Interference

The reception they're getting from the transmitter is shite. Mike glares at the little tinny speaker in the back of the van, his fingers drumming against the door. Over the crackle and static of the poor transmission, he can just barely hear the sounds of movement, and intermittently Frances's voice.

"...still haven't made it entirely clear what you're offering," she's saying, and Mike's hand tightens on his gun. He shifts forward in his seat, a creak of leather, and Vaughan glares at him. Not yet. No moving until they're certain. She could be on the phone, for all they know.

Footsteps on her hardwood floors: pace, pace, pause. Her voice again: "You'll have to be more persuasive than that. Maybe the people you normally deal with are idealists, but..." And then more static, damnit.

Mike shifts his focus, glaring at Vaughan instead of the surveillance machinery. If they wait here, too long, and Frances gets turned.... The thought makes him sick. Vaughan stares coolly back at him.

Over the radio, they hear the scrape of furniture against the floor, the rattle of a sticky desk drawer opening. "And what are you asking in return?" She sounds faintly encouraging, but Mike knows better; he's heard that tone from her before, and it always comes when she's setting someone up for a fall.

"...I wouldn't come any closer, if I were you." Vaughan is reaching for his gun now, and he nods, and Mike opens the back door to the van just as the first gunshot sounds, over the radio and from outside.

He hits the ground running, and there are three more shots in quick succession, crack-echo loud in the nighttime street. Vaughan is behind him, footsteps pounding --

And then tackling him, hard, throwing him at the grass as a familiar bright light flares behind the curtains, and the glass of Frances's front window explodes outward over their heads, a bright horrible shimmering noise.

"You should stick with this one," Vaughan says as the dust settles. "She can handle herself in a tight spot."