Chapter Text
Mary has not been having a good morning.
Ignoring the emotional impact and carryover of the previous day, she has now had to drag herself across what feels like the entirety of Málaga to track down leads from the ambush.
After going to the docks was a bust (she knew finding something there was unlikely, but she still had to try), she had spent the next four hours scoping out the local police station, waiting for the perfect opportunity to slip in and access their evidence locker.
While not the hardest break-in she’s attempted, the daylight hours had certainly made the feat more difficult. But after some patience, good timing, and three cups of coffee, she eventually got in.
Only to find that the police had pretty much jack-shit in terms of leads. At least new ones. The OCS had a more accurate count of the number of hostiles (apparently some lived and escaped at the docks after the explosion), and all of the bullets they recovered were too damaged to identify. The incident reports didn’t have anything new to add either, just less comprehensive repetitions of what the Sister Warriors gave during debrief at the Cradle.
Mary already knew the buyer was Arq-tech. Afterall, that’s how they knew about the shipment. The OCS had been keeping an eye on the company ever since they learned that Jillian Salvius was using Divinium in her projects. So when Vincent got word that she had purchased an artifact made of the holy metal, the Sister Warriors were tasked with retrieving (re: stealing) it before she could get her hands on it. However, they don’t have much on the sellers, only that their security was a lot more than what intel suggested.
At first it seems like she won’t find anything useful from the police, but then she hits the jackpot. A single intact bullet. Specifically, a custom armor piercing round with a maker’s mark, one that she was very familiar with.
Looks like she’s paying a visit to the Blacksmith.
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After two hours of driving, she reaches her destination. She makes her way through the restaurant front to the hallway that leads to the backroom, noting the security and their pieces. No one stops her; she’s there on business.
“Mary, here for a lunch special?” rings out before she even enters the room.
She doesn’t verbally respond. Only puts the bullet on the desk.
“Don’t recognize it,” the Blacksmith says, not even looking up from his work.
Mary scoffs, giving him a disbelieving look.
“The craftsmanship and quality is exquisito ,” she says. “You and I both know it could have only come from your hands.”
He doesn’t budge.
“You don’t want to reveal your client’s identities, and under normal circumstances, I appreciate the hell out of your discretion. But I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t crucial.”
That gets his attention.
“Whoever they killed must’ve been special,” he drawls, “for you to be wantin to cash in that favor.”
Mary grits her teeth. Would she prefer to keep that favor in her back pocket for a rainy day? Yes. But she needs something to work with, and so far she has nothing.
He sighs, then picks up the bullet.
“The client’s a local lad. Ordóñez,” he finally says, overemphasizing the accents in the name as he turns the deadly piece of metal over his fingers. “A middle man. You want the real buyer, you’ll have to go to him.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“He likes to hang around the warehouse district, close to the bars.”
With the location and the name, she makes her way out.
“And Mary,” he calls.
She turns back.
“Your flattery won’t work on him,” the Blacksmith says with a smirk.
“You’re gonna have to say pretty please.”
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Ordóñez grunts as she slams her fist into his collar bone, and he crumples to the ground, whimpering in pain.
Quickly, she strips him of his gun and knife, taking a second to admire the knife, a Buck 119, before turning her attention back to the man sniveling on the ground. It took her the rest of the afternoon and the better part of the evening to track him down, but she was no stranger to long searches.
“ La dársena ,” she snaps. “The explosion. Talk.”
“ ¿Quien eres, puta? ” he spits out.
“Please tell me you speak English,” Mary groans (and in her head, she can just hear Lilith laughing at her), “my English still needs work.”
“ Vete a la mierda ,” he sneers.
Mary clubs him in the head again as she rolls her eyes.
“My Spanish isn’t that bad.”
Ordóñez glares at her. She glares back.
“I’m a hired gun,” he snaps. “I can’t help you.”
Mary hums, then whacks him again. He whimpers in pain, and while he’s down, she grabs his wrists and zip ties him to the pipes sticking out of the walls.
“Come on,” she scoffs. “It wasn’t that hard.”
He just groans and looks away. Looks like it’s time to up the ante.
She pulls out the knife, and his eyes immediately track the edge of the blade.
“I haven’t held one of these since I was eight,” she starts, slowly twirling the knife around in figure eight circuits. “You ever use it?”
He gulps, and Mary can see the fear creeping over his eyes.
“Oh,” she chuckles, acting surprised, “Nope. Just one of those guys that likes to buy a cool knife, flash around with your mates. Play who’s got the biggest.”
“I saw it used once, back in the day,” she continues, ignoring his squirming as she angles the knife to his captive wrist.
“He sliced right here,” and she places the blade right to the hollow of his wrist, applying some pressure, but not enough to break skin. “The brachial artery. Once that sucker opens up, there’s no saving you. All anyone can do is watch. You’ll bleed out in minutes.”
She drags the knife down his arm, all the way to his chest, and looks him in the eye.
“My friend is dead. And I want answers.”
“It was the cartel. Los Ángeles de la Muerte ,” Ordóñez spits out, defeated. “They had a rich client with a big job. Wanted high quality ammunition for it.”
At this point she knew that she wouldn’t be able to get anything else out of him without literally torturing him, and at least now she had another lead to work on. So she directs the knife to the zip ties and cuts him loose.
Ordóñez glares at her, rubbing his wrists along where the ties had broken skin. He opens his mouth, about to shoot off about something, but Mary has had enough of his shit. So she cold-clocks him and leaves him lying on the ground as she makes her way out of the alley.
Mary mulls over the new information. The Angels were one of the more high-class and better organized cartels, with cells all over coastal Europe. So them being the sellers tracked, as the cartel specialized in the smuggling of historical artifacts.
But there was still one thing that didn’t line up. Basic security hardly calls for high quality ammunition, especially at the price the Blacksmith charges for his rounds. So why would the cartel go through the effort of getting armor-piercing bullets… unless they knew someone would try to intercept the transfer.