Love is War (L.S.)

4

(A/N: A shorter one, we're still world-building - hang in there). 

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"What have you been fucking doing all this time? Why have you found fucking nothing?" Browksi screams into the cellphone.

Louis has been trying to reason with Browski for over an hour, but it's gotten him nowhere short of being called inept, a moron, and even a dumb fool. It's Louis' own fault and he knows it. He had to call Browski to report on what he's found so far and unfortunately, there wasn't a lot. All he could really tell them was where the headquarters were located (which Browski already knew), that Maria Tomas was dead, and that her killer was some guy people called "Styles." It wasn't enough to go on, since Browski insisted it was a codename.

Louis had been to three more so-called board meetings since Styles refused to give him an assignment of any kind. Each time, he hadn't been given much notice for it. He'd get a text message from an anonymous phone number telling him to meet in "10 minutes," "15 minutes," and one time it just read, "NOW!" He was in the middle of a nap at that time. He told Sam Lorne about them but it was just a dead-end since Sam is sure even if they did find a way to get the actual number, it'd probably belong to a burner phone.

At every meeting, there's a different range of the same people he saw on the first day. One time, it was only him, 'questions guy' with the three-piece suit, and the blonde from the elevator. Even so, Styles refused to give him any kind of task, or even acknowledge him. That didn't stop Louis from trying to speak to him, it just meant anything he said went unanswered.

The meetings, if you could even call them that, had a similar structure that Louis picked up on by his second time there. Styles would walk in with a hard look on his face and a lack of greeting of any kind, he would sit down and pull out his leather-bound book and flip it open to a page with scribbles on it, and he would direct his gaze to the group, but also not really. He never really looked at people. Never made eye contact with anyone. His gaze would linger on each of them momentarily, but it mostly stayed on their clothes or a little over their shoulder. For Louis, his gaze would hold somewhere by his chin, Louis isn't quite sure.

Styles would talk about where the others were in the vaguest way possible, revealing literally nothing. It's as if he knows Louis isn't actually one of them. He'll talk about resources, budget numbers, and next targets with code names that Louis' tried to find out from others but unfortunately, none of them seem to be taking a liking to him. He does know that Styles said that they have a job that requires a lot of them coming up this weekend. However, it's too vague that if he were to tell Browski about it, he'd get another "fucking moron" comment.

"They're not giving up any information and I've barely been here for a week. You need to give me more time," Louis insists.

Browski huffed. "This is a time-sensitive job Louis, you have no time. I thought you could handle this but if you can't, tell me now so I can send people who actually know what they're doing and aren't fucking morons!"

"I don't understand, you know his name, you know Tomas is dead, and you know where they hold their weekly meetings. Just come bloody get them!"

"You don't think they'd see us coming from a mile away. You don't think they'd get rid of every piece of evidence that could put them away for good. We need to intercept them when they go for the vault! Honestly Tomlinson, it's as if we hired you yesterday!"

Louis took a deep breath to steel himself from saying something he'd regret later.

"I'll have something before the weekend is up," he assures him.

Browski grunts in response and then hangs up the phone.

Louis can do this. He can. This is his job - one that he's really good at. He's just never had this specific problem before; making people believe he's one of them. Sure, the lads back home never fail to let him know they don't respect him on the same wavelength as they do, say, Browksi, but he figured with time and his job here, they eventually would. He just needs a plan of action, a way to get Styles to trust him and let him in on everything he's planning. It's as he's pacing back and forth in his hotel room that he receives a familiar text from an anonymous number with just the words, "five minutes." He doesn't even hesitate before grabbing changing into a pair of black suit pants, grabbing his coat, and heading out.