((OOC this is responding to this: theultimatexmen.proboards.com/thread/14603/trail-goes-dark-quin-solo?page=1 ))

There had been blood in the car. Blood. In the car. Signs of struggle. And it had been her car. Her phone. When they’d found it (and it had been too long, dammit), it had been her phone. And the tech guys had found the start of a text she’d never sent... a text to him.

That unfinished text was why he’d been involved. Because the higher ups wanted to know what the hell was up. Was he involved with this whole thing? With her? Again? Working behind the scenes, off the books, gallivanting around New York with her at his side, the epitome of vigilante justice at work?!

In the past, they’d worked together. But it had been official. This whole thing wasn’t. Was it? What in the hell had she been involved in?! Ashton didn’t know.

How could he know? He hadn’t spoken to Archer in a while. He told them that. Told them the last time they’d worked together... he could hardly even remember the last time they’d worked together. Was it something minor, or had it been that human trafficking case they’d worked on? That had been a dead end. He’d been taken off the case, for some reason. The whole thing had been strange.

Kidnappings had continued, been written about in the news. And it had not stopped. He’d wondered about that, but he’d been busy. Been kept busy. And cop life in New York is always busy. The city never stops.

No one at Haven knew anything. And if they did, they hadn’t told him anything. To her apartment, he went. He had probable cause. Sorry Archer. He’d replace the lock.

The apartment was not the tidiest apartment in the building. To be fair to the woman, she’d been distracted.

He hadn’t found it at first. First, he’d found the dirty dishes and the occasional article of clothing laying around. It wasn’t as if the place were a disaster area or a horror story. If anything, it was... a detective story.

There weren’t any smears of blood or overturned chairs. There wasn’t a broken window or a blown down wall. Only a crazy wall of ideas.

It was the kind you see in... wait for it... a detective story. Or a cop movie. The web of locations and people and stories, placed on the wall. The idea wall. He wasn’t sure if there was an official title for the thing, but that’s what it was. That’s what he called it. And she had one. It had probably led to her disappearance. Which meant it was a “clue.” Now where was that cartoon dog to lead him to the next one? Ashton settled for using his own damn detective skills.

It took him a few minutes to decode the web, and decide where Archer’s mind had taken her. The reason for the delay had been the fact that, yes, it actually had been on multiple walls. Not just one.

What were you involved in, woman?

News clippings about disappearances plastered the walls. Strings led from place to place. Names were highlighted and underlined. Places. Times. Dates. She had had a system. It would have taken someone familiar with her to parse it. Thankfully, he was.

All the lines of string eventually strung down to a single place. Heinz lane. Sorry. Hunts point. Right near French’s alley. When he was stressed, he made bad jokes. So sue him.

UnFunny enough, Hunts point wasn’t too far from where her car had been found as the crow flies. Which set off all flavors of warning bell in his head.

Had she been watched while staying out a place? Caught? Grabbed? Nabbed.

Who had she been looking into? Well obviously, bad guys. Child kidnappers. But who, specifically. If they knew that, it would solve a lot of issues.

Knowing Archer, she had probably looked into that. The owner of the building had probably been a dummy corporation going back to no one in particular. Joe Smith, whatever. That’s how the criminal types usually worked. And if she hadn’t... well, he gave her the benefit of the doubt. Nobody could have been silly enough to wander in blind.

Ashton glanced around, self-consciously.

He made himself a cup of coffee in her kitchen while waiting to hear back from the precinct about the warehouse, and about backup. Hey. He wasn’t going into this blind or alone. If they’d gotten her, they could get him. And he was decidedly older and slower than she was. He had no illusions about his youthfulness or his lithe physique. He was pretty sure his breakfast had consisted of a donut and heavily sweetened coffee. To mask the Precinct taste.

How does one describe police precinct coffee pot flavor? If he had to go with a word, probably... coppery.

Sue him, again. Okay, thanks.

The health food goddess meant her coffee was decaf, and he thanked his lucky stars she had coffee at all. Must have been for a friend, because Archer most definitely drank tea. Which spoke about clues not pertaining to his investigation. He didn’t root around any further.

He heard back from his contacts at the precinct. Then, Ashton moved out. He didn’t lock the front door. But he did put up crime scene tape, to keep people out. Hopefully.

Again, something took longer than it should have. Gathering the MRC members had been difficult. For some reason, many officers were missing. One of his guys, Hobbes, straight up didn’t have his partner! And that wasn’t even counting those that had called in sick. And jurisdiction problems made him sick.

He had a lead. He had a lead and they didn’t want to pursue it. Either because it involved Archer and her resources, or because of some other reason he hadn’t figured out yet. Some higher ups had said it was in another part of town. Another precinct would have to work with them or something or something. All it amounted to, as far as he heard it, was bull sh*+.

Ashton got loud. He probably made a few enemies, called in a few old favors. Was emphatic. When a veteran detective makes enough noise and has enough evidence, people listen. Or maybe it was just his winning personality. Either way, it took way too damn long but he got things done.

And suddenly, they were gearing up a few blocks from the warehouse on Hunt’s Point. Because rolling up en masse to the place would have sent heads spinning. And he wanted to catch the bastards with their pants down.

There was a brief meeting and discussion of what they knew and what they didn’t know. A little huddle up chat over the game plan. What they didn’t know about the situation inside the warehouse far outweighed what they did. He’d been able to get city hall to release an old blueprint of the building schematics so they had that going for them, which was nice. Still, he wished he knew more. Well, what can you do?

All in all, he had 15 MRC officers including himself. Hobbes, Desoto, Sinclaire, Franks, Smith, Tennant, Miller, Baker, Davison, Davidson... and the rest. There at Hunts Point.

It all started when a security guard in a black turtleneck decided to step outside for a smoke break. Detective Drake sized up the distance, prepared himself, and traded places with them. And then, he was in. MRC could interrogate the guard and learn why he had a poorly concealed shoulder holster, when they found him. He’d left the man in the middle of some six officers.

”I’m in,” he told the men in the headset. Dryly. And then he wiped a trickle of blood from the side of his nose. The guy had been a big ‘un.

From there, he looked upwards to a window with a view on the second story. In a perfect world, there’d have been something within view up against the window where he could trade places with it, like Magic. But alas, we don’t live in a perfect world. He drew his gun, but kept it low by his hip. And prepared to take the front entrance.

Casually, not carefully, he opened the door. With luck, anyone near the entrance would figure it was Joe Smokestack coming back from his break. With luck, they wouldn’t have CCTV and all be watching for his bold entrance.

“Oh hey, Joe. Short smoke break. Run out?”

Bamf, whoosh, bang. Detective Drake turned in place and dove at a wall. Then he traded places with the guy, imparting him with enough forward momentum to knock him out against the metal structure. Another nose wipe. Another drip. Worth it, though. Far less noticeable than a gunshot, was a metal bang. And that had been the only guy right there. He quickly bent and cuffed him in place with zip ties. Then he got back up.

His voice was a little husky as he spoke into his headset. ”Go, dogs. Go!”

Maybe he’d been spending too much time around his nephew. He’d meant to say go go go.

The MRC folks converged on the building. He’d claimed the entrance. Together, they could handle the rest.

The rest of the raid on the warehouse was less Swashbuckling, more police superiority. MRC’s finest moved in, worked in coordinated groups spread out to avoid crossfire while still guarding each other’s backs. They worked silently, used hand signals, the works. Like something you’d have seen on Cable Television. With less commercials.

Nobody got hurt. That was the important part.

The guy they’d bagged had spilled after a few seconds with Davidson. He wasn’t a “read-your-mind psychic”, per se. he could just look you in the eye, and say words. And if they resonated, they resonated. And people responded. It was terrifying. He said “kids.” He said “Freaking kids.” And the scumbag broke down and spilled his guts.

So no injuries, yet.

As they rounded a corner, Hobbes took a bullet in his arm. But it was his metal arm. Still, no injuries. Someone bumrushed the guy with some sort of taser punch.

The rest of the raid continued that way, as they dealt with building security. Their plucky little squad with nifty powers, with Smith the human in the back coordinating with his superior brains.

Non-lethal takedowns, mostly. And No Injuries. On their side. Some men had to go too far.

And when it was all said and done, they’d swept the building and found the kids and found no more guards.

The warehouse was dingy and grungy. Lighting was bad. He went from cell to cell.

Young women. Young men. Mostly young women.

No Archer. No Archer. No Archer.

Archer.

It was more wrong cells than that, but you know... saving time.

His face couldnt decide between lighting up or hardening due to the nature of the situation. So he settled for rock hard and taciturn.

”Hey Archer,” He said, unlocking the cell. ”Sorry it took so long.”