The Shield and Buffy the Vampire Slayer

in a crossover FanFiction

Antwon's Fangs



aka LancerFourSeven

& aka STFarnham

Chapter Eight

Vic Mackey decided not to wait. He drove up to the crime scene that evening, parked next to the crime lab truck and waved at the uniform standing guard, and walked in as if he had every right to be there. It was easy since he really did have every right to be there. Of course, he didn't have the right to do what he was planning to do, not officially anyway. But fuck it, I've done enough good, put enough bad guys away to take a few shortcuts in exchange for a little something extra for myself, he thought.

He watched as two lab techs patiently searched the floor, occasionally bagging some tiny piece of evidence. He looked around and noticed two other techs at the other end of the space.

He cleared his throat, waited for one of the techs to notice him, and asked, "Okay if look around in the back? I need some inspiration for where to look next."

The tech shrugged, "Yeah, we're done with the offices, just stay between the taped lines while you're in the warehouse. Oh, and we haven't processed the storage room in back, yet, so don't go in there."

"Okay. You find anything interesting in the office?"

"Maybe, only the lab work will tell. No smoking guns, if that's what you mean."

He wandered towards the office area, making certain he didn't look purposeful – he was trying hard to look like he was at loose ends, looking for a loose thread in his case.

Once in the office and out of sight of the techs, he stepped quickly through to the short corridor that led to a previously locked storage room. He looked up and down the corridors and saw no one, so he stepped into the room, snapping on gloves as he went. Without stopping or slowing, he went to the corner, picked up the single chair in the room, and placed it in the opposite corner. He stood on it and reached up, pushing a ceiling tile aside, and felt around on top of a couple of braces. Ah! He thought in satisfaction, they're still here. He glanced down again, and listened for a moment to make sure he was still alone, then pulled two plastic wrapped kilo packages out. Taking a moment to put the ceiling tile back, and the chair, he pulled out a paper grocery sack to hide his contraband. He put it down on the shelf closest to the door and looked out again, then grabbed it and went back to the cleared offices and found the breakroom. He looked around for a good hiding place: drawers? No; Microwave? No, coffee maker? Too small. Copy machine? Maybe. He looked in the cabinets next to the copier, ah hah! That'll work. Wait, someone was coming – he dropped the sack in a wastebasket and sat down at the table and stared, as if contemplating the case.

"Hey Vic," said a tech, "you got any ideas yet?"

"No, ah, Joe, just a glimmering or two."

Joe was surprised and gratified that Vic Mackey had remembered his name. "Okay, we're clearing out now, there's only so much overtime we can get. There's a uniform out front, he'll lock up when you leave."

"Thanks." Vic nodded.

After a few minutes he grabbed his sack and opened the supply cabinet next to the copier and made his preparations. It took him fifteen minutes, then he left, empty handed, waving goodbye to the cop out front.

As Faith walked through the barn, she overheard a conversation between the Captain, Vic, and a couple of other cops she didn't know. They had a young girl with them, named Angie, and she heard them say the girls mother was found dead. Apparently Angie was a source for information on Antwon Mitchel, so they were going to protect her, take her to a safe foster home. The girl didn't seem to be taken with the idea.

Faith didn't let on that she had overheard any of that, she was far enough away that it would have been impossible for ordinary people to hear, so she just filed away the information, figuring she'd look up Angie later on and find out what the hell was going around here.

She finally hooked up with detectives Wagenbach and Wym's for her ride along. They went out to their departmental car, a real junker, Faith thought but didn't say out loud. She rode in the back, watching the neighborhood roll by. No one felt like talking much, so it was a quiet ride except when Faith asked questions.

"So who are going to talk to again?"

"Dewayne Washington, otherwise known as 'Gunny', we believe."

"Ah." Faith watched the scenery some more. She finally said, "So Farmington's gang problem is pretty severe?"

Dutch answered, "Yes, that's we have the gang strike force to deal with it."

"And how's that working out?"

Wym's frowned and shook her head in irritation. She said, "It works about as well as the people in it."

"What does that mean?"

But Wyms didn't have anything else to say. Wagenbach said, "There've been some problems."

Faith saw that they didn't want to talk about it, apparently they didn't want to air the departments dirty laundry to a Federal Agent, so she went back to staring out the window. She imagined trying to explain that she wasn't really a Federal Agent to a pair of cops, even though her credentials would check out. She decided that wasn't a good idea.

Eventually they pulled up to an unkempt house. It was two stories on a hill that ran down from the road, making it three stories in back. There was a sagging and rusty chain link fence around the property which was full of rusting cars and junk, much like the adjacent properties. The fence didn't really look like it would stand up under a light rain, much less a serious wind storm.

The house wasn't much better.

"If he's making any money off his arms sales, he's hiding it well," observed Faith.

"First lessen in Crime 101, Farmington style," said Dutch as they walked up to the door, "don't look rich unless you have people with guns to back you up."

Wyms knocked, someone inside yelled, "Whoever the fucks out there, I doan fucking want any!"

Wyms yelled back, "Police! We just have a few questions."

"Fuckin po-po?"

"No, we are the police!" Wyms pronounced it carefully.

Faith was listening carefully for anything that sounded like a weapon. She didn't think any part of the wall, much less the door, would stop so much as a B-B pellet, much less a 9mm or a shotgun, so she was ready for anything. What she heard was some stumbling, a few minor crashes followed by some uncreative cursing. Then footsteps coming nearer. Finally, a bleary-eyed man, wearing last's week's dirty laundry and smelling like it, opened the door and stared balefully at them.

"What the fuck do ya want now?" There wasn't any passion in his voice, he sounded very tired and maybe a little drunk.

"May we come in?" Wyms asked politely. "We just want to go over what we know on your mothers case." She was being much politer than she usually was when questioning potential suspects, especially people suspected of selling illegal guns. Faith supposed it was because of the victim being his mother and the horrible way she died.

He turned around without closing the door. Faith and the detectives followed. Faith wondered if the lack of invitation was significant. If Dewayne knew about vampires, that opened up a whole new line of questioning. Not that she could follow up with the detectives around.

Dewayne showed them a couch, "Have a seat."

Wyms curled her lip as looked at the couch, stacked high with random debris. Dirt was actually encrusted on parts of the fabric. "No," said Wyms, "I'd rather stand, but feel free to take a seat, Agent Lehane."

Faith smiled at Claudette and stayed standing. Other than the fact that a commercial maid service was desperately needed in the house, the interior was much nicer than the exterior. Faith decided that Dutch was right, the mess outside must be camouflage.

"So Mr. Washington, do you have any idea what happened to your mother?"

He looked down and shook his head 'no'. "Nah, some wild animal, I guess."

"And that's all you have?"


Faith, "Say, if I wanted to buy an Arctic Warfare Sniper rifle, customized all to shit, could you help me out?"

Dewayne looked aghast for moment, then he got his expression back under control. "Why would you ax me something like that?" he shouted, "I gots nuthin' to do with guns."

"Oh, my mistake."

"I want all of you out, get gone!"

Wyms and Wagenbach exchanged glances and shrugged.

"We'll see you later Mr. Washington."

Once they were back in the car, Dutch said, "That was surprisingly instructive."

"But it doesn't do us much good," said Wyms.

Faith said, "Tells you what to investigate, though."

Around ten, Dewayne, sacked out on his lounger, thought he heard a noise. He started to get up when the lights came on. "What the hell?!" he exclaimed. Then he noticed a woman sitting on one of his dining room chairs, staring at him.

"W, what do you want?" He finally recognized her as one of the cops that had visited him that morning, the one that asked him about the rifle. How the hell could she have known to ask him about that? he wondered, it should have been impossible.

"I want to know why you specifically didn't issue a verbal invitation for us to enter your house."

Oh shit shit shit! he thought.

"Did anyone ever mention to you that you have an amazingly expressive face for a gun-runner?" She paused. "Anyway, I gather you do know about vampires. And this time I want an answer."

"Uh, ah, they ain't no such thing as vampires, you know that, right?"

"Oh, I dunno 'bout that."

Dewayne put his head in his hands and groaned. "Okay, so you know about vamps." He looked up, becoming a little belligerent, "So what?"

"Well that suggests that you know about Antwon Mitchell's vampires. And that makes me think you know very well what, and on who's orders, killed your mother."

Faith wasn't too surprised when Dewayne broke down and cried. She got up and looked around for some tissues, but couldn't find any, so she sat down and waited impatiently. She hated it when people started crying around her.

After a while, Dewayne wiped his face on his dirty sleeves, and said, "Antwon didn't have no call to sick his vamps on my family, it wasn't like I dissed him on purpose. My supplier just didn't come through when he thought he could. It was just a delay! I mean what the fucks wrong with him?!"

"So are you going to get him what he wants now?"

"What do you think? I have a daughter in junior high, course I am."

"Wouldn't it make more sense to kill Antwon?"

"Sure, but how do I do that? I don't have no killers on staff. I know a lot about guns, but I don't how to kill Antwon Mitchell. I've tried to learn everything there is to learn about shooting, but I never killed nobody. Still, I think your idea is a good one, if I could just get close to Antwon, and if he didn't have people with guns around him most of the time, then I might be able to..."

"Hmm," said Faith, "interesting. Well, I don't give a damn about guns, just vamps. I can tell you this, by the time I leave Farmington, the vampires who did your mom will be dust."

"How can you promise that?"

"Don't worry about how, just know that I mean it." Faith got up and left.

Dewayne wasn't much cheered as he turned out the lights and stumbled into bed.

Around midnight, Dewayne heard a noise in his backyard. He looked out the window, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. He flipped on his floodlights, they were bright enough to light every shadow. He still saw nothing. So he put on a coat and shoes and went downstairs, grabbed a 12-gauge smooth-bore handgun* and went out the backdoor. He stood on his back porch and studied the yard, including the neighbors yard. He didn't notice the loop of light chain flung into the air behind him until it fell around his neck and tightened. He reflexively aimed his gun behind him and fired it wildly, not hitting anything but his house, but before he could fire again it was yanked out of his hand, he himself was yanked off the porch onto the bare dirt of his yard. Someone kneeled on his back while pulling on the chain around his neck.

A disguised voice said gruffly, "Tell me about your fucking hand grenades."

He made some choking noises and flailed at the chain. The pressure eased until he could talk. "I told you fucking po-po everything this afternoon!"

The voice, now down by his right ear, whispered roughly, "That wasn't me asshole! I want to know about your hand grenades."

"I don't know nuthin' about no, URK!" The chain choked up, then released. "NO, NO...URK!" Choking. "I COULDN'T GET THEM ANTWON! NOT YET! NEXT WEEK!" Suddenly the chain was released, the weight was off his back, and there were footsteps heading up the side of his house. A full minute passed before he felt safe enough to get to his feet, search around for his gun, and rush back into the comparative safety of his house.

Vic got into his truck. He turned to his Lem and said, "Yep, Antwon was trying to get some hand grenades from good ol' Gunny."

"Yeah, we need to stop that one."

"What do we do? Shall we 'disappear' him, take him out to a deserted house and work on him until he gives it all up?"

Lem looked ill. "No, let's not, the information we have is enough. If all else fails, maybe an anonymous call to 9-1-1."

"But how will we know if he actually gets the grenades?"

"I've still got that surveillance camera, you know, the one that got 'lost' from our garage surveillance case."

"Okay, but someone has to monitor it continuously, and there's only three of us."

"Not likely, I know, we'll ask that Federal Agent to join us."

Vic looked incredulous, then he noticed the little grin playing around Lem's mouth. They both broke out laughing together.

"Hey," said Vic after they stopped laughing, "you know that girl, Kennedy? The one that got shot the other day?"


"Well, I met her, and I kinda liked her, I mean she really took me down hard – but you know me, I like tough women. Anyway, she was shot just outside of one of Antwon's stash houses, so I was thinkin' of making a little visit later today, see what we can find out."

"It's not our case."

"I'll share with Wyms, what the hell, it's all good when I get her to owe me one. Besides, we may find out something else on Antwon."

"Good point, maybe we can keep our idiot brother Shane out of trouble."

At that moment Shane and Armando were in a heated discussion with Antwon Mitchell and his lieutenants.

"Look homie," said Shane, "I was in a double blind, I wasn't in on the planning of the raid on your distribution center, I didn't even know it was going down until minutes before I was ordered into the takedown crew and operational security didn't allow the use of cell phones, and I still don't even know where the intelligence came from. And you, you keep your shit from me! How am I spose'd to protect your interests when you don't tell me anything? If I don't know what to protect, then I can't do nothin' about it."

Antwon looked at his right hand man, "Fuck him up."

Shane and Army were attacked and disarmed by four of Antwon's thugs, they were thrown on the floor and punched and kicked. Antwon got in a few kicks until he kneeled next to Shane, grabbed his jaw in a painful grip with his beefy right hand, and said, "Listen to me, I ain't yer 'homie', not now, not ever."

"You can't kill us! You'll bring down the whole department on you!" Shane said desperately.

"Don't have ta. Bring her in."

Shane and Travon were horrified to see two men drag in Angie, the fourteen year old informant they saw back at the Barn.

"This the little ho that gave up my block," said Antwon, caressing her head, none too gently. He walked over and picked up the cop's guns and said, "Here's what happened. Angie's missin', you two found her on the streets. She gave you oral testimony, then you argued, then you shot her."

Antwon casually shot Angie twice with Shane's gun, then twice more with Army's gun. He pressed the releases and let the clips slam to the floor, he tossed the guns after them.

Shane yelled, "NO!"

"If Angie's body should happen to show up anywhere, the bullets will be traced to your gats, and you'll get life in Lompoc. I control Lompoc, I guarantee your life there will be painful. If you don't want life in prison, then from now on, you work for me."

Antwon stared coldly at Shane, shivering in terror on the floor, and said, "If I say 'suck my cock', you say, 'Do you want me to lick your balls, daddy?' "


A/N: That last scene is, of course, taken directly from the final scene in episode 4:05, "Tar Baby". I found Anthony Anderson's depiction of Antwon Mitchell truly chilling.

I spent the weekend re-watching much of Season 4, and as a result I threw out my ending for this story. So there will be a slight delay while I plot some new chapters.


*Short barreled shotguns (SBS) – barrel less than 18" – are generally illegal in the U.S. for civilians; military and police both may use SBSs. But a shotgun is legally defined as a shoulder-mounted firearm that fires shot. Shotguns that have never had a buttstock of any type installed, are not defined as shotguns, as they cannot be shoulder mounted. If the barrel is rifled, it is considered a Destructive Device (DD) and would not be legal.

Thus, it is entirely possible to legally own a 12 ga. smoothbore handgun (or extremely short barreled shotgun) in the U.S., but probably not very many other places. On the other hand, there can't be very many people who would want to shoot such a thing.