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[Urban Myth, IC] Welcome To The City
Scooter
Registered User regular
Registered User regular
Mayor Helms is glad to welcome all newcomers, tourists, and immigrants to Arcadia! With your help, Arcadia can truly become a beacon for all the world to follow in the years to come!
This message sponsered by Mothers Against Crackwhores For Seth Helms For Mayor '08.
Get that IC juice flowing.
This message sponsered by Mothers Against Crackwhores For Seth Helms For Mayor '08.
Get that IC juice flowing.
Scooter on
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Name’s Dupree. Jake Dupree. My father was Burt “The Hurt†Dupree, a pretty good prizefighter in his heyday but you probably don’t recollect him if you don’t follow the Philadelphia circuit. That’s where I come from, old Philly. Family’s been there ever since the great-grandfather came off the boat from the home land. I grew up fighting and reading, reading and fighting. Never did very well in school, I simply slugged my way through the grades. Being one of the only few Irish kids in the school made me an instant target and there came with a few hard knocks. I made it through and went to college, doing some amateur boxing along the way. Only last a year in college, I wanted to study history but college has a habit of being expensive. Since I couldn’t read for a living, I figured I’d try fighting so I became a cop. That only lasted a few years ‘fore they kicked me off the force. Evidently they didn’t like guys that shot the gun a few too many times. So I became a bail bondsman and did the fighting without a badge.
A solid cracking sound filled the steel cave, the echo reverberating throughout the supports. The screams overcame the sound of bone snapping and blood mixed in with the other stains on the concrete floor. A man of middling height, a square build and a square face held a golf club in one hand. The heavy metal driver was held above another man, dressed in white clothes stained with red, sprawled on the cold ground. One leg twisted in an odd angle, broken from the previous blow. The driver whistled through the air and connected to the man’s stomach. The shoulder holster for a big revolver jiggled and bounced with the swing, the large gun slapping the man’s side.
“You like that, you stupid motherfucker? You like the feel of that? What’s the matter? What, you can beat on women but can’t take one yourself, you cock-sucking cunt? You don’t like this, you piece of,†the man took another solid swing-whack-and continued the stream of words, “shit. Can’t take it? Maybe you should have thought of that before you started pimping in our neighborhood.â€
The club hitting that man’s body like its Tiger Wood’s ball on the tour belongs to Mickey “Mad Mully†Mulligan. The guy is a tough coot who’s been a friend of Willy for over eight years. He’s one of the Patrons and oversees a portion of Willy’s business, just like all the other Patrons. As one of Willy’s lieutenants, he’s tough, smart and vicious. He was in the Boston operation for a number of years before the whole thing comes crashing down due to a rat. Willy picked him up when he started expanding operations in Arcadia. The guy spent his teen years as an IRA rebel before coming to America and has some wild stories. He’s a real bulldog, once a couple of spicks tried to run him down in some piece of shit but he stood in the road, staring them down. Just as they were about to slam into him, he sidesteps, lights a Molotov cocktail with the cigar in his mouth and tosses into the open cab. All four died in the fire. The guy’s also my boss.
Close to the beating stood another two men. One was tall and powerfully built. Long, bright red hair tied into a ponytail with faint sideburns leading to trimmed beard complimented his angular face. The man was dressed stylish, with a business coat draped over a knit vest and a collared shirt. Small green sunglasses sat across the man’s green eyes. A MAC-10 machine pistol lay loosely in the man’s grip. The other man was somewhat shorter but wider, with a blond flattop and an ugly, massive face that belonged to a pug dog. He was an intimidating man holding a sawed-off, pistol grip shotgun off under his coat. They both watched the beating without any expression.
Those two are Phil “Tag†Talbert and Vic “Brick†Sullivan. Tag serves as Mulligan’s top soldier and strategist. The man served for eight years in the Army, spending several of them in the Rangers. A true warrior, Tag used to be a freelance mercenary before Willy brought him onboard and had him work for Mulligan. The other guy, the one that looks like his face has been ran through a blender, is the toughest son-of-a-bitch I know and is some form of relation to the Patron Eddie Sullivan. He was a boxer before he turned into an enforcer and survived someone unloading ten gauge buckshot directly into his face. He does a lot of Mulligan’s dirty work and acts as his primary tough. Brick is the strongest guy I know; I’ve seen him break a man’s skull with his bare hands.
Behind Dupree stood a tall and lanky man in his early forties with amber hair and a very lean frame. He puffed on a pipe and looked disinterested and bored. Next to him was a young lad, not out of twenties, with a nervous look to him. Stubble was on his chin and a backwards black cap with the words “Ireland†on his head. A Glock stuck out of his jeans, nestled against his brown shirt and unzipped hoodie. He watched the man in the white stained suit with horror and fascination, a cigarette held in shaking hands.
The tall one is Russell Mayer, the advisor. Mayer was some penny-ass lawyer that came straight from Ireland, a real shark and ambulance chaser. He screwed over the wrong people in a short amount of time and sought a way to fix it. After seeing the way Willy’s connections fixed it and the money it brought in, Mayer took a liken’ to havin’ the mob as a client. Now he’s still a shit lawyer but he helps Mulligan with the business side of things, doing the numbers bit of it all. The young one is Danny Carleton, a nephew of Mulligan and cousin of an enforcer for Willy. He’s just been brought into the family business; we all call him the Kid.
Mulligan took a final swing at the man. Placing the golf club on the man’s head and leaning on it, Mulligan spat on his face. “Don’t fuck in our town, you shit. We don’t like mac daddies and we don’t like fuckers who smack around girls and turn our women into hoes. Cry like a bitch now, little fuck.†Mulligan straightened up and swung the club over his shoulder. Turning away from the bloody mess, he walked away. “Dupree, burn this fuck.â€
“Sure thing, Mully.†Dupree drew the pistol from his jeans and moved towards the bloody pimp, kicking him over and placing a foot on his chest. He pointed the pistol at the man’s head.
“Oh fuck, oh please, oh god. Mick, mick, please for the love of fuck. Don’t do this!†The pimp pleaded with tears rolling down his face, staring at Mulligan. Square shoulders shrugging, Mulligan raised his finger like a pistol and pointed it at the pimp.
Mulligan’s white teeth flashed predatorily. “Blam.â€
Dupree pulled the trigger and the ringing echoed in the building for several seconds.
Minutes later, Dupree was driving Mully, Tag and Mayer away from the port, heading back to the Mob’s terrority. Brick and Danny were left behind to deal with the body. Dupree’s 1970 Chevelle’s 454 L6 engine roared, propelling them through town. Mayer and Mully sat in the back seat. “Dupree, got something that needs doing.â€
Dupree nodded, glancing at Mully with the rear-view mirror. “What’s up, boss?â€
“Willy’s been hearing news about some of the cartels moving shit into town, lots of hard stuff. They are moving the candy through flights, and then getting them to local pushers. Some of it has been showing up in areas of our interest.†Mully ashed his cigarette out the window at a stoplight, then went on. “Communications between the pushers and runners is lax at best, so if we hold onto the pushers then the cartels will be feeding us shit for awhile ‘fore they get wise.â€
Mayer pulled out a photo and handed it to Dupree. “The goods would be excellent collateral, a good bargaining chip to get the bulls or other fucks off our backs while we bring in our own goods. I’ve dug around and this guy is supposed to be a local pusher near the village.â€
“Find this fuck,†Mully said, “and put some pressure on him. Get those pushers for me. Take Danny, it’d be good for him. Take Brick and another one of the boys for muscle. I don’t care what you gotta do; just find this shit for me.â€
Dupree nodded. “I’ll get it for you, Mully.â€
This is the Mob, the toughest group of Irish micks you’ll ever see. We’re playing for keeps out here and we’re taking this town by force…
Her eyes skimmed the plans once more, picked up alternate routes, alternate possibilities. A red pencil in her hand carefully marked out squad assignments and go codes. Charlie, Delta, Tango, Clearwater, Risen... fuck, so many possibilities to plan for. She had just laid down the red pencil and picked up a green one when the door behind her burst open.
She was halfway to her feet when her alpha squad leader, Michael Shanks, and a pair of women that had been working as prostitues for the cause appeared in the doorway arms laden with gear. "Look what we got here!" Micheal said excitedly. He crossed the room and dumped his armload on a low table, "Six two way radios, a couple hand held Ham Radios, and a police scanner. Amazing what some men keep around their house."
"Where did all this come from?" Kayla asked.
"A customer with a big heart... and a curious fear of nine millimeter hollow points."
She could only sigh, muscling people was neccessary these days, but a neccessary evil in her eyes. "Well as long as they all work, did you test them?"
"Tested and ready to go," he replied.
"Good, then get the other squad leaders, we need to go over this."
"Righto, ma'am, be back ASAP."
She looked out her window one last time for the night. So many people counting on her, and finally a chance to be put to the test. The squads were ready, most of the people who worked squad duty were trained proffessionals before, or had been trained while part of The Family. But it was her plan that would sink or swim this time, and this year would open, for better or worse, with a bang.
"<Saint, Sidekick, have your squads ready.>¹" He waited, slowly, his hand lingering heavily in the air, bouyed by the tension. Long moments passed and the dozen armored individuals surrounding him remained almost perfectly motionless. Then, the bang of the service door around back opening reverberated through the alleyway and the tail end of a conversation was punctuated by the sharp crack of a rifle in the early morning fog. Dragunov's faceplate slipped down and all thirteen armored forms moved as one, boiling in through that now-open service door.
Rolling in through the breach, Dragunov was on his feet and the report of his AK 94 sounded as though it would shatter the glass in the room on its own. Splinters, shards of flying glass and bodies tumbled everywhere as the other twelve figures orderly entered the room and the reports of their weapons joined the AK's. In a corner, one man slumped against a wall, most of his left shoulder torn off to the bone, blood oozing out at an alarming rate. Another lay across a tabletop, miraculously intact, trying desperately to stuff his intestines back into his abdomen. With a click, the AK's first magazine fell to the ground, replaced quickly with a full one. The door in the back of the room flew from its hinges as it was struck by a heavy combat boot and again the defeaning roar of the AK tore through a room. A chorus of screaming arose to follow its echo and with machine-like precision, the two squads again entered and secured that room. Dragunov released the second empty magazine from his AK and slung it over his back, pulling a pistol free of its holster on his right thigh. He waved at the ones called Saint and Sidekick and approached another door on the far side of the room, stepping over another man curled up in a fetal position, rocking himself gently and moaning in pain.
Again the heavy combat boot rose and a door fell, but this time only Dragunov stepped through the breach. A single bullet left his pistol, cutting into the cartelidge of a seated man's left ear to knock the pistol to his head away. "<Hector Salvatore, you're under arrest. You have one right remaining: the choice.>" The man, his pistol laying on the floor behind him now looked at the armored figure with the blood on his chestplate and nodded, swallowing.
"Kill me, Dragunov. I won't survive prison this time. Even if I did, those Irish bastards will have eaten up the last of my territory by the time I'm out."
The one called Dragunov tilted his head, shrugged and for the final time, the sound of a weapon reporting broke the silence. Salvatore sat in his chair, staring at Dragunov as his eyes glazed over. As the rest of the unit slowly entered the room, Dragunov handed his pistol to the one called Saint.
"<He resisted arrest,>" was the only thing Dragunov said as he walked out, doffing his helmet as he went. On the street he lit up a cigarette and stood, waiting patiently and drawing off the cigarette as the sound of approaching sirens grew clearer. It was a routine that was familiar, comfortable. Soon that arrogant American jackass IA Inspector would arrive. He'd ask the same questions he had last time, demanding Dragunov speak to him in English knowing full well Dragunov's English was broken at best. Dragunov would, in his broken English, give him the same story all 12 other members of the First Section would give him, and the asshole American would be gone again, fuming and swearing to Dragunov that he'd "catch him with his pants down" some day. Dragunov didn't doubt he would...but with any luck all these mafioso and street toughs would be buried before that happened.
Shouldering an M-24 as he approached, another armor-clad individual saluted Dragunov as he did. "Captain, anything breathing?"
Dragunov shook his head. "<Never is.>"
¹ Translated from the Russian
The crackling of a fire floods the car speakers for a few moments before being drown out by a deep, gravelly voice, "Rousseau said that man is born free but is everywhere in chains. Now, people say that Rousseau was criticizing a society of laws - all well and fine - but what I think he was referring to was the exertion of social pressures on the individual from those around him. Anyway, just something on my mind really, didn't mean to trouble you in your last moments."
The last few words resound in the car and for a moment a scream can be heard incoherently over the speaker - then silence. After a few moments the voice comes back over the speakers, calm and cold, "whoever's listening to this, listen well. Rats don't make good humans. Maybe in his next life he'll do better." The message ends with a savage growling and Rick flicks the switch back off.
Francisco gears the car into reverse and taps the gas pedal. Nothing. He turns to Rick, "shit man, we're not moving." An abrupt banging on the car door interupts Rick before he can reply and suddenly the car is swaying back and forth. Humanoid shapes appear all around the car as the swaying becomes more and more violent. Rick goes for his gun just as the car tips on its side and fumbles, dropping it to the driver's side, where his shocked partner struggles to get to his waist.
The passenger window shatters and a multitude of hands grab Rick and hoist him from the vehicle. Screams can be heard as Frank finally manages to draw his weapons and he aims it into the blackness. A few tense moments pass without a sound, and he looks about nervously for any sign of movement, but the night outside seems perfectly still.
Outside, a plaid-ensconced behemoth lights fire to a rag sticking from a bottle and lobs it toward the car. The last thing Frank hears is what sounds like howling from outside the car.
"Ordah, please. Ordah. This meeting will please come to ordah!" The gavel rapped on the table several more times before the attendees quieted enough for the evening to begin. Hephenaw sighed quietly. The Community Action Brigade was coming together nicely, but there was still a rather unfortunate level of informality about the whole thing.
He stood and spoke. "Ladies and Gentlemen, the Principle has ahsked to address this meeting befoh we get undahway. Apparently there is an issue that requiahs immediate action."
He gestured to Michel, who was standing with arms crossed against the wall. The large Canadian stepped forward. Hephenaw sat and waited patiently for the leader of the Disciplinarians to speak. To his right, he saw Elizabeth lean forward slightly in her seat. He rather suspected that there might be a slightly inappropriate attraction between his two subordinates. Surely, co-ordination had improved vastly between the Disciplinarian Faculties and the Purfication Committees since Hephenaw had coaxed the dark Quebecois out of retirement.
"We 'ave word dat there is trouble down h'in the Irish h'area of The Clover. The situation h'is quickly spiraling out of control. I'd like to send a Faculty to h'interdict the violence and make known the position of the P.T.A. that this sort h'of 'ooliganism will not be tolerated."
The motion was quickly passed -- a simple directive from Michel would have been sufficient, but as the Committee was actually meeting as the situation broke it had seemed proper to put it to a vote.
Henri muttered a command into his headset, and Hephenaw heard the roar of one of the Detention-class Battlewagons revving up and tearing out of the High School parking lot.
Soon the Prefects of the P.T.A. would have their first real test. Hephenaw sat back and motioned to Elizabeth to take over the meeting. His attention was firmly fixed on the data screens embedded in his desk.
She didn't acknowledge him at all, though, and that was better.
This wasn't standard Black Alley protocol, not that they had much protocol, but Ralph had just gotten an earful from a comrade he met way back in middle school about some tape a buddy of his had on hand, and wouldn't it be the wickedest thing of BlASt got a hold of it?
Orchid wouldn't approve, though, and Orchid was in charge, but then, if you asked Ralph, Orchid was just a stuck-up bitch anyway, and when you got right down to it, she needed him more than he needed her and her shitty little firm, and if he wanted to use the studio's resources to make a buck on the side, that's his right, right?
But damn, if she found out, Ralph didn't like to think about what videos he'd be starring in.
Mostly certain that Orchid was well gone by now, Ralph fired his web browser back up and set to work on his mischevious little plan.
In anticipation of our customer base's desire to be up to date with all the latest Materium Energy decisions and innovations, we have implemented this public service announcement system so as to bring information to you speedily and efficiently. The following are our public service announcements for January 1st to January 7th.
Firstly, we have heard the reports from concerned citizens of local teenagers seen breaking into Materium Energy's water purification plants, and have taken steps to remedy the matter. All purification plants have now been outfitted with high voltage electric fences. Better for rowdy law-breaking teenagers to meet a clean death by electric shock than to potentially endanger the whole city through contaminated water supply.
Secondly, Materium Energy has offered its personnel as additional security for workers during the construction of the Explosives Disarmament and Destruction Facility in South Apex Park. Should the facility be successfully constructed, Materium Energy can pass the benefits on to you.
Lastly, Materium Energy spokesperson Josh Newport tragically passed away on the 2nd after he was accidentally shot in the head. He died instantly. He is succeeded in his James Sunderman, who hopes to do a better job than Josh Newport ever did.
"Drug smugglers," he said. "True, they are scum, but it hardly sounds like the sort of thing the Freemen typically get involved in."
"Coercion and intimidation are their MO, sir," replied the agent. "The boss at House Seventeen suspects they're forcing a lot of their mules to carry the stuff." The agent paused a moment, wishing Vance would look at him, give him some clue that he cared. "The boss also thinks we can get some good information on how smugglers get in and out of Arcadia City. What works for a drug runner might work for a slaver."
"Who is the boss at House Seventeen again?"
"Eli Kleiner."
"Tell Eli to go ahead with the operation. At the very least it will give some of his boys a chance to see the kind of trash we're up against. Gentlemen, take this soldier below decks and give him a shot of brandy. The good stuff. Then take him back to the city." The guards and the agent moved off, leaving Gordon Vance alone on the deck of his yacht, musing.
***xXxbludzombiexXx has joined
[14:40] <atomikprophet> sup dude?
[14:40] <nyrnox> yo man
[14:41] <xXxbludzombiexXx> sup guys - anyone catch the game?
[14:42] <nyrnox> ugh we got killed
[14:42] <atomikprophet> Fox plays like complete shit, why the fuck did they ever pick him up?
[14:43] <nyrnox> hey blud, you were the one who pulled that job two weeks ago, right?
[14:43] <xXxbludzombiexXx> with twix?
[14:43] <nyrnox> yeah
[14:43] <xXxbludzomiexXx> shit, that was fucking twisted
[14:44] <atomikprophet> i heard from twix that guy is livin' in tumbletown
[14:44] <xXxbludzombiexXx> yeah, that was me man..
[14:44] <xXxbludzombiexXx> fuckin' tumbletown is scary shit..i heard there's fuckin' packs of homeless that'll skullfuck you to death
[14:45] <nyrnox> sounds kind of hot
14:45] <atomikprophet> lol @ nyrnox
***Asm0d3us joined
[14:46] <atomikprophet> Sir
[14:46] <xXxbludzombiexXx> Sir
[14:46] <nyrnox> Sir
[14:48] <Asm0d3us> Gentleman, and lady..You all should've recieved the objective. Nothing you three can't handle.
[14:48] <nyrnox> Pretty simple stuff, sir. A little eco-terrorism to bend it our way? I know a few thugs who need some fast cash for a quick fix. Nobody will even know we're involved.
[15:00] <Asm0d3us> Good. Keep it that way. Remember, I'll be watching..
***Asm0d3us has left the server.
[15:10] <atomikprophet> who's the girl?
The computer shut down, taking with it the last bit of light in the room. The chair squeaked as he leaned back, going over in his head the odds of success. Resting one arm on the arm rest, he sifted through his shirt pocket, searching for his cigarette case.
A spark and then a small flame chased away, momentarily, the darkness of the room. The cigarette was brought to life, perched between his lips as the smell of tobacco filled the room, nearly as fast as the light had dissapeared. His chair creaked as he swiveled on around to the window, pausing only to open up the vertical shades.
A soft glow filled the room as smoke lazily drifted from his mouth and nostrils. The city lay before him, a thousand lights and a thousand more lives beneath him. The Spire stood tallest and proudest among it's neighbor towers. In the distance, he could see Arcadia Square. Beyond, he knew, were docks, factories, and the domains of the haves, the have-nots, and the have-somes.
Ash collected and he lightly discarded it into an ivory ashtray. All would be his, soon enough.
As they sat discussing housing issues Li Hoi, a portly fisherman, burst into the room. "AL! You must come quickly!" he said as he panted and wept to himself. The group was soon standing in Li Hoi's two room apartment, staring at a small crumpled form. A small boy of no more than thirteen, Li Hoi's son Wong, lay on a dirty mattress with a needle sticking from his arm. Allad stared quietly for a minute, then pulled the needle from the boy's arm as he closed the staring eyes. Turning to his men he held up the syringe and spoke. "Round them up."
Standing in the middle of a large dirt basement below one of many packing houses on the dock, Allad and his men stood before 5 bruised men tied to folding chairs. "Do you know why I tolerated your presence here? I allowed you to operate on our streets because I believed you would find the weakness in our society. All groups have weak links, and better that I should find them sooner before they are bought by the filthy corporations that infest this town. I allowed you to do us a service, I tolerated you. I DO NOT TOLERATE THIS!" Allad pointed at the body lying on a table. "You have poisoned our future. This I do not stand for. Now which of you dealt to this boy?" The dealers in the chairs shifted uncomfortably, but no one spoke.
"Hassan?" Allad looked to a young Afghani missing three fingers. "Sir?"
"What was it that funded the soldiers that raped your family?"
"The poppy fields." Allad nodded and Hassan plunged a carving knife into the gut of one of the dealers. A gag was placed in his mouth to muffle the screams and the others began to tremble.
"I will ask you again, which of you gave this boy his drugs?"
"It...it was me. But I didn't know it was bad, I swear!"
"It doesn't matter what you knew. You are going to tell me where you get your shipments. Now."
"I...They'll kill me!"
"Pico! Who was it that killed your brother?"
"The cartels!" Allad nodded again and the Columbian man drove a huge fish hook into the neck of one of the other dealers. One of the three men left wet himself as he moaned.
"Let us try this again. Where did you get your supply?"
"Oh god. I...don't kill me please! I...they...it comes in from the airport. They've got a man in the baggage room. Christ, I just needed some money!"
"What is this man's name?"
"uh...oh shit...uh...Andres! Andres something. I swear I don't know his last name!"
Allad leaned in close to the man and pulled out a cigarette. After a long drag, he took it and stubbed it out in the dealer's eye, whispering "This boy's name was Wong. He loved baseball. He was thirteen." Standing up he looked at Saladin, who opened the door to the room. Li Hoi stepped in holding a bat studded with nails and bits of glass. Squinting through tears he began an unbroken string of Korean curses. The other men in the room filed out, leaving the fisherman alone with the dealers. As they walked away from the room filled with screams, Allad turned to Yuri. "Find him, I want no more poisoned children."
“Well go on Mr. Ransom.â€
“Um... Well... Sir, Errr... There has been a prob... err... slight miscalculation on our part, Sir.†Mr. Ransom had a death-like grip on the arms of his chair. The slender man's expression didn't waver as he patiently waited for an explanation. “Our underground stores in Sector 22 have been compromised.â€
“What do you mean by compromised?†The patient gaze turned fiery.
“It seems that someone took it upon themselves to dump radiation all over the place, which in turned leaked into levels one and two. We've had 3 fatalities and 10 injured personal.†Sweat rolled down Ransom's neck. The room was deafeningly silent aside from the soft whir of the projectors fans.
“Send for the P.E.C., have them serve severance packages to the entire staff of Sector 22. As for you Mr. Ransom, I'd take it personally if you didn't find someone to hold accountable.â€
***
Things had gone as Ralph had hoped, mostly. His buddy had gotten the tape, and there had been a meeting at the abandoned school down on 93rd 'n' Lincoln, an exchange of cash and all that jazz.
Ralph had taken the film back to the Studio to make with the copying; he had about a dozen VHS tapes (these were dangerous, now, and Orchid refused to use them at all anymore, too much evidence next to DVDs) and a monster stack of discs when all was said and done, and he made the pass off to a distributor that had never worked with BAS in the past (he thought so, anyway.)
But Ralph, oh, Ralph was not careful, Ralph was not thorough or discrete, and Orchid found out - tape, she told him when he came into work that night, is not safe. Too much evidence - all you have to do is pull out of the cassette and take a look.
Orchid isn't big, but she can be intimidating none-the-less, with her slightly-oversized fatigue jacket and fiery hair. He came into work, and she spoke to him, and he could see the red light on the camera rolling, and she pressed the barrel of her sidearm to his forehead, and she whispered to him that she really had liked him, thought he was good to have around, a nice person, mostly.
And when she drew the hammer back, her voice was so venomous she spat. "But no!" she shouted, "No, you're just a sick fuck, you're disgusting, you're fucked up you piece of shit," and she closed her eyes and pulled the trigger, and Ralph's head exploded but the camera didn't blink.
Go codes Delta, Tango and Leemer were used so far, meaning that the infiltration had been a success and the security monitoring station had been neutralized. Leemer meant that both bombs were being set up, now all they were waiting on was...
"This is team alpha, we have Risen, we have Risen!"
FUCK! Risen was the code for mission complete but teammates wounded or down.
The driver shifted into gear and screached arund the corner and accelerated straight into the chain link fencing surrounding the half finished construction work. It's twin followed behind it, as the two vans careened through large open spaces where the walls hadn't been finished, finally stopping in an open room towards the center of the complex.
Both teams came through the near door only a few seconds after the vans had arrived, Alpha carrying someone with a wound in the abdomen and beta laying down covering fire in the direction they had come from. She lost sight of the teams as they each moved to behind their respective vans.
Behind her the door opened and the wounded was thrown in as gently as they had time for, and the rest of the team got in. Micheal was the last in closing the door behind him, "Go, go, go!"
"You heard him lets blow this joint." She said to the young driver.
The vans left the building in as much a hurry as they'd enetered, the rear van taking a few poorly aimed shots to the bumper. About four blocks away, the trailing van stopped, and the radio came to life.
"Clearing House."
The explosions was close enough to be almost deafening and the collapsing structure shook the very ground beneath them. and sent up huge clouds of dust and debris visible in her the side mirror. A loud echo of cheers resounded form the back of the van, and Kayla's muscles finally started to relax.
The vans continued on for another block before catching the freeway, it was going to be a quiet ride home, and the start of an excellent new year.
"What the fuck!"
"Yes, indeed!" Yuri grin widened. "I have little time for talk, so. When is your next shipment coming in?"
"My legs, what did you do to them?!"
Yuri grunted at a man in a fishers cap wearing a bloodied smock. The vice on Andres' left arm was tightened. Andres twitched. "You will feel your legs soon enough, we simply did not need to hear you scream while Attila took your knee caps. Attila spent fifteen years in a Soviet gulag. He learned much! Now, when does the next shipment come in?"
"Oh god! You... you wouldn't even know where to find the drugs!"
"Attila?" The right vice was turned, as Andres twitched again. "We know about the red suitcases, we watched you before we took you. I will only ask once more: when is the next shipment?" Andres could see a glint in the one clear eye
Allad was pulling away from the refinery where the drugs were being destroyed when a sharp explosion shook the car. Shaking off Saladin's restraining hand, he ran back into the building. Pico and Saleem were standing staring at a rifle lying on the floor smoking. On the other end of the refinery was a blackened pipe.
"What the fuck was that?!"
"Boss! er, Al! We were just, you know, taking pot shots with that Drug guy's rifle! Fucking bullets explode!"
Allad bent and picked up the rifle, pulling out the clip. Below the red tips of each bullet the words Tracer Ind. could be made out. He looked at the two men, tossing Pico the clip.
"Go to Javier, tell him to find out what he can about this. We need these off the streets before someone is killed."
"We were beat to the punch, Gordon," said Eli bluntly as they sat down around a mahogany table. A butler walked in and took their drink orders. "Somebody got to the drug runners before us."
"Nobody nefarious, I hope?"
"We aren't sure, but I have a hunch it was that immigrant group. Not too worried about them spreading crack around the city, but still a bit annoying."
"True." Gordon accepted his drink and clinked it against Eli's before tossing it down. "I'm sure you didn't come all the way out here just to tell me you failed, though."
"No, I didn't." Eli reached into his pocket and pulled out a grainy photograph. Gordon took a glance at it and flipped it over. On the back the word "help me" was written in crimson lipstick.
"Who is she?"
"Alice Kay, though we had to dig for that. She's a dancer at the Ice Cream Shop in the Ice Palace casino, though judging from that photo she's doing a bit more than taking off her clothes. I don't know how she took it without the gentleman noticing, but she slipped it to one of our boys at a grocery store a few blocks down from the Ice Palace. We checked out the rest."
"And?"
"One of the supervisors at the Ice Cream Shop has some dirt on her brother, an up-and-comer in Orion Corporation. I'm sure you can guess the rest."
"Naturally. You know what to do." Gordon poured them each another drink.
"I do." They tapped the glasses together and rained them once more.
Froucher calmly removed the comset and placed it on the tiled floor of his office. He neatly coiled the cord around it. Then, straightening, he raised a booted foot and smashed the comset several times, grinding the offending electronics into the ground with his heel for good measure.
"Fuck. Fucking wrestlers.[i/]" He couldn't believe what he'd just been told. Giant greased-up vigilantes had beaten the P.T.A.'s best Faculty to the punch in The Clovers. That the traditional police had been similarly pre-empted was cold comfort, as was the bare fact of The Clovers' improvement since the raid.
Wrestlers. Bah!
A spare comset on Froucher's Spartan desk bleeped, and he strode over to it. Snatching it up, he rammed it home into his aural canal and barked a terse 'Allo into the mic.
Crates of Ammunition coming in. Now. No time to plan.
Snarling further orders as he jogged towards the P.T.A. Armoury, he calculated quickly. There were only a few Prefects in the building right now -- he'd have to make do with Monitors. Their basic training should be sufficient to deal with this, especially with Froucher himself along.
"Go! Go! Go! Get into the truck, you maudit Anglais!'
"In other news.." The camera shifted to Dirk Eleger, who's tone dropped to a serious tone. "Developers for Omega Corporations and under Arcadian based businesses have begun to develop land just outside of Apple National Park."
Cue camera spanning across a green field.
"The land, "(Dirk's voice was omnipresent as the broadcast showed a bubbling brook), "was, up until recently, protected by the government. It was going under the necessary process of becoming protected, when it was suddenly deemed unable to recieve state protection."
The camera shows picketers with signs, with mostly consisting of the not-so-clever and overused "Save Our Trees".
"Protestors were unable to turn away the bulldozers and workers, who went to work almost immeaditly after the sale went through. Asked why the sudden change of the heart, the government cited pollution levels were to great, and didn't want to risk spreading it even further."
The camera cuts back to the newsroom, where Ms. Steel is all to ready to deliver another knock-out line.
"Aww..I guess Bambi was a little too sick!"
She shut the TV off, a small of smile of satisfaction coming to her lips. The thugs she had hired had performed perfectly, well-worth the money she spent to bribe them do what was necessary.
Melissa stretched before lazily rising from the couch, moving to her laptop which had gone into sleep mode. Tapping the keyboard, it buzzed to life while she grabbed a cup of coffee. The digital clock on the stove read 6am.
Sipping her coffee as she sat down, she wasn't surprised to see a notification she had a new-email. I don't think he ever sleeps..The thought made her shiver visibly. She well understood the fact that somehow, Asm0d3us was able to keep tabs on her, and the rest of their little organization. How? Nobody exactly knew, but they all had resigned themselves to the fact that Big Brother was watching. Especially when she had seen her bank account for the first time.
It was the usual terse orders. He (or she, she chided herself) was not one to waste words. The contents of the e-mail were brief. Congratulations on a job well done. Notification of money transferred to a secure account for her later transfer. And orders? This was a bit surprising.
A solo job.. Another smile as she mulled it over. Bigger gain and a bit more recognition. Show these little boys what a girl can do.She read down further, getting the details of the report. Hacking? She felt like she hadn't done some good, old-fashioned hacking in a long time. It would be cake to grab the information for a few Ex-Communists.
"It was with a heavy heart that last week I brought you the news of the tragic, and ironic, explosion at the explosive disarmaments facility in South Apex Park. It is a source of especial embarrassment to us, since we were engaged as security contractors for the project at the time of the explosion. I have already spoken at length about Materium Energy's responsibility in this matter, so I will not labour the point further. Suffice it to say that, in light of the new construction underway on the NIGHTCRAWLER facility also in Apex Park, we have devoted all of our resources to locating and bringing to justice the parties responsible for the attack, before they could bring more destruction and loss of life to this next project.
Today, our investigations have paid off. Our investigative teams have uncovered the terrorist group responsible for the bombing. What's more, we have solid intelligence on both the location of their base of operations, and on the movements of several of their high ranking members.
We have taken steps to ensure that this group will not be interfering with NIGHTCRAWLER."
***
RECORDED PHONE TRANSMISSION JANUARY 10 2007 AT 1136 HOURS
COMPANY CONFIDENTIAL
T1: We’re in sector three now.
T2: Any sign of insurgents?
T1: …No. Uh, wait. There’s ah, there’s a possible to my left. Male, Caucasian. Loitering near a dumpster.
T2: An insurgent?
T1: …It’s impossible to say.
T2: Shoot him.
T1: Yes sir.
T1: [pause]
T1: [indistinct noise]
T1: Possible is down.
T2: Check him?
T1: [pause]
T1: He’s unarmed. Civilian.
T2: Hm. Get his ID. I’ll send a form letter to his family.
T1: [pause]
T1: Alright. Done. His name’s –
T2: Just, uh - just bring the ID. When you come in.
T1: Yessir.
T2: Alright. Move on.
T1: Sir.
T1: [pause]
T1: [faint noise]
T1: We’re in position now.
T2: Based on surveillance, you should have about five minutes. Stay on the line.
T1: Yes sir.
T1: [long pause]
T1: She's here now sir. She's exiting... Soloman's closest. I think Soloman's... yes. He's got her. Soloman's got her.
T2: Alright, get out of there.
T1: We're moving now.
T1: [pause]
T1: [noise, banging in background] We're in the van. We're... [pause] We're out.
T2: Nice work. Proceed as arranged.
T1: Yes sir.
T2: Out.
T2: [connection terminated]
END OF PHONE RECORD
At five forty in the morning, a woman wrapped in a canvas sack was lightly dropped to the sidewalk from an unmarked white van, which promptly exited the area at high speed.
His moment of musing was interrupted as a tall, attractive woman with short red hair approached him with a knowing grin. "You must be Mr. Cooper?", she asked him as she offered her hand.
Charlie stared for a moment, his thoughts still elsewhere. "Oh! Yes, yes, I'm Charlie Cooper." He shook the proffered hand, surprised at the woman's strong grip. She gave him a smile, "I'm Anne Archer. Welcome to the Watchdog."
Charlie smiled back, "Thank you, Ms. Archer. I'm very happy to be here."
Anne Archer was a tall, elegant-looking woman, apparently in her mid-thirties. She was quite slim and attractive, though it would perhaps be more accurate to say that she was striking than it would to say she was beautiful. She had a natural confidence that was easily visible. She was wearing a conservative, but stylish, dark pantsuit. Her fiery red hair was short, but still stylish and feminine.
"Good to hear.", Anne replied as she turned, motioning for him to follow. "Come on, Mr. Black wants to meet you."
"Mr. Bl-Black?", Charlie stuttered, perspiration forming on his brow. He wasn't expecting to meet the owner of the paper on his first day.
"Of course," Anne said as she maneuvered her way toward the back of the office, "Mr. Black meets all the new hires."
They made their way to the back office and entered without knocking. Byron Black was seated in a large leather chair, his feet resting on his large mahogany desk. He was speaking on the telephone, but motioned for the two of them to have a seat.
Byron Black was a man of about average build, appearing to be in his early forties. He wore a perfectly tailored, black italian suit jacket over a black silk shirt. Everything was of the top quality by the top designers. His dark hair showed little sign of receding and only a hint of gray at the temples. Much like Anne, he had a visible confidence, but he also had a very roguish, almost dangerous look about him.
"Of course I'm not happy about it.", he spoke into the phone, "The Watchdog's not infallible, you know." He listened to the response for a moment, "Listen, how about I make this up to you with a nice new pair of earrings?" He flinched at the response. Charlie and Anne could hear that the person on the other end was both loud and angry. "Ok, ok... Sorry, hun. I know how much it meant to you... No, I do. I'm sorry." He listened again. "Obviously I picked the wrong man for the job." Pause. "Yes, I know. Listen, hun, I have to go. I have people." Another pause. "Ok, bye-bye. Love ya."
Byron hung up the phone and gave Charlie an apologetic grin. "My wife, Bunny.", he gestures to a picture on his desk of a very attractive blonde. "She's pretty upset with me. You see, she's something of a 'do-gooder'." He rolled his eyes a bit and Anne grinned, "An activist, whatever. So she says to me one day, 'Byron, you're such a big shot, why don't you do something about Apple Forest?' I, of course, had no idea what she was talking about, but I put one of my boys on it. Do you know what happened, Charlie?" He fixed Charlie with a stare, no longer grinning.
Charlie glanced between Anne and Byron, "Um, I believe I heard about this. That land was sold to some corporations, wasn't it?"
Byron swung his legs down to the floor and clasped his hands together, leaning forward. "That's right, Charlie. That's right. And Bunny was not happy. Not at all. And when Bunny's not happy, you can be sure Byron's not happy."
Charlie swallowed quietly as Byron stood and began to pace behind his desk. "You know what the problem was, Charlie? I'll tell you. The man I picked for the assignment was a great writer. He graduated at the top of his class at an Ivy league school. He had recommendations from some of the top journalists in the country." Charlie frowned. His credentials weren't nearly as impressive. Byron glanced at Charlie, "But he wasn't an ace. You know what I mean, Charlie?"
Charlie glanced nervously at Anne, who was looking at him with a mysterious half-smile. "Um...", he began to say. Byron interrupted him and continued his pacing, "Of course you do, Charlie. I'm talking about killer instinct. I'm talking about doing whatever it takes to catch people with their pants down. My hot-shot, over-paid, Ivy league pretty boy doesn't have it. The Watchdog needs it."
Byron leaned over his desk and gave Charlie a sly look, "Tell me, Charlie, are you an ace?"
Charlie cleared his throat, "Um... Yes, I believe so..." Byron slammed his hand down on his desk, making Charlie jump. "You believe it? Then say it!"
Charlie straightened in his chair and looked Byron straight in the eye. "Yes, sir. Absolutely. I am an ace." Byron flashed Charlie a smile and sat back down in his chair. "Beautiful. That's good, cause we got a hot tip and we need someone on it right away. Anne?"
Anne produced a manila folder and handed it to Charlie. She explained, "We got a tip that there's a protection racket making the rounds in the Triangle, but noone's talking to the cops." Byron gave Charlie a big grin, "Good thing we're not the cops. I want you to run with this, Charlie. I know something is going on down there, and I don't want to see your face around here until you find out what it is. Understood?"
Charlie nodded enthusiastically and Anne led him out. Turning to Charlie, she handed him her card, "Ok, Charlie, good luck. Anything you need, just call me. The Watchdog has plenty of resources, so you reporters have nothing to blame for failing."
Charlie nodded, "Sounds great. Just one question - where's my desk?" Anne's eyebrows went up and she gave him a mischievous grin, "Desk? You heard Byron. You won't be needing a desk for this assignment. So I suggest you get going."
Charlie grimaced but nodded, "Got it." As Anne walked away to her office, one thought echoed through Charlie's head - How the hell am I going to do this?
"Hold still... They really did a number on you, didn't they."
She opened her eyes and stared at her partner.,Vivica Lang. She wasn't sure how Vivica and herself had hit it off so successfully a year ago, they were so different from the outside. Kayla ahd been large boned, muscular from years of conditioning, and about ready to drown in a dunken stuppor. Vivica was small and delicately boned, realistic, but totally indefagtiable. The small woman was, almost literally, an unstoppable force, never deterred from her goals for long, and never, ever, defeated.
"Yeah, I suppose they did." Kayla responded.
"You suppose... Sometimes, I feel so weak when I'm around you." Vivica shook her head.
"You feel weak around, ME? I think you have it the other way around." Kayla laughed.
Vivica just shook her head again. "So I guess the assault is off?"
Kayla nodded, "for now, their guards up, and I'm not getting anyone here killed over it. Besides... check the hem of my pantleg."
Vivica raised an eyebrow then moved over to the torn and slightly bloody pants. Her fingers feeling around one hem and then the other before coming out with a folded sheet of paper. Her fingers nimbaly opened it and her eyes skimmed it in seconds. "Oh you naughty girl." She crossed back over to her partner and gave her a kiss, "you very naughty girl."
"So I'll take that as an open invitation, then?" Kayla asked raising an eebrow.
"I don't know with those wounds..." Vivica trailed off
"I'm injured not dead." Kayla said.
"Well then I guess if we go slow."
"Whatever you say, boss lady!"
Kayla still wasn't sure how the leader of this group of rag tag freedom fighters she'd come to call family had picked her. She wasn't sure she cared anymore.
"Well as we all know several weeks ago the AWR chairman and former world heavyweight champion Luke "The man" Duvall announced that he was sick of the scum and criminals in this city and that the AWR was going to clean up this city themselves. And tonight, we once again see the superstars of AWR do just that"
"Indeed, and tonight's lineup is packed full of action. First up we have the royal rumble in the Clover with The five man team of Hank "The Sawblade" Maddsen, the madman from the east "Wongshu", Leeroy "Capital Punishment" Jackson, "Claw" and the fan favourite Rick Rager!"
"And they'll be facing off against the Limericks gang!"
"The 5 man team is considerably outnumbered Mike, how do you think that will affect the outcome?"
"Well Shane, I've been commentating AWR for a long time now, and these guys are some of the most powerful and dangerous guys I've ever seen. I think they'll handle this, no problem."
"Let's cross now to Dan Knowles who's with Rick Rager right now, over to you Dan"
"Thanks guys, I'm here with 2 time world heavyweight champ Rick Rager! Rick, do you have anything to say to the gangs in the clover before you go out there tonight?"
"I'd just like to say one thing..."
Rick snatches the mic.
"To those cowardly scum out there, you can't hide behind those pathetic "gangs" anymore BECAUSE WE'RE COMIN' FOR YA! AND WHEN WE CATCH YA WE'RE GONNA UNLEASH THE WHIRLWIND ON YA!"
"Uh.... And there you have it! Straight from the champion's mouth"
"Well he sure sounds confident!"
"As he should be, the amount of pure power present in this team is unlike anything I've ever seen!"
"Yes and... Oh, I've just got word, YES, the team is hitting the street right now! Let's see the action!"
A huge truck pulls up, several bewildered clover residents look on as the large trailer doors open and smoke billows out. Followed by laser lights and insanely loud rock music.
"Here's Rick Rager and his team on the street! And what's this? Oh my it looks like a group of Limericks gang members just came out of that building and they're- OH A CLOSELINE FROM WONGSHU!"
"That guy 'aint getting up!"
"Haha, Not now that Sawblade in stomping on him!"
"Ha, yeah that's for sure!"
"And now the other members seem stunned by this onslaught, but now- OUCH! A PUNCH TO THE CHEST FROM THE CLAW!"
"AND NOW HE'S LIFTING HIM UP! AND HE'S GOING TO.. TO... OH MY GOD THE ATOMIC POWER BOMB!"
"And here comes some Green Four members! And Capital Punishment is walking over to them and greeting them?"
"What is he doing?"
"Oh it looks like he's goin- OH! A SPINNING DOOM THROW! AND NOW HE'S GIVING THEM THE "MAXIMUM PUNISHMENT LOCK!"
"Looks like some more gangers from both sides have arrived!"
"BUT RICK RAGER ISN'T IMPRESSED! HE'S DOUBLE TEAMING THEM WITH SAWBLADE!"
"CLOSELINE! LARIAT! AND OH MY! HE'S USING THE 10 TONNE SUPLEX! THE 10 TONNE SUPLEX!"
...
"There's gangers lying everywhere now, truly this sends a message that Luke Duvall isn't kidding around!"
"Yeah, "The Man" is serious about cleaning up this city. But who will be next?"
"Find out next week and join us for another monday edition of AWR wrestling SMACKDOWN VIGILANTE LIVE!"
. Faded Jade district.
Steve leaned back in his chair and smiled. He couldn't help but feel excited--a new branch of the VVN, and he was the head commander of it. Fourteen long years and I finally get my dues, he thought. However, this excitement was quickly replaced with apprehension, as he yet again pondered the kind of work he and his men will be doing. The "best" kind--dirty work, and it's not like there will be a shortage of it, either. Anarchists detonating explosive-handling facilities, extortion rackets, professional wrestlers beating down gang members...it's almost too much, in Steve's mind.
His cell phone rang. Steve checked the caller ID--Ray, one of his subordinates. The small flame of excitement relit for a moment. A phone call from a subordinate meant one thing for sure--he got to use his codename. Most VVN operatives, especially in the higher ranks, loathed codenames, but he got a kick out of them. He answered the call.
"Hello, who is this?"
The voice on the other line answered promptly, "It's Ra--" before being cut off.
"Don't use your real name, you dolt," Steve hissed.
"Oh, right. Can I change my codename? I hate this one." The other voice sounded indignant.
"No. Stick with it."
"Ugh...fine. This is Killer Queen reporting. Our sources indicate that there's a rash of gun stores not following the required background check protocols."
"What's it to us, though?"
"Well, there's some bribes involved. I think it's in our best interest to go after these guys before some of those guns get into the wrong hands."
Steve thought for a moment. Yeah, this is only tangentially related to their mission, he thought, but cutting these things off at the pass could help them down the road. "Ok. Send me a list of the offending locations and we'll be out there in two shakes."
Steve walked to a nearby locker and donned the standard VVN uniform. Look out, scum of Arcadia--the Diamond Dogs are going to hunt you to the ground.
Being hauled onto the carpet and dressed-down by Hephenaw and Montague had been the most humiliating experience of his life -- up to that point.
The chalk slipped out his hand and he bent to pick it up. There was no doubt in his mind that he had already been replaced as Principle. He'd be lucky to head a Faculty after this.
Froucher began to write, for the seven hundred and sixty-fourth time: I WILL NOT LEAD ILL-ADVISED AND UNSUCCESSFUL MISSIONS WHICH JEOPARDIZE THE REPUTATION OF THE P.T.A. AND RISK THE LIVES OF ITS STAFF.
God, his hand hurt.
Finally, the customer came out and Dragunov knew the shop was empty except for the owner. He signaled First Section ready, dropped his butt and snuffed it out and donned his helmet. One of the valuable lessons he had learned in SPETSNAZ is that a frightful appearance can go a long way in convincing someone to surrender. The P.S.F.U. armor was frightful, particularly the longer the trooper wore it, the more scratches, dents and stains it acquired. His was still spattered in blood.
"<All squads, move in.>"
They did, quick, efficient and deadly. The door to the pawnshop blew in from the force of the C4 placed around it earlier, and two teams of highly-trained professionals filed in, laying down a blistering array of suppression fire. Dragunov walked in calmly, his pistol drawn. He looked at the pawnshop's owner, one Victor "DaVic" DaPieri, a low-level operative for the Italian mafia.
"<Well Vic -- Saint, translate -- it seems you've finally sold a gun to the wrong person. Councilman Morris' widow sends her regards. As usual, you've got the option.>" Saint translated into perfect Italian for the man.
"I give up, Dragunov. I surrender," he said, putting his hands up.
Dragunov nodded. "<But not without a fight,>" he said right before he shot the man in his right hand, through the palm. "<Take him away, Saint.>"
He walked outside, taking his helmet off as he went and lit up another cigarette. That ought to send a message. No more will selling of illegal weapons be overlooked, he thought to himself as the transportation vans arrived.
Vance peered down at the document Eli had sent him. A few grainy photos of crates being unloaded from ships, and a few terse descriptions of the operations. More smugglers. There was no proof they were engaging in human transport, but there seldom was. Who knew what was inside those shipping containers?
Gordon quickly signed the papers and wondered when he'd be able to sleep again.
With me now is the "Absolute Vindicator" himself, who in tonights event managed to speed across the entire city, destroy five major criminal gangs and retrieve a truckload of missing ammuntion!
What would you like to say to the folks at home Vindicator?
"Gimme that mike!"
The Vindicator snatches the microphone and pauses for a moment, standing there with his feathered armbands and gaudy multicoloured facepaint.
"I'd like to send this one out to all the Little Vindicators out there!"
The vindicator takes a deep breath.
"BECAUSE AS A VINDICATOR I LIVE ONLY FOR BATTLE, I TREAD THE PATH OF THE ANCIENT ANCESTORS FROM THE STARS, AND ONE DAY AFTER A THOUSAND BATTLES , WHEN I HAVE SWUM THE WATERS OF THE RIVER STYX AND WHEN THE PLANETS OF THE AQUARIUS SYSTEM ALIGN THE SKELETONS OF THE VINDICATORS WILL WALK THE EARTH AND THOSE THAT BELIEVE WILL BE TAKEN TO THE HOMEPLANET OF THE VINDICATORS. WE ARE THOSE THAT KNOW ONLY BATTLE AND FURY, THAT LUST FOR THE BLOOD OF EONS OLD BATTLEFIELDS. I HAVE SLAIN THE DRAGON AND SAT UPON THE THRONES OF THE OLD GODS, AND NOW I SIT UPON THE THRONES OF THE NEW GODS WHERE THE VINDICATORS RULE IN THE TWILIGHT OF THE PHEONIX! AND I WILL..."
Uhhh...We'll have to cut you off there vindicator, we don't want too many complains from the network for running over our scheduled timeslot.
Tune in next week for another round of AWR wrestling SMACKDOWN VIGILANTE LIVE!
"I LIVE BEHIND THE GATES OF THE SWORN ENEMIES OF THE DEMON KING, THAT LIVES IN THE FIREY MOUNTAIN OF..."
They had to be ready by now. Had.
Steve's restless brooding was suddenly interrupted by Ray, who burst through the office door, yelling "Chief! You need to see this!" and tossing a paper onto Steve's desk.
A look of shock and anger crossed Steve's face as he scoured the front page, occasionally letting loose a grunt of frustration.
"What do we do, Chief?"
"Well, Ray, I'm afraid there's nothing we really can do. I mean, Ms. Spears' choice of hairstyle, while certainly unfortunate, is entirely within her ri--"
Ray appeared flustered. "No! Sir, look at the sidebar!"
A headline, reading "Bust at Pawnshop Escalates into Firefight", immediately caught Steve's eye. He read the first couple of paragraphs, and flew into a rage. "What the hell?!? How did the fucking cops beat us to the punch I told you fuckers that we should have mobilized goddamn it I'm going to have someone's balls for this!"
Ray sprang into action, defusing his superior's anger with his natural communication skills and a couple of glasses of Jack Daniels. With Steve temporarily calmed, Ray broke to him the rest of the bad news relating to the police squad that busted the pawnshop in the first place. Unfortunately, a few more glasses of Jack would have been necessary to make that go down smoothly.
"SPETSNAZ!?!?! Jesus Christ how did we not know about that what is up with this fucking city first crazy wrestlers beating up gang members now former secret police members on the city payroll what the hell is with law enforcement these days coming to anyw--"
"SIR!" Ray interjected. "Here, have some more Jack while I give you some good news for once. It seems that Carl managed to dig up some dirt on an Anarchist group called 'The Veil Children'. Apparently some of the key members of the group were at one point extremely wealthy, and there lies a chance for us to strike."
Steve mulled this over for a moment, swirling his glass while thinking. "Okay. I'm not following you at all."
Ray sighed. "Wealthy anarchists. Since they oppose the government so much, it stands to reason that at least some of them are similarly opposed to paying their taxes. We'v--"
"Hold it right there," Steve interjected. "Yeah, that makes some sense, but what do we have to back it up? I don't want to waste our time on meaningless conjecture."
Ray nodded. "I thought you would say that, so I had Carl contact The Tax Man back at home base."
Steve sat up and paid his undivided attention. He had heard stories about The Tax Man, the biggest, baddest accountant the Vinyl Vigilante Network had at its disposal. Once, Steve had heard, the Boston branch had improperly posted several thousand dollars' worth of transactions over a two-month period. The branch's lead accountant had to work his calculator with his nose for the rest of the fiscal year. "Wh...what did he find?"
"With a few minutes of work, he found three Veil benefactors with thousands of dollars outstanding income taxes. Our IRS contacts were notified and nearly $60,000 of assets were confiscated. A drop in the bucket, sure, but it's something."
"And the Veil members?"
"Unsurprisingly, they 'disappeared'. Fell off of the radar almost immediately. I gotta say, those guys know how to roll. Well, Chief, what do you have to say?"
Steve grinned and grabbed another bottle of Jack from the bottom drawer of his desk. "I say this calls for two things: one, increased security--we probably pissed those guys off royally, and we can't take too few precautions. This means codenames 24/7 and increase encryption for every transmission. Second, a drink. Care to join me, Queenie?"
Ray sighed once again. "Sure thing, Chief. If I have to fall off of the wagon, it might as well be now."
Right now, Hephenaw need all of the comfort that he could muster. Despite Elizabeth's recent success in destroying a smut-producing ring, the P.T.A. was in disarray. Ever since Froucher had been removed from office for launching that ill-fated and disastrous assault on the Clovers, the Disciplinarians had been without a Principle. Worse yet, there was no consensus candidate to replace him. The majority of the faculty heads were competent to lead their small groups, but nobody -- besides Hephenaw himself, of course -- was capable of co-ordinating an entire campaign.
He sighed, the force of the air making his large moustaches ripple outwards. He had to find someone.
That was the moment that the door swung silently open, and everything seemed to slow to a horrible crawl. Elizabeth was standing in the doorway, an unrecognizable expression on her face. With agonizing slowness, she collapsed to the ground in front of Hephenaw's desk. The back of her head was... gone. Just gone.
Hephenaw tore his eyes off of the corpse on his office floor, and lifted them to the doorway. Even before he consciously recognized the grinning face of the man standing there, his right arm was stretching and searching, reaching for the gun in his top drawer. His attacker was, unfortunately, several decades younger than he. Several decades younger, and nearly a full second faster.
Before Hephenaw even brought the pistol into view, he was already being pushed backwards by the impact of three bullets. Arcturus Hephenaw was dead before his head bounced off the wall behind him and came to rest on his desk.
Froucher stepped into the office and surveyed the results of his evening's work. Touching a button on his headset he spoke.
"Get someone in 'ere to clean up. And call a meeting of the h'entire parents council. There h'are going to be some changes."
Shoving Hephenaw's body out of the large leather chair, Froucher sat down and relaxed. Things were going to go much more smoothly now.
After a few moments, he pressed his com button again. "And don't screw up the explosives. I don't want h'any survivors."
"Alright Hallie, ya don good mon. We find the pure and find it fast, before dey even know it's in. Plus we be gettin' our peoples in witoud de police checkin' dem oud first."
"Hey bossman, twas nottin. Two months and a good knife and I'm de head scan man. You want us to start ta burn de drugs."
"No mon, I want you to start sellin' it. Across town, burn de otha gang junkies heard?"
"What about Al though? He be wantin' dese drugs burned!"
"Hey now, I'm de boss, you report to me hear? As long as he don't see dem, and we get our people in safe, he don need worry bout what we do."
"You de bossman. I'm not sure though."
"You tell me what you doubts be when we get the cash from these shipments ey? And dis don't go no farther. You be reportin' to me only."
Allmad looked at the two men dressed in long trench coats before him. Even Saladin had been sent out of the room. The conversation was held in Farsi.
"I did not bring you here lightly. There is some kind of scum that believes he can bring his disease into our home. Here, on these docks, where our people live, where our children play. I have worked too long to make this place secure. I will not permit this, not from this filth. I need you Farooq, and you Saleem, and I need you to be quiet about it. Not even my lieutenants need hear about this breech. When you are done return, and I will allow you to return to your covers. You have always been my silent blade, do not disappoint me in this."
The two men nodded and pulled two silenced pistols from their pockets. Covering their faces with sand colored scarves, they slipped out the back window of the office.
Allmad activated the battered walkie talkie at his side. "Thank you Malquash, you may come in again. Please have Tseng report to me too. I have need of him."
The others had realized what was coming and had prepared themselves. One had tried to escape out the window and down the fire escape - cleaning up the mess he had made on the street had been a hassle. The other man had taken enough sleeping pills to knock out an elephant. His job had been done when he got there.
But the woman; she seemed to think that she was in the good graces of his employer. And she did perform admirably..Mathias thought to himself.Her job was a success..to bad someone tracked them during that corporate venture. Too bad someone realized something fishy was going on and attacked our interests.He wasn't to sure what exactly happened; it wasn't his job to know.
He opened the trunk of the car. The woman had been wrapped up in a body bag. He didn't want her bleeding all over his car. It was a gorgeous, 1965 Buick. One of his very few vices.
Mathias leaned back, hearing his bones creak. He had been doing this for too long. Close to fifteen years now? The foolish hackers, like this woman, never realized they were flies in a web, far older then them. Throwing the body over his shoulder, he carried it into the ruins of Tumbledown Town.
After this was done, he'd grab a coffee. He had heard that another hacker was on the job, out to grab some technology or some other garbage. Mathias sighed. He had a feeling he'd be seeing that person soon, too.
Charlie allowed himself a slight smile. He had finally found his quarry. The "policeman" - Charlie didn't know if he was legitimate or not - had personally shut down the store's surveillance system when he entered. But what he did not know about was the far more advanced spy cameras that Charlie had stationed around the store earlier that week. Everything that was being said at the counter was being recorded from a half dozen angles.
Mr. Denisovich handed the uniformed man a small paper bag and the man left quietly. Charlie leaned his broom against the wall and took off his apron, flashing Denisovich a big grin. The shopkeeper was not nearly as cheerful.
"You are sure they won't know it was me?" Denisovich was nervous. Charlie put up his hands to placate the man, "Don't worry, Mr. D. These guys have been hitting dozens of stores in this area. They won't know which one got them until they're being sized up for their orange jumpsuits."
---
Byron Black and Anne Archer sat across from each other in Byron's office, discussing recent developments. Byron leaned back in his chair, "Talk to me about these 'corporate saboteurs' you were looking into. You think they had connections to what happened in Apple Forest?"
Anne nodded, "I believe so. Some of our boys in 'IT' were looking into some of the finances of everyone involved with that mess and we found some threads that looked promising..."
Byron nodded and gestured for her to continue. Anne handed him a sheaf of papers, "Unfortunately, we seem to have hit a dead end. We were looking to question these 'independent consultants' about what we found, but they seem to have flown the coop. One of them was found though - suicide it looks like."
Byron nodded and frowned. He could read between the lines. "That's okay. See if you can make a story out of some of that..." They were interrupted by a knock at the door as Charlie Cooper stuck his head into the office.
Byron smiled broadly, "Ah, the man of the hour! Come on in, kid. I've got something to show you." Charlie sat down in the chair next to Anne as Byron held up a newspaper from his desk.
X-tortion X-posed!
Crooked Cops Caught On The Take!
"Our marketing staff says people really dig X's. Catches the eye." Anne laughed and clapped Charlie on the back as he just grinned like a schoolboy. Byron tossed the paper over into Charlie's lap, "Congratulations, kid. There's the first copy all for you. But surely you didn't think I'd waste my time talking to you about work you've already done?"
Charlie's grin disappeared. Byron laughed at him, "Ah, calm down kid. I just have a new assignment for you. Anne?" Anne handed Charlie a manila folder with the name 'Richard Kings' on the label. "Charlie, this is the new top dog for corruption investigation in the city. Byron would like to do a feature story on him." Byron added, "Just a fluff piece really, but it would be good for you to make contact. We could use this guy to give us the inside scoop."
Samuel Stone took over the position of Materium Energy head spokesperson on Wednesday, after his predecessor James Sunderman died in hospital of a fatal gunshot wound earlier in the week. Shortly after his ascension to the position, Stone held a press conference over video-phone to answer several burning questions about the company's recent operations. The following is an excerpt:
CONFERENCE EXCERPT : 0m25s - 3m47s
- Thank you. I will be happy to answer any questions you have.
- Mr. Stone, is is true that Materium Energy aspires to replace the Arcadia City Police Force with privately employed security?
- No comment.
- What about the rumours which claim that Materium Energy has agreed to turn a blind eye to the activities of a group of terrorists in exchange for a respite from attacks?
- Materium Energy does not negotiate with terrorists, nor has it ever done so. Any rumours to the contrary are utterly false, malicious lies designed to hurt our company and the public we serve. However, if, purely hypothetically, Materium Energy were to make any kind of agreement with a terrorist organisation, rest assured it would be entirely for the benefit of our customers and the public at large.
- Mr. Stone, we understand that Materium recently gained access to a facility for keeping tabs on phone and internet conversations.
- The NIGHTCRAWLER facility is government owned and operated, but Materium Energy has access to its logs so as to help protect Arcadia.
- And did Materium Energy also recently obtain unfinished software enabling them to trace the geographical location of internet users?
- The "Pinpoint" program, that's correct.
- Isn't it feasible that these two technologies together could be used to hunt down anyone making disparaging statements about your company?
- No comment.
/END EXCERPT
Allmad looked at the ripped body strung between two of the great cranes on the dock. At his feet sat the man's hands, and behind him the smokestacks of the refinery glowed again with the fire of burning drugs. He turned to the two men.
"You have done well, you may retire again until I need you. Let no one know you were here." They nodded and faded into the shadows.
Allmad began to walk to his car when a nearby container erupted, and shrapnel began to slice his chest. As he struggled to stand, the ringing in his ears faded and the faint sound of gunfire began to pop up. He began to reach for his pistol, but Saladin grabbed him like a rag doll and practically chucked him into the refinery doors.
"Hello, Al? It's Tseng, we're having trouble dealing with the cops at the park here. What do you want-" The walkie talkie on Saladin's hip crackled.
"Shut up! SHUT UP! Grab everyone and get here."
"Boss, what's-"
"Get the fuck to the docks! We're being attacked!"
"OhSh-" Tseng's voice was drowned out by the sound of another explosion, this time a grenade tossed by Saladin while he reloaded the huge SAW machine gun he had pulled from a locker in the refinery office. Allmad began shouting messages to the other lieutenants as he piled chairs and boxes in front of the doors.
She was waiting for him as he walked down the steps of the City Hall. Kings knew who she was, of course, a woman that pretty didn't fly under the radar in Arcadia for long. But he knew she was out of the league of nearly every man in Arcadia, and this visit would be all business. Nevertheless, he allowed himself to take her in, all five and a half feet, the red hair and the brilliant cold blue eyes. Selena Ilyunova was the primary liaison for the P.S.F.U. to other police agencies and the City Hall. Kings knew who she was.
She smiled at him as he approached, a dazzling and devious smile. "Mr. Kings, I would like speak with you," she said in broken English, her thick Russian accent oozing over her words. "Would come?" She asks, rhetorically, gesturing at an unmarked black sedan waiting at the bottom of the stairs. He followed her down and ducked into the back seat. She, presumably, slid around to the front, her smile never fading.
In the back, thick with smoke, sat Colonel Novosov, the commander of the P.S.F.U. in a charcoal gray suit and blood red tie. He smiled at Kings and said, "<Officer Ilyunova, translate please.>"
"I'll be translating for the Colonel," Selena said immediately.
"<Mr. Kings, I presume you know who I am...>" Novosov began.
"...and I believe that we will find mutual benefit in working together to curb the corruption within this city. My proposal is very simple and I hope that you will seriously consider it. The P.S.F.U. will endeavor to stamp out these extortionist organisations as they crop up, while you Mr. Kings will urge the Committee to not only back the P.S.F.U. but to publicly laud us for the hard work. We need to improve our image with the public, and announcements from your office praising our hard work should do well to alleviate whatever fears they may have."
"<I hope you will seriously consider this offer, Mr. Kings, for otherwise it could seriously affect the workings of your Committee.>"
The sedan stopped, outside of Mr. King's home. He was let out, and Novosov and Ilyunova thanked him for his time. He saw his wife's dirty look through the blinds as he walked up the steps, but that wasn't what concerned him just then.
An hour and a half later Novosov's phone rang. "I'll do it," were the only words and the line hung up. Novosov smiled.
Willy worked under a strict need-to-know system, “compartmentalized intelligence”, he called it. Every Patron ran their own crew who received orders directly from their Patron. The grunts and soldiers knew little about the plans of other Patrons. You worked for your Patron who worked for Willy. Sometimes you ran jobs for other Patrons, when a big op went down, but you always returned to your district, your little slice. When Willy wanted everyone to know something, he’d call the Patrons in and they’d talk behind barricaded doors and guys in bulletproof vests and machineguns. So we all sat around in Mully’s pub, “Sit Down, Fat Dog” and waited for the word.
A red Chevy Nova pulled up to the door, followed by a forest green Ford Explorer. Mulligan stepped out of the Nova, followed by Russell. They stepped into the pub, past the tall bouncer with an automatic pistol under his jacket that stood outside the door. Inside, the room was smoky and nosy. It was full of loud, boisterous voices telling loud, boisterous stories and hands that pounded tables for key emphasis. Pool balls clacked together on the sunken floor in the middle of the pub and over on the small stage a guy sung away while he strummed a guitar. Mulligan moved past the bar, pushed open a door, exchanged greetings with the guy holding the shotgun, went through another door and sat down at the long table in the backroom.
“Mully, you want a burger? We just got some”. Tag’s burger was exploding with meat and pieces crumbled on the floor.
“Nah, Willy had food there so-what the fuck. You’re getting crumbs all over my floor.”
“What? I don’t-“
“Jesus, I’m gone for two seconds and you’re, you guys are… are like animals.”
“Where?”
“Right there, crumbs all over. Ever heard of a napkin? I swear to god, it’s hard enough making sure my goddamn tables stay in one piece, with-“
“Ah, it’s fine; I’ll get the Kid to clean it up.”
Danny gave Tag an endearing hand signal.
“You see what I have to put up with, Mully?” Tag pointed at Danny.
Mully lit his cigar. “Ok, wise up, you bunch of knuckleheads. We’ve got marching orders-oh come on now you’re dripping ketchup on the fucking table. Animals.” A drag on the cigar and smoke puffed into the air. “Willy wants to start moving out. We’ve seen the news, there’s been a lot of shit happening out there and Willy’s afraid we’re going to get cut out. We’ve got manpower and resources, so it’s time for expansion.”
“Willy said this?”
“Yea, we kinda had the same reaction, Brick. You get used to Willy moving so fucking slow you forgot he’s ambitious. But the Boss knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s got a battle plan.”
“So, what’s our slice?” Walt Ryan was a big guy who was only half-Irish and half as smart. He was violent, stubborn and convinced he was never wrong. Walt would talk often of his experience as a Ranger during Operation Irene and lost comrades. He claimed he could still hear gunfire from windows when he walked through the city. Walt loved being a mobster and broke everyone’s balls about it. The other patrons didn’t like him but Mully kept him around to work in the pub.
“Will you let me fucking talk? I’m building up to that. We need to get down to this park here; they’re putting in more cops and a post. We sell a lot of goods in that area and Willy wants to get a message across that we aren’t going to sit back and take this ass-fucking from all of these fucks in the city.” Mully pointed at Tag.
“I want you, Brick and Dupree to handle this. Whoever you need, whatever you need, you’ve got it. And two Saints are coming with you. Willy’s wanting this down right.”
Tag nodded. “Dupree, Brick and the Saints will clear the area. I’ll hit the post with some explosives. Danny, you’ll drive a car and I’ll use Callaghan to drive the van. Walt and the Conway boys will be security.”
Mully nodded in satisfaction. “Sounds good. Make it happen.”