Disorder Ch. 11

He could be that man, if he tried. Or maybe that was what he was already, even if he had not realised it. It didn't matter as long as what needed to be done got done.

His foot inched down on the gas pedal, forcing the far into higher and higher gears. Sports mode on such a drive was a cinch to work and he shot through the city, neon in full swing for a nightlife that didn't know what such a thing truly was. No, to have and live a nightlife, one had to be the night, slink through the night, draw the seedy undertone out from that night. It wasn't about partying and getting high but something more, something deeper, something that could shake the foundations of a city, dredge it up and build it all anew. And that was just what he and John had done.

The city pulsed around him, a driving vibe that flashed by. Was he high? He should have been, for what he was about to do was fucking crazy.

"Our turf."

That was what one of his men had repeated, word for word, when they'd been back at one of the 'stock distribution centres' (ah, what a fancy, smart name for something that was no more than sending potent drugs out into the city!). He'd barely been able to speak through a mouthful of broken teeth but Donnie had pressed his lips together and listened to him calmly, the voice of reason and sensibility as he had others patch them up, get them on their way to due treatment, something that was better needed at that time than dragging out every last detail of the sordid ordeal out of them.

But they hadn't been too beaten-up to not tell him where the gang was hanging out and, well, they weren't' all that unpredictable either. In fact, their whereabouts had been eye-roll worthy, working out of the shipyard where storage containers, for shipping (who'd have guessed?), allowed for an easily changing base. For a small operation, they could have mooched along fairly enough if they hadn't done so much as to call attention to themselves but things couldn't be changed now that they had decided that they were the big fish.

From what he heard too, their shit wasn't that good either. Fucking amateurs.

If they were going to do it, they should have gone and done it right, but that wasn't his call to make, only his mess, at the end of the day, to clean up. They'd have to cut what they were doing sooner or later and Donnie, not John, was going to be the one to lay down the law...on very much the wrong side of the law, ironically.

They'd feel it. They'd know they'd done wrong. And they'd never bother him or John or any of his men ever again. Donnie's fingers clenched on the steering wheel, lights blurring, eyes narrowed with a ferocity that he did not even know he was capable of. Faster and faster, there was no end to it as the city ripped by, heading for the dockyard, the site of so many shady dealings that one more that night would not make any difference at all in the true grand scheme of the world and heartbeat of the city. But it would make a difference to their operation, something that could not be threatened at any costs.

The shipping containers loomed, jagged shadows slicing across them, shattered into life by his headlights and then dissipating again just as quickly. Life and death in shadows -- who would have thought that something like that could be so poetic? There was no intimacy to the dockyard as he had never really spent much time down there himself. John, on the other hand, had had a penchant for underage drinking with a gang that had led him into worse times when he was younger. Those times were gone, however, and there was no part of the city where he would not have felt safe, knowing that, truly, they owned it.

It was himself that he was not safe from.

It would take some time and the GTR, well...it was an obvious sign, a ride with class and money that could only be looking for one thing down there. All he had to do was wait, a cigarette hanging out the corner of his mouth even though he didn't smoke. A nervous tick, he needed something in his mouth (oh, what jokes would John have made about that?) just to chew, to ground himself in the moment as his heart went wild. His expression in the mirror did not convey his sense of madness, however, at least not in that moment. He was strong, he was powerful... He looked completely and utterly fucking insane.

Perfect.

The security light (how droll) snapped on, bathing him in an artificially white glow, although the headlights remained in twin beams, the engine purring away like a lion lying in wait, rumbling for the kill. But he was patient, oh so very patient, and the man that approached did not turn his head until the last possible moment, so cool was his confidence, heart in his mouth. They didn't need to know that.

"What do you want?"

Ah, so they'd sent the thug out first, a meaty hunk of a man that could have stopped the heart of many a twink under the right set of circumstances. Flicking the cigarette away, Donnie leaned out the window of the car, one hand on the wheel and a foot on the gas still, ready to peel off at a moment's notice. If he wasn't anything, well...he wasn't stupid, that was for sure.

"Heard you got the good stuff down here," he drawled, an eyebrow raised, channelling his inner John, or just how he imagined a more suave version of john could have the potential to act under the right set of circumstances. "Or are my sources wrong?"

Confusion flickered in his eyes, although Donnie doubted that that was hardly something all that difficult to do to a man like that. His hair was shaven down to his skull (easier to maintain than long hair, at least) and he had a blockish, ugly jaw line that did not please the eye in the slightest. But Donnie continued right on smiling pleasantly with that hint of superiority lacing his expression too, one eyebrow oh so very carefully cocked.

He had to play it cool.

"Maybe..."

God, were they that dull, really? He fought not to roll his eyes and barely succeeded, the thug of a man turning his back on him, jeans sagging too low for the comfort of anyone's eyes.

"Keenan! Get out here! He's looking to buy!"

Oh, you sad, sorry fool...

Yet a fool would get him what he wanted and right where he wanted to be too, smiling and getting out of the car, his clothes primed and poised perfectly for what he needed them to convey. Power, rich, able to afford the luxuries of what did not lie within the realm of the law. He had to ooze that, overload those around him with it, his smile fixed and not giving away a single scrap more than he was willing to divulge.

His suit was fitted but with a free range of movement, the shoes designed to look like he could walk into an office with them but hiding a secret. There was nothing there to hold him back with his hair primed into a bun, as much as he loathed the style on other guys (being gay, well, he couldn't be held at all at fault for looking from time to time, regardless of what he had going on with his brother). It was what the young, up and coming guys in busy fields were wearing and, so, to complete the look, that was what he had to swiftly scrape his hair up into. The clothes, however, had already been on stand-by in John's closet, though he didn't want to know why John had such attire set aside for him in a dry-cleaning bag with his name on it.

That tale was for another time.

He waited. He waited too long, heart pounding, for the trio to emerge again: the thug, the lackey and the one behind it all. So close to the front lines too -- Donnie would have scorned him if that was not what he was doing at that very moment, taking matters into his own hands when he could have, in hindsight, sent someone else out in his stead. A group of 'someones', in fact, but he had to make sure the matter was good and done with, making a statement, a stand against all that may have sought to bring him and John down.

He didn't have to work in the background anymore, facing off against a tall man, taller than him, with a darkly beady look in his eye. He reminded Donnie of a rat, if one had been overly skinny and standing on its hind legs, hair scrappy and piecemeal as if he had had a hack-job of a haircut that had never quite grown back right. Crudely blotchy, his face denoted his state of intoxication, although he held himself steadily without a stumble, breath reeking of liquor fumes and cigarette smoke. Yet Donnie did not even flinch.

"Keenan, is it?" He said smoothly, offering his hand in the beam of the security light. "The pleasure is all mine."

Scratching behind his ear (maybe the weed-rat had fleas?), Keenan chewed the chopstick some more, although Donnie would not have chanced to say that there was anything at all thoughtful about the action.

"What's it to you?"

"Nothing, nothing at all," he said, dropping his hand when it was not shaking, yet careful to offer a smile too as if he had expected nothing less. "There is work to be done... I want to buy your stock out. All of it."

Keenan rocked back on his heels, thin eyebrows raised, although he had no substantial hairline for them to retreat into.

"All of the shit? Man, that's just not gonna fucking happen. Can do you an ounce, if you want a cut? Crystal? White blow? What's your fucking poison here? I got you covered."

"Oh... That won't be enough."

Donnie half-shrugged, turning as if to leave, although he had no intention of leaving until he had all that needed to be done accomplished, the tension ramping up more and more with every moment that so very tenaciously dared to slip by. Closer... He just needed the bastard a little closer. He didn't need John to take them out for him, not as they were. All in all, they were the perfect kind of first target.

"Then how much you wanting? C'mon, get it outta ya, I ain't got all fucking night to stand around 'ere gassing with ya!"

Keenan's accent came out more strongly as his frustration grew and yet Donnie only smiled, glancing back over his shoulder.

"I'll have it all, thank you, for what you've done to mine."

And then the gun was drawn and in his hand, the revolver sitting there as comfortably as it had the first time John had taken him to the shooting range. An indoor one, he still had fond memories of learning how to use the weapon on targets but never before had he actually taken it in hand against another human being, a person that could be snuffed out as quick as anyone could have liked with one, well-timed shot.

The effect on the trio was instantaneous, leaping into fight or flight mode, though their hands were up, curses flying, adrenaline slowing everything down even as it sped up, hearts pounding.

"Fucking hell!"

"What the fuck?"

And more expletives still flew as Donnie stared down the short barrel of the gun, although he could not hope to miss even if that had been any kind of option. He'd always been a better shot than John anyway. Maybe he was the deadlier one, after all.

"You had my men," he said quietly, not needing to raise his voice for any kind of attention when all eyes were already on him. "You thought you could take us down. I'm not sorry to say that you are very much mistaken. Although I would not become accustomed to the, ah, personal visit... It won't happen a second time."

The thug froze, looking from one 'master' to the other, though the third in the ensemble was nothing special, quivering with a slack-jaw, just a kid, a guy in his twenties or whatever. He probably didn't know what he was getting into when he'd started in with them. Maybe he was even the one who made the drugs. Who knew? Donnie didn't care.

"You fucking sadistic asshole," Keenan hissed, hands balled-up, a vein pulsing at his temple. "I'll fucking rip you apart for this!"

Donnie cocked an eyebrow, cooler in appearance than he was inside, sweating into the lining of his suit. The security light snapped off, pooling them into darkness with only the headlights left for some glimmer of illumination, the lines to dance between.

"Don't fucking move."

Of course, they moved, and the shot fired jolted into Keenan's shoulder as he howled and swore, men lunging for weapons. The thug only had his fists at his disposal but seemed to know enough to use them, launching himself at Donnie with a feral cry that may have been better suited to some kind of wild animal. Side-stepping, Donnie didn't think, only acted, the spreading blood staining Keenan's shirt before him, power searing through.

And, still, he smiled, forcing them back with the gun. A shot through the thug's foot did the job nicely and he fell, howling like a child, to the floor, clutching at his knee rather than the foot that would, surely, need medical treatment. It was strange how he thought of something like that still even as he moved, levelling the gun, turning and stepping over one body even as he aimed to fell another.

Easy. Too easy. Well, not actually easy at all when one thought about it but he wasn't thinking about it as he simply moved, flowing through one motion and into the next, heart pounding. It was the dull beat of it that forced him on through the deadly dance, shots fired, every moment slowing down more and more even though he felt too as if he was moving at a breakneck speed.

"You --"

Nothing Keenan had to say would have any effect on Donnie as he launched himself around, the revolver out of bullets but only two threats remaining before him, slashing shadows through the headlights of a car that he had only so far driven for a short while. An hour? Less? Ah, it was no matter and Donnie smirked as if he had taken on the spirit of John himself as he advanced, cracking out his knuckles, one after the other. In hindsight, it would surprise him just how easily the methods of intimidation would come to him but maybe he had simply seen and heard enough about them to mimic and draw on a strength that he had not known he'd possessed.

"Oh, Keenan... If only you'd had the good sense to not get caught up in this side of life, maybe we wouldn't be having this conversation right now. It's funny how things like that work out now, isn't it?"

"Fuck you!"

His skinny, wispy friend may have scarpered but Donnie wasn't about to be put off by the fact that he was up against the so-called boss of it all -- hah! Did Keenan really think their drugs had a patch on theirs? What they'd spent years perfecting when there was still so much more that could be improved on, perfected further, never an end in sight? It wasn't about getting shit out on the streets but what he ran for himself in the background of it all, supply chains and logistics, security systems and strategies -- there was so much fucking more to it all!

And he was the one who made it all happen.

Keenan connected with him -- damn, the fucker was fast! But not fast enough as Donnie laughed and swore, relishing, somehow, in a fight that he had not even known before was coming his way. His fist connected with something solid but he barely even registered just what the other man was doing to him as hands flew, scrambling and striving, fighting to wrap around his throat. Yet that was a move that, at least, he knew very well how to get out of and did not faze him in the slightest as he dodged, laughing recklessly, throwing all manner of caution to a wind that licked hungrily at the bare skin of his neck.

He had not thought that he possessed that agility, that lightness of foot, that he was a computer guy who could only do things at a desk and a keyboard. But that was wrong, very wrong, and he'd known that it was wrong when he'd seen the security cameras, the footage that showed him running rings (quite literally) around John when all his brother had been trying to do was to help. Slipping away like water through his fingers, Donnie threw him a condescending look, although it was most likely lost in the moment of them coming together, a fist sinking into Keenan's stomach while he gasped and purpled, a fish out of water.

Strike!

He didn't know what that meant but the thought filled him with energy, on and on, moving like the lash of a whip. The thug tried to get up, hobbling with a gun in hand, but that was easily swiped from his hands as Donnie bodily launched himself at him, a raw cry tearing itself from his throat as if he had become a creature of the underworld, a demon risen from hell to take back what had been denied to him in the futile sanctity of life lost.

But that could not be. He didn't believe in an afterlife. That was why it had scared him for so long.

The thug's mouth opened and closed but, blood roaring in his ears, Donnie could hear no more and neither did he need to. Finally, his eyes were open to the light of a world around him and he snarled soundlessly, teeth bared, slamming him into the ground over and over again. He knew he could do it, even if he had never before done it in his 'waking' mind in any way, shape or form: the security footage could not, would not, lie. Yet when had he ended up down on the ground, pounding the man that he didn't know with punch after punch, knuckles raw and breaking and, slowly, bloodied?

Time shifted, lacking a meaning that he could understand. Caught between a world of seeing and unseeing, he lunged between the headlights, spitting blood. Of course, a blow had caught him but he could deal with an ache in his jaw, letting the pain sink into him, fuelling the rage that someone could dare to impinge on what he had devoted himself to -- even if getting involved in John's shit all over again was unintentional when it had all started! Who the hell did they think they were to take charge, to take the control that was his?

And it was true that he had the strength and the coordination to do it all, yet the hand curling around his shoulder, yanking him back with the ferocity of a man who knew his time, the gig that he'd been working for, was up. Keenan lunged for him at close quarters, face contorted, grabbing his collar.

"You're going to pay for this, pretty-boy..."

Donnie smirked, yet it didn't quite hold the effect he wanted it to, held up and pushed onto the toes of his dress shoes as he was.

"Oh... I hardly think so."

His weight dropped, forcing Keenan down with him, and they rolled, yanking and slamming and fists flying, neither one gaining the upper hand for a moment. Donnie hissed through his teeth, tasting blood, nails clawing at his throat and shoulder, ripping and tearing through with desperate, unyielding need. Yet he could not give up, would not give up, for the end was in sight with the thug felled, the other man gone like a weasel into a hole and Keenan himself failing in strength before him.

Keenan fell limp.

It took Donnie a moment to realise what had happened, the stillness of the night wrapping itself around him like a cloak as he heaved for breath, the quiet of it all clinging and deafening in equal measures. Everything fell there, leaving him in a pool of light that was really a beam, hardly able to believe that it was over, hands lifting from Keenan with the bruises on the neck of the other man laid out there before him as clear as day. Even if, truly, it was night. Ironically so.

Donnie laughed shallowly. What strange things came to the mind when all was said and done but he could not pause there, Keenan merely unconscious. He would live but he would have to move quickly in the meantime, dragging two lifeless bodies away from the shipping containers for what he had to do. For he needed them to go forth and tell that they had not been able to be bested, their operation something with a long life, a futile endeavour to bring down and absolutely one that would retaliate to even the slightest interlude or provocation.

"Don't mess with my men."

Not the most badass thing he had ever said but it would have to do as he ran a hand back over his hair, stiff and unnatural as tightly back as it was pulled, petroleum in hand as he sloshed gallon after gallon all over first one shipping container interior and the next one too. Two, that was all they had, and what a folly to think that that would have been enough to fell what was bringing in billions... Donnie hadn't run the numbers actively in a while, letting the automated system let him know when there was something (or not) that he needed to interfere in on that side. Automation, truly, was one of the beauties of invention, allowing him to forget what he did not need to think about and free his mind up for more innovative means.