True to his word, Faraday is quick about paying for their items. The clerk, either wary of strangers or wary of the company that Faraday keeps, despite the open, friendly smile Faraday offers him, offers him little in the way of chit-chat, taking his coin and returning Faradays, “Thank you kindly,” with only a curt nod.
This town just keeps getting friendlier and friendlier, Faraday thinks.
But he takes his little burlap bag with their items, slinging it over his shoulder as he steps outside. He couldn’t possibly be more than a few moments after Vasquez, but when he steps into the fading sunlight, glancing around, he doesn’t see Vasquez. What he does see is a fallen cigarette and far too many footprints for one man, and his stomach drops straight to the center of the Earth.
He curses, following the tracks; he might not have Jack Horne’s skill for it, but the footprints are clear enough, considering the men didn’t bother to hide themselves. He’s at least mindful enough of the situation that rather than go barreling after whoever has taken Vasquez, like his instinct is screaming at him to do, he goes about it slowly, maintains that easy pace.
He catches sight of the men just in time to watch the two of them, with Vasquez tied between them, stepping into the little ramshackle building they call the local jail. Faraday curses under his breath, casting around and getting his bearings. A part of him wants to rush in, guns blazing, and pull Vasquez the hell out of there, but even Faraday knows he has to go about this smart. If he starts dropping men, then that would surely leave a trail.
For a second, he wishes Chisolm was here. Scary bastard would have a plan in a goddamn instant, Faraday thinks.
Breathing out a sharp sigh, his hands clenching into tight fists, he tries to come up with an idea.
... all things considered, it’s not an amazing plan, if one can call it a plan at all.
It mostly involves sneaking into the jailhouse in the dead of night, while its guard – one of the men who had taken Vasquez in earlier, Faraday thinks – quietly dozes by the light of a single oil lamp. As he suspected, the jail isn’t much of anything; a town as small as this wasn’t bound to have anything fancy. It appears to be a one-room building, with a guard on one side and a narrow, barred jail cell in a corner. The guard sits in his chair, feet kicked up on a nearby bench and his face covered by his hat.
And Faraday creeps in, furious, staying low to the ground and moving slowly, testing each step against the wooden planks to avoid causing the floorboards to creak under his weight.
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winterfish
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Date: 2018-06-20 07:48 pm (UTC)This town just keeps getting friendlier and friendlier, Faraday thinks.
But he takes his little burlap bag with their items, slinging it over his shoulder as he steps outside. He couldn’t possibly be more than a few moments after Vasquez, but when he steps into the fading sunlight, glancing around, he doesn’t see Vasquez. What he does see is a fallen cigarette and far too many footprints for one man, and his stomach drops straight to the center of the Earth.
He curses, following the tracks; he might not have Jack Horne’s skill for it, but the footprints are clear enough, considering the men didn’t bother to hide themselves. He’s at least mindful enough of the situation that rather than go barreling after whoever has taken Vasquez, like his instinct is screaming at him to do, he goes about it slowly, maintains that easy pace.
He catches sight of the men just in time to watch the two of them, with Vasquez tied between them, stepping into the little ramshackle building they call the local jail. Faraday curses under his breath, casting around and getting his bearings. A part of him wants to rush in, guns blazing, and pull Vasquez the hell out of there, but even Faraday knows he has to go about this smart. If he starts dropping men, then that would surely leave a trail.
For a second, he wishes Chisolm was here. Scary bastard would have a plan in a goddamn instant, Faraday thinks.
Breathing out a sharp sigh, his hands clenching into tight fists, he tries to come up with an idea.
... all things considered, it’s not an amazing plan, if one can call it a plan at all.
It mostly involves sneaking into the jailhouse in the dead of night, while its guard – one of the men who had taken Vasquez in earlier, Faraday thinks – quietly dozes by the light of a single oil lamp. As he suspected, the jail isn’t much of anything; a town as small as this wasn’t bound to have anything fancy. It appears to be a one-room building, with a guard on one side and a narrow, barred jail cell in a corner. The guard sits in his chair, feet kicked up on a nearby bench and his face covered by his hat.
And Faraday creeps in, furious, staying low to the ground and moving slowly, testing each step against the wooden planks to avoid causing the floorboards to creak under his weight.