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Travis grins. “Perfect. Then put your fucking gun down and your hands up, you son of a bitch.”
The guy does so immediately. Weak little fucker.
“Mica - where is he?”
He shifts on his feet uncomfortably, giving away that he’s about to lie before he does. “I don’t know who that is.”
“Try again,” Travis growls as Keats picks up the guy’s gun, pats him down, and then turns to face the stairs in case they’re in for any surprise guests. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know!”
Travis shoots the man’s kneecap, keeping his gun trained on him as he crumples to the ground. “Try. Again.”
“He was in Tenancingo last time he checked in!” he says through a pained sob. “He - he fucking - we’re supposed to make it look - look like he’s here.”
Yeah, no shit.
They did a good job, but Travis won’t fucking admit it.
“How do you communicate with him?”
“I don’t!” He points a shaking hand toward the dead man nearest to him. “H-he did!”
“How?”
“D-don’t know. Oh god. I feel - I’m dizzy.”
Travis rolls his eyes, sliding his weapon into his holster. He ignores Keats when he shouts for him to cut it out, knowing he needs to be careful on the off-chance this idiot is smarter than he thinks he is.
He’s not smarter. He’s sobbing, fat tears falling down his face, an entire puddle of blood beneath his massacred knee, and he doesn’t even bother to try to get away or fight when Travis kneels beside him.
Travis secures a tourniquet around the guy’s thigh, ignoring when it makes him scream in pain. “There. That’ll save your life. Maybe even your leg. Now take a nice deep breath, be a good boy, and tell me how that dead fuckhead over there talked to Mica.”
“Y-you’re really gonna let me live?” the man cries. He wipes a hand over his tear-soaked face, smearing blood across it. “P-promise?”
He can’t be more than 20. And terrified.
Travis sighs heavily. “Did you know?”
“K-know?”
“About the slaves. Did you know?”
The man’s face twists. “Y-yes. But I - I couldn’t do anything! I’m just - I’m no one, really. Just - my uncle got me this gig.”
Travis tilts his head, curious about that. “Who is your uncle?”
“Hanson. Kenneth Hanson.”
“Ah.” Travis smiles. “I killed him, you know.”
The man’s eyes go impossibly wide, then narrow in anger. “You-”
“I’ll kill you too,” Travis says, cutting him off. “Unless you tell me everything. If you tell me everything, and if I believe you, and if it’s useful enough, I’ll let you live. So, it’s your choice. Do you want to stay loyal to the uncle, or save your own life?”
He doesn’t have to think for long. “I’ll tell you everything.”
In a matter of minutes, Travis has the dead guy’s phone, his pin to open it, the fake name they’re using for Mica in the contact list, and an entire messaging feed to read through at a later time. He also has a tip from the guy bleeding out that they check-in every 24 hours to make sure things are running smoothly. Mica will always text first, with a movie title. Travis - if he wants to reply without tipping Mica off - will text back the third person listed for that movie’s official cast.
