He's sleeping when the phone rings.

It's the only reason he doesn't pick up right away; Zev has the number to the burner phone Gavin uses for close contacts among Rocket, and he's certain to answer no matter the situation. Even if he's in a meeting with the boss, he'll excuse himself just long enough to ensure it's not an emergency. It's part of the job. Also part of the job: exhaustion. He sleeps in small spurts where he can manage it, but is otherwise on call all day, every day.

He'll prove himself to Rocket. He'll show them all he's irreplaceable.

Until death.

He answers the phone.

"Zev."

He's getting dressed as he's given the details and the address.

"I'll be there."

And he is, teleporting to a Rocket safehouse a few blocks away and walking the rest. The streets are quiet, but he is just another man going about his business. No one pays him any mind as he slips into the building and up the stairs.

"Whitmore." Gavin's deep voice is icy cold. Remember me, asshole? Not likely. Gavin had only been a grunt when the man had beaten him within an inch of his life for messing up on a mission. One of thousands the sadistic executive had punished, but Gavin never forgot the faces of those who'd taught him Rocket's ways. Not one. "You shouldn't have run."

You gave me an excuse.

Zev Harcourt

Hm. Maybe you do remember.

Or maybe there's someone on the inside leaking information about Rocket's new brass to those who'd once called the organization their kingdom. A big garden meant a lot of weeds to pluck, and you were bound to miss at least one.

There's a dull thud as Gavin drops a bag from his shoulder onto the grimy bathroom floor, reaching inside to pull on a pair of gloves. The snap of the material against his skin is loud in the stillness of the room. Whitmore had never worn gloves; only heavy rings that split the skin on impact. A small scar sits below Gavin's right eye, along his cheekbone. Zev has already blackened Whitmore's eye in kind; Gavin paces the small bathroom like a stalking predator, never once taking his eyes off of prey.

"He never was the brightest."

Without warning, Gavin strikes like a viper — not with his hand, but with his boot. A rattling scream chokes off as Whitmore blacks out from the agony of having one of his broken shins crushed beneath the underbosses heel.

Only now does Gavin's attention slide to Zev.

"Thank you for bringing him in." An unasked question: why?

Zev Harcourt

Gavin nods, accepting.

He'd assumed as much, of course, but assumptions were dangerous in Rocket. Get too comfortable and you'd find your neck broken over a perceived slight or a favour you didn't even know you owed. Hoenn's not Kanto but Kanto's still imprinted on his mind, on his body with the scars that Whitmore had so gleefully contributed to.

"Break him."

There's no hesitation nor emotion behind his tone, though the latter roils in his mind.

Not just his bones. His mind, his spirit.

Without a healthy outlet to deal with abuse, Gavin turns it on others.

"When he wakes up."

Gavin's lip curls. He hadn't expected the man to pass out so quickly, but Zev had done a number on him before Gavin had arrived. That wasn't a problem. If anything, Gavin appreciated the hitman for getting the ball rolling.

"Before that, I have something to show you as well." He fingers along the lining of the bag, eventually pulling out a micro flash drive and tossing it to the other. "A list of places the League has off-books. Intel we've got on them."

Zev Harcourt

Zev's reason for staying is neither questioned nor commented upon. Gavin's mind is racing, elsewhere, and Rocket's underboss only nods in mute acceptance of the hitman's presence. Besides, the back-up would be nice if Whitmore had somehow managed to get word out to his associates before Zev had taken him out.

His sympathies toward the Caleb Harcourt situation are expressed with a grimace.

"Turn over enough rocks, something'll scuttle out from under 'em." They wouldn't quit searching until they found a body, dead or alive. Gavin's starting to assume an ill fate for Zev's brother, perhaps run afoul of the conflict with the League. "That's all Maeda could find. I trust he hasn't left anything out." Not when it's a favour for me.

A low groan of pain marks Whitmore's return to consciousness.

"I'll deal with you in a minute."

Let him languish a while longer in his imagination, Gavin's bag well within his vision.

To Zev, he says, "Whitmore's a key target. The boss'll be happy to hear the end of him." That the man could hear them calmly discussing his fate was a non-issue. "I'll make sure he knows who to thank."

Zev Harcourt

"Course."

Another choked gasp of pain draws his eye to the bathroom, where Whitmore seemed to be making his best attempt to become a part of the scenery. It wasn't working. Gavin watches him for a moment, disgusted, before shaking his head.

"This is room enough."

He unzips the bag, loud, and gets to work.

Zev Harcourt