Chapter Text
They were total opposites of each other, but they were moving in perfect sync.
The tall blond man, whit a friendly half-smile opened the door of the private cell to the hard-eyed other. Guillotine noted that he was not even reaching for the handle, so sure that the other would open the door for him.
Sometimes he thought it would be good to be so trusting. In his life, only death was certain.
“Lando Norris.” the man with the stern look sat down opposite him after the nicer one pulled out one of the hideous plastic chairs for him. Even though there were two chairs, the other remained standing. Guillotine could totally understand him Prison equipment wasn’t designed for comfort.
“Here!” answered Lando in a high-pitched voice like he was in school and if his hands werent cuffed to the foot of the table, he would have raised his hand. The man in front of him didn’t seem impressed by his sense of humor, but the other’s face was sharpened with the outline of a small smile.
It was a typical good-cop, bad-cop comedy in front of his eyes, and the most pathetic thing about it was that he was aware of it, even the worse action movies were full with this bullshit. Probably even their appearances helped to emphasize this.
Mr. Bad-cop pulled out a thick file and opened it with floating sheets.
“Lando ‘Guillotine’ Norris. Born in ’99, November 13, ex-member of the Sureños Gang, and since leaving it, belongs to Manada.”
Lando had not been the member on Manada for a long time and he was almost certain that all three of them knew it, but he didn’t give the man the satisfaction of correcting it. He still didn’t know what they wanted from him, or the most important thing: ho sent them.
It is said that the mob’s hands can reach everywhere, and there’s no escape from those hands.
In reality, the government is also a big mafia, where leaders are all godfathers, sitting on the throne of their countries, and in exchange for jolts, they collect their own defense money, which they are not ashamed to call taxes, and rather than assassins they prefer to call them policemen.
Guillotine didn’t have any problems with the label Assassin. It was a work like any other, with danger, pitfalls, better and worse days.
And he was very good at his job. That’s why that file was so thick in front of the man.
“How did you get to prison?” – asked Mr. Good-cop.
Fuck, even the sound of his voice was kind! The rich, calm voice almost touched his ears. Whoever chose him for the role, made a very good job.
“Because, the well-educated American police is so skilled…”
“Listen here, you little shit…!” interrupted Mr. Bad-cop and clapped his hand on the tattered steel table.
“Maxy, please…” calmed him Mr. Good-cop, like he was doing it on a daily basis. His nice smile didn’t disappear as he stepped away from the wall and finally folded himself into the chair beside his partner. He pulled a little dictaphone out of his jacket pocket and pushed it into the middle of the table, then pushed the recording button on it.
“Lieutenant Mick Schumacher, from the six units of the Navy SEALs team, badge number #047, Central Prison Sandoval, New Mexico. Today’s date is 2025, April 7th. Interviewing Lando Norris, former member of the Spanish Manada Mafia Gang, the supposed right hand of Fernando Alonso, the leader of Manada. Also present is Max Emilian Verstappen, commander of the Navy SEALs unit six, badge number #033.” Lando wasn’t really paying attention to the words of Mr. Good-co… Lieutenant Schumacher, until those faithful words. “Secrecy level red, codename Ricciardo.”
Lando only knew one Ricciardo, but it was more than enough.
The reason, why he spent the last days in jail.
The reason, why he got away from Alonso.
Daniel Ricciardo.
You speak of the devil, and he shall appear.