NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC: For now, this is closed. I'm planning on inviting a few players I'm familiar with, or some new ones who show interest. This story plays some time after The Rise of the Order in Guffingford.

IC:
Hired Guns
A story of crime and greed in Guffingford

It was a tall building in Port Kramer, the largest port city of Guffingford. And it looked cold, the concrete and glass cave it a "polar" setting. Just looking at the building felt chilling. The icy white sky of Moritz Isle, the largest island of the Hanseatic League of Guffingford. The temperature dropped below zero, and a freezing wind blew in from the north east. Small lumps of ice, some big and some small drifted on the rough waters of Decision Bay, the body of water the important city is built next to.

Small white-brownish flakes of dirt fell from the pale, dead sky onto the filthy sidewalk where many people sought refuge in old shops, restaurants and other establishments to protect themselves from the cold. It did not appear if the wind was dying down, or the weather showing any sign of bettering, and the cold became more intense. The wind was its hearbeat, the snow its blood and the cold was life, so to say. Like a treacherous kind of cancer, it began its deadly journy from your cold, unprotected toes up to your legs, consuming of the bodily heat. The streets were empty, and the weather channels told the population to stay indoors. Except for a few Watchofficers who patrolled the streets, some brave souls and people still purchasing the last few things to last through the dreadful northern winter.

The tall building I spoke of earlier, whipped by the wind and mutilated by the cold is the theatre of a more grim happening. Safely hid from public, political and authoritative eyes a meeting began. Sinister individuals sat in comfortable leather chairs, around a large table with a roaring fire in the fireplace opposite the large table. Around fifteen men and women were present, awaiting patiently while sipping from a fine glass of port or cognac. A door went open, and three well dressed gentlemen entered the conference room, holding a portfolio and some other papers. When they sat down at the head of the table, the "leader" of the meeting counted the number of heads that were present, and when he was finished he started holding his welcome speech.

'Lords and ladies, gentlemen, my friends. Today may be cold, but the warmth of this meeting pleases me. Today is the first time in our collective history that we, the ringleaders of the organised crime in Guffingford meet. This is a memorable day, and a good day to do business. I will not waste time with trivialities, with words of kindess. No, none of that. Today we are here to maximize our efficiency on the global market of smuggling operations, money laundering, drugs, both soft and hard and other operations the governments of the world call "illegal".

We seek more money, more influence, more might. We do not take back our words like politicians, and with "money", "influence" and "might" I mean just that. My friends, we are here today to merge our most lucrative operations into one machine, one engine. Oiled, modern, faster than the police, faster than the Interpol, faster than crime fighters funded by the UN, should they have them.'

'Bur Mr. Withsimmon, what you are proposing... What a ludicrous thought. For years we have tried doing this, and none of our previous attempts yielded the results we expected, wanted or predicted.'

'That is quite correct Mr. Kristian Oelünd but I am not worried in the slighest possible way. Yesteryear we tried something similar I admit, but that was a futile attempt with smaller less important gangs and organisations, the Red Daggers for example. While they have an excellent reputation, they do not have the ambition to grow, nor do they want to be part of an international syndicate. I respect that, so we actually knew beforehand our plan was destinated to fail. Now all the major crime syndicates are represented here, in Port Kramer, in our meeting. It cannot go wrong, for too long I have awaited this oppertunity. James, please name all participants of this meeting.'

'Yes Milord. Today, on the 2nd of December in the year of our Lord two thousand five, Lord Carolus Withsimmon is present, I James Meissner is, Mr Kristian Oelünd from Haakon, Mr. Jack Lee represents the Liberal Party, Mr. Cobragt Landschoof of the Grüneberg district, Mr. Siegfried Audenauer from Änglenbach, Commodore Maynard Blouff of the Guffingfordian Navy. The HMS, Hanseatic Merchant Shipping is represented by retired captain of the Guffingfordian Navy Mr. Lorgan Vimes. Mr. Charles Guillespeak from Saint Denis', Henrik de Keyzer from Doornenbosch. Miss Emmalyne Ruthersfort from Victoria, Gloucterbury and Lady Murielle Bresté from Cerfontaine, Cerfonlande.'

'Thank you James. You see Mr. Oelünd, these respected individuals aren't the first pickpockets who take their profession to the streets. No, certainly not. These are masters of the arts, these are truly worthy of becoming part of our syndicate. And moreover, here I announce this new organistion, and all participants are aware of it. They know the terms of joining, and they knew the profits will be astronomic.'

OOC: I'll finish this part of the story later on. Stay tuned!

'But what kind of business do you wish to attract Mr. Withsimmon? I believe we, as one group, already cover a great deal of crime in Guffingford as well as abroad, even outside Imperial Armies.'

'That is true Mr. Adenauer, very true. But a few important diciplines aren't quite within our reach. Drug trade, drug sales, politics, bribery, illegal arms sales... Such things are vital to make our daring establishment profitable. We cannot linger, wait around until a windfall oppertunity passes us by. We have to take action, and it has to be taken here, today.'

'So you are saying, with all due respect Mr. Withsimmon' Blouff interrupted bluntly 'that smuggling isn't lucrative..?'

'Oh yes of course it is, but we cannot stick with only one out of a hundred different kinds of operations. We already got contacted by a corporation called Mercenary Soldiers (http://www.nationstates.net/56341/page=display_nation/nation=mercenary_soldiers), you all read their letter to us. We replied, and we await their answer with patience. However, even as they proposed to take care of weaponry, we are still stuck with drugs and some other - albeit less important - operations. We must take care of those as well.'

Emmalyne Ruthersfort raised her hand, and Withsimmon kindly gave her the microphone. Immediately she started talking into the thing.

'Thank you Mr Withsimmon. I say we should expand beyond Guffingford first, this market is already saturated and the minor gangs are somehow under our influence. So, we already agreed on making a deal with Mercenary Soldiers, I applaud this. But can't we look into a different direction? Read the papers my friends! Knootoss is willing to invest in Guffingford, big euros are awaiting us, just around the corner! Pink Bunny Cola, if we can manage it to bring the IA department within our grasp, the IA market is ours. Can you imagine it?'

'Why, Mrs Ruthersfort that is brilliant! I told you all it was a good idea to invite women. They always come up with the most unusually good idea's. So, we have to make Guffingford a comfortable place for Pink Bunny Cola to do business. Pacitalia is the main producer of the main ingredient of Pink Bunny Cola. So, if we take over the growth... of... What's it called?'

'The kola bean sir.'

'Thank you James. So I was saying, if we take control of Guffingfordian plantations, fertile land where the Kola bean can grow in happiness, I see a bright future ahead of us, don't we all agree?' The participants agreed vehemently. An overwhelming applause filled the room, and chants of praise were thrown at Withsimmon and Ruthersfort.

'Settled then. Once we control the PBC market in IA, we can start making our own variants. I'm sure we can find some unemployed genetic engineers who can find a way to... Or some other scientists who can give our PBC a more spiritual touch, if you know what I mean. However, this scheme only works if Knootoss decides to place some PBC production stations in Guffingford. Until then, we must focus on other more pressing matters. Lord Costinack for example, or Gerard Fishkill. Both are serious competitors...'

'Speaking of competition,' Mr. Jack Lee added 'I say we shouldn't be fools and leave the labor unions untouched. They are backed by the STASI [Guffingford's secret service] and are used as a tool. If the STASI wants to change the regime, they use the unions like a puppet to riot and run amok in the city streets. If we fuck with the STASI, this coalition is fucked. Royal.'

'So, no unions then.' Withsimmon said. He looked around the room, waiting for people to add comments or come up with new idea's.

OOC: So far this meeting. More will come later.

Nadine Hallebrook hugged into the fur coat encompassing her lithe frame in defence against the cold, her hazelnut eyes revealing intelligence that wasn't the norm for women of Kriegos origin. Anyone in Kriegorgrad who was "in-the-know" would've known right off the bat that she was a member of COMSEC - Kriegorgrad's secret police - and would've steered clear, but to any foreigners, she was just a deceptively vulnerable looking woman with pale olive skin and a head of flowing brown hair, wrapped in her furs of bear, she was a collage of all things earthy and natural, quite ironic considering the regime she so fervently served was against all things that mother-nature perpetuated: freedom, environment and evolutionary uniqueness. All were ground beneath the iron treads of ignorance-driven Kriegos society.

They grey sky overhead loomed like an oppressive blanket of ice and snow, to anyone from a warmer country, this would've been a vile blasphemy against all things warm but to Nadine, it was quite normal. She hailed from the snowy region of Kazarkia, a place of mountains erupting from a wasteland of ice, snow and pine trees. As she made her way through the streets, her arms interlocking in a show of manufactured vulnerability.

As she made her towards her destination, she cast a look about her surroundings as she walked on the snow pier, a thin layer of ice had settled on the water for the most recent time in the evening, the water constantly froze and got a foothold, only to be smashed into fragments as a boat disrupted the tranquillity. Exhaling warm fog into the chilly evening air, she finally arrived at the place and her neutral expression, for the first time in a long while, twisted into a satisfied grin that spoke of dark intellect. She slipped the letter into slot in the door, beige envelope containing information destined to be inspected by the crime-lords of Guffingford, and Kriegorgrad’s newest partners… Of course, after passing through the numerous safety nets that kept the oligarchs of Guffingfordii crime safe.

Mr. Withsimmon and Assembled members of the Syndicate,

My name is Nadine Hallebrook and I hail from Kriegorgrad, as you may have gathered, I am here on official business and my government has got wind of your recently founded union of combined interests, and your interest in expansion. The Collective Oligarchy has placed a large amount of trust in your organisation by asking about this deal… I won’t be specific but the point is, we need something to keep our citizens a bit, how do you say, docile.

I have to leave it at that, but if you speak of this and leak the information, we’ll know who to come for.

Yours,

Nadine Hallebrook.

The hotel room offered stark contrast to the bone-chilling conditions outside the small window. Warm to the point of being slightly humid, the furnishings were simple and yet elegant. A small coffee table stood in the corner, supporting an open Dell laptop, next to which was a Beretta 92FS. The television, a standard fourteen-inch model common to the hotel buisness, was on, displaying a CNN report on some sort of violence brewing in Yemen.

The man behind the laptop cracked a small smile at the mention of conflict. The darker shades of human nature equated to profit in his line of work. Jackson Davis, a retired Green Beret formerly of the US Army, was an arms dealer, particularly well-connected. He didn't sling Tech-9's or second-hand shotguns. His merchandise was all military-grade, tools of death that had proven track records with national militaries and special operations units around the globe. Davis was well-built, six-foot-two-inches and two-hundred-twenty-eight pounds of muscular power, toned from years of intense physical training. His green eyes radiated a cool confidence found only among those who had killed for a living.

Jackson was shirtless, revealing an expressive array to tattoos. The forearms displayed the words 'SPECIAL' running along the left, while the word 'FORCES' ran down the right. A pair of crossed rifles was inked at the base of his neck, while the 'De Oppresso Liber' crest of the Green Berets was tattooed on his right bicep. The high-and-thight haircut was still wet from his previous shower. He'd sent the email a few minutes earlier...

'I have arrived.'

It was a simple message for a simple task: Show these crime dons some merchandise as a gesture of good faith, possibly sell a few things, and stick around to observe. His partner was downstairs prepping the car, loading some of the intended display items into the trunk. Marcus Scotts was beginning to chill, his body heat failing against the indomitable cold. He too carried a Beretta 92, familiar from his time as a Ranger in the same Army as Davis had been. The two got on extremely well, due to the fraternity the military tended to build into one's psyche. Scotts was built a bit more slimly than Davis, but was still quite fit. His hair was black, darker than his partner's, his skin tone as well. He suspected there was some Native American in his bloodline, but figured it was probably Mexican. His mother had been quite the whore...

'Come on Jack... I'm freezing my nuts off down here...'

His mental tone was somewhat angry at his partner's chosen rate of speed, and despite the thickness of the overcoat he wore over his Italian suit, he was still shivering visibly. Scotts resolved to start the car and wait...

In the hotel room, Jackson had finished dressing in a suit similar to Scotts', differing in that his tie was blood red instead of funeral black. The Beretta went into a hip holster on his right side, hidden under the suit coat. The kevlar vest under the white button-up rode smoothly against his skin, he'd had it for years. All that he had to do now was wait for a reply from the people he'd been sent to see...

'Letters, letters, letters... This meeting was supposed to be held in absolute secrecy?' Withsimmon was displeased. How could a women from a hellhole called Kriegorgrad knew this was happening? Not an ordinary person. Probably from their secret service.

'But anyway my dear friends. These letters show us more agencies and companies are interested in our joint venture. It shows us, apart from us making more money, that there's a major market right for the taking. The City Watch in Guffingford has no clue about this, nor do they know what "organised" in "organised crime" means. We shouldn't expect any trouble from them.'

'But Mr. Withsimmon, I still quite worried about Mr. Fishkill and this other fellow. Not to mention his murderous associate a certain Blair Munroe. Pirate, hitman, grave robber... And art expert, art critician...?'

'Yes Mr. Lee, indeed he is. He goes with his friend Gerard Fishkill to art exhibitions, auctions. I believe he'll be in Hoogenbosch in a week or so. At Sotheby's on the Keyzerslei a major art auction is being scheduled. Truly amazing piece are going to be sold. They are going to be there.'

'My oh my Mr. Withsimmon, are you trying to suggest that we might have to hire guns to... get rid of them and their presence as a whole in Guffingford?'

'No, no no! Mr. Oelünd, as a matter of fact, I was thinking of neutralizing them without blood. Both are politically connected. Making them part of our organisation is much better. Killing them attracts too much unwanted attention. Political attention is never a good thing here.'

More to come...

Sotheby's, Hoogenbosch
A few days later

Gerard Fishkill was not happy. In fact, he was pretty pissed. He's already pretty pissed for a good while at several people, but this most unpleasant fellow named Olfriedd Bok takes the cake. He also shows up at the auction, and word is going around he associated himself as well with the 'Black Foot Syndicate', a new and established new crime organisation. That drunken scoundrel Carolus Withsimmon runs that joint, and damn. He's good at it. But why did Bok joined him? Riddles.

One of my friends intercepted the letter to Kriegorgrad. Fishkill searched through the mess in his briefcase and found the letter. Written on a clean white piece of parchment, seal of the Withsimmon family, signatures and a blue-yellow ribbon stuck to it. It says this:
'My dear Miss Nadine Hallebrook,

I am most pleased with you contacting us. It is a great relief to us that a secret service of a most respected country such as Kriegorgrad is willing to conduct business with us. Yes, me and my colleagues are eager to meet you in person to talk about our joint ventures. Already we are searching ever more to make our drug trade more professional, better equipped against customs, police and narcotics. I am sure your government...'So much bullshit on such a small piece of paper. Unbelievable. He still has to sent it to her adress, otherwise it will arouse suspicion. But that's none of mine concerns at this moment. First I want this auction to get over, then I'll see what I do next. The chairman of the auction spoke, so Fishkill put aside his own trouble and thoughts.

'Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the second annual Sotheby's auction here in Hoogenbosch. Today is a very special day in the history of Guffingford, since we will put up various most precious items on display, not seen before in this fine land...' The Chairman stood up and walked to a display box and pulled off the curtain blocking everyone's view into it. Once the curtain was removed, everybody in the room looked up, gasping towards the glass. Amazing! Unbelievable! Magnificent! Formidable!

Fabergé eggs made for the German Ambassador back in 1885, antique clocks from Amsterdam, medieval tapistry's made in Britain somewhere around 1500 and other valuables.

'Art collectors, antique dealers or people interested, this auction will be held the forthcoming Tuesday this month, this hall. Be there, and good luck.' Fishkill left the room, a little wiser from both his reasoning and the things the Chairman said. He was now on his way to the post office to send this letter to Miss Hallebrook.

Davis remained in the hotel room, watching the coverage from Yemen. Scotts entered a few moments later, brushing snow off his overcoat...

"What the fuck dude?"

Jackson tilted his head to reguard his partner, then angled it back towards the laptop...

"No email yet, we stand by till then..."

Scotts nodded, seating himself on the bed closest to the door while Davis remained in front of the portable computer...

OOC: I'll edit this into an IC post this week, I have a pretty big 'to-do' list at the moment.

Two days after Mercenary Soldiers dropped their offer, this letter was sent to their representative.
My Dearest Reader,

Your reply comes at the best chosen time possible. Just when we were busy with setting up our "Black Foot Syndicate" your offer of aiding us with weapons falls on our doorstep. We cannot express our profound gratitude, and we wish to see a full catalog of services and or weapons you have to offer for us.

If you wish to know more about us and more new organisation, don't be afraid to contact us through the unfortunately pretty secure channels. Even though we have little to fear from the City Watch and the Police, the STASI remains on our tail until we are done prepairing. Or, if you want to meet me in person, I can arrange a meeting in Hoogenbosch Sotheby's, adress is attached.

Best regards and Merry Christmas,
[SIGNED] Lord Carolus Withsimmon,
Chairman of the Black Foot Syndicate

The rather disturbing automated voice from Jackson's secure email account nearly shouted its only programmed message. He had mail...

"We meet 'em at someplace called Sotheby's, after we set up a time..."

Scotts shucked out of his overcoat, this might take a while...

"I'll tell 'em we're interested, and will bring along a few of our more popular samples, stressing discretion and effectiveness..."

The former Green Beret keyed in the email's more important contents in as brief a message as he felt comfortable sending someone he'd never met...

"Dear Lord Withsimmon,

We of the Private Military Corporation of Mercenary Soldiers appreciate your interest in our operations. We have already dispatched two of our most qualified representatives to the most likely population center for your operation to coordinate from, all they await from you is to send them a representative of your own. They can be reached at the following secure email account:

jackson.davis@soldieroffortune.net

Any record of this message being sent will be deleted after it is sent to your network. We look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerly,

LTG Jeffory G. Garand, USMC (Ret.)
CEO, Red Dawn International

Davis had recieved very precise permission from the general to use his name, and only under these specfic circumstances. After all, they were on a first-name basis: The general called him 'Jack' and he called the general 'Sir'.

They'd brought along several briefcase-sized containers, plated with stainless steel for that industrial-professional look. The first contained one of Jackson's favorites: A Bushmaster M4 carbine, a lower-priced but equally effective alternative to Colt's offering by the same name. The weapon featured a four-position collapseable buttstock for portability's sake, along with a fourteen and a half inch barrel fitted with the standard A2 birdcage flash hider. This particular model had been illegally modified (At least by American standards), for full-automatic operation. Another feature Jackson particularly enjoyed was the flat-top configuration with the option of the A3 detatchable carry handle for either open-sight targeting or the attatchment of an advanced combat optic. The weapon also came with an aftermarket First Samco ergonomic pistol grip in place of the standard A2 version. For purposes of portability and concealment, the upper and lower recievers had been seperated. A titanium bolt carrier assembly rounded out a reliable close-combat platform.

The case contained both seperated recievers, which could be re-attatched in a matter of seconds, a Trijicon ACOG sighting system, back-up flip-up rear sight arpeture, two thirty round magazines, and a latch-on short surpressor.
An extremely reliable asssault package contained in something the size of a large briefcase. It was a beautiful thing to have the power and range of a .223 cabine on-hand at all times.

Item two in his Santa's bag was a DPMS 'Kitty-Kat', a micro-sized AR15 platform converted for full-automatic operation for law enforcement personnel. It didn't require being seperated to be portable, and again it featured First Samco's extremely comfortable ergonomic pistol grip. The case included two thirty-round magazines and the latch-on surpressor that connected to the A2 birdcage flash hider. The weapon was designed to maximize the firepower of the .223 cartridge without needing the size and weight of a carbine.

Item three was the venerable MP5K, the smallest of the MP5 family. Already fully-automatic and portable to boot, all it needed was the addition of a Knight Armament Corporation surpressor and a trio of thirty round magazines included in the small-sized briefcase.

Item four was something truly special, the latest personal defense weapon from Heckler and Koch, the MP7. A 4.6x30mm submachinegun with handling characteristics like that of a .22 long rifle, but with the penetration power to punch through 20 layers of kevlar and 1.5 inches of titanium plate. It successfully combines the range and penetration of a rifle with the firepower of a submachinegun and the handling characteristics of a pistol. Three forty-round magazines and a custom-designed surpressor made this little case a fine item for personal defense.

The other cases included various samples of handguns from various prominent manufacturers like Springfield, Para-Ordnance, FN Herstal, Glock, and Beretta.
The most worthwhile mentions where the Glock model 18, the fully automatic version of the model 17 and one of the smallest submachineguns in the world. The model 93R Beretta worked in much the same capacity, but featured a 92FS frame instead of the Glock frame. It was really an issue of which maker the buyer preferred. Of course, the weaponry library contained more than pistols and submachineguns of the portable nature. An extensive lexicon of assault rifles, machineguns, long-rifles, and explosive devices where also included in the novel-like catalog Jackson had brought along...

OOC: Not an actual email address.