth. They shined them in each other's faces, laughing and stumbling backwards when little fireworks of color went off in their eyes.
"Hey, hey! Callado!" Raul hissed.
It should have only taken them five minutes or so to trek up the hill toward the old Hinderson place, but his guys kept tripping over themselves, apparently needing a goddamn searchlight to prevent them from falling flat on their asses. They'd stopped hollering when they fell at least, after he'd given the first few a five-fingered reminder straight to the face that they had to stay quiet.
No lights on. One good sign, at least.
He signaled for the others to follow him, bending his knees and moving low and fast across the yard. There were three cars sitting out in the driveway; he dropped to the ground beside the Mercedes.
Damn thing even smelled like a new car from the outside. He slid a finger along the door. It sparkled slightly when caught in the bobbing light of his flashlight. Was that chrome in the paint?
He smirked. Old man Hinderson had good taste.
For all their lack of decorum, the crew worked fast; one of the reasons he continued to allow them along on these ventures of his. They made short work of the alarm system, cut a few wires here, jimmied a few switches there. Even managed to avoid nicking the door frame this time, a mistake that'd cost them 450 on their last bit of cargo.
When everything was nipped, tucked and ready to roll out, he slipped into the driver seat. He only trusted himself for this portion. He took a moment to breath it all in, give the custom leather arm rests a good squeeze, get the seat just the way he liked it. It was like slipping on a new pair of Air Jordans, the kind you had to talk the saleslady into letting you try on when she didn't like the look of you. And you just let yourself sit there for a moment, feeling your feet soak into them, moving your toes around a bit like you're settling in.
Best damn part of this gig, he hummed, and reached for the gear shift.
Without cracking the headlights, riding the pedals with a practiced dexterity so that the engine didn't so much as purr, he slid the car out of old man Hinderson's driveway like it was going for a dip in the pool. As soon as he reached the main road, he took no time screeching the thing up to sixty. He liked to think he could hear the asphalt cough behind him.