NationStates Jolt Archive

There wasn't much light, the artificial sources within the building had broken long ago, and any natural source had long since vanished with the coming of the evening. The Glock stirred uneasily under his arm, loaded fully with fifteen rounds of 9x19mm Remington Golden Saber hollowpoints. The, well, thing across from him seemed quite at home in the lack of brightness. The only thing that even hinted at illumination was a streetlight outside, a dirty halo of brightness filtering through the grimy window above them.

Their meeting place was the basement of a long-forgotten warehouse in the waterfront district in Boston, a sting-in-progress for the DEA. He'd expected some greasy Columbian with a flowery shirt and mirrored shades. Instead, he was seated across from some sort of large reptile dressed in a sharply pressed powder-gray slacks, shirt, and jacket, complete with mirrored shades. Well, he mused, he'd at least gotten the mirrored shades part right. The wire taped to his chest was starting to itch, and he shifted slightly to attempt to fix it. It didn't work. It did, however, grab the attention of the creature across from him. He didn't doubt that it, too, was packing something...

"You alright, Mr. Kane?"

The creature seemed to hiss the question at him, an unnerving method of communication. His given alias was Mr. Cochran Kane, or 'Co-Kane' for short. That was his supposed business, after all. He was supposed to be a coke czar, an up-and-coming big-shot dealer on the east coast...

"Yes, yes I'm fine. The chair's just a little uncomfortable, that's all..."

There was someting about this thing that scared him, and he didn't scare easily. He'd been in the Agency for some twenty-odd years, and he'd long since passed retirement status. At forty three, he was one of the oldest undercover agents on the force. He'd never, however, seen something like what was sitting across from him. The thing had described himself as something called an 'Argonian', and had given the name of 'Mantis', which was obviously an alias. The weird yellow eyes behind the mirrored frames featured slit pupils, like that of a snake. However, his quiet, observant nature had led him to consider the origins of his strange name. When 'Mantis' had set his folded hands on the top of the shabby card-table and the weak light had caught the short claws his fingers ended in, it had seemed to add more merit to this title he gave out as his name.

The creature had told him that he was from somewhere in the far east, and had connections to the south american cartels for his supplies. He'd seen some of the product, and the lab had verified that it was medically pure. The odd-looking fin-things on the scaly head of his business associate seemed to perk themselves upward slightly, which prompted another slight jerk of disgust from the agent...

"Is there something wrong, Mr. Kane? You're acting strangely..."

A slight bead of sweat slid down his forehead, landing with a faint splash on the filthy concrete floor. This was going south quickly, his actions were getting more and more suspicious...

"I ask again Mr. Kane... Is there something wrong? You're sweating..."

Normally, that wouldn't have been a strange thing, but there was a slight chill in the warehouse basement, and he was wearing a windbreaker. Mantis adjusted the open collar on his shirt, brushing a bit of dust from the black lapels of his fitted jacket...

"You're starting to worry me, Mr. Kane..."

Those damn mirrored glasses, he couldn't tell if the thing was looking at him or at something behind him. It was unnerving, to say the least. For some reason, he couldn't bring himself to speak...

"Remove your windbreaker..."

It was an odd request, which he couldn't comply with. The wire was an older model, and was hooked to a miniature tape recorder on his belt. That, and the underarm holster that held his sidearm would also be exposed...

"Do it now, Mr. Kane, or I'll be going. I feel we have a trust issue here, and I'd like to resolve it..."

He didn't move...

"I have three letters I really hate in the English language... D, E, and A..."

The Argonian rose slowly from his seat, removing his jacket smoothly. The lizard-man wore a pair of gold-plated M1911A1 handguns in a double-underarm holster made from fine Rattlesnake skin, which matched his shoes. He was quite fashion-concious, it seemed, even if his choices were tacky by modern standards...

"I assume you're also carrying, Mr. Kane... Since you seem to be so reluctant to answer me..."

He watched closely, waiting for the creature to go for one of his expensive weapons. Instead, he simply folded his hands at the small of his back...

"Does my appearance disturb you, Mr. Kane?"

He remained motionless, speechless...

"I believe it does..."

Mantis' hands reappeared, and he stepped forward, sliding his right hand forwards and upwards to catch the man across from him under the chin, around his larynx while his left went into the windbreaker, emerging again with the Glock held firmly in its clawed grip before a reaction could be processed by the owner's brain...

"Goodbye, Mr. Kane..."

He winced slightly as the Tennifer-finished steel came in contact with his scalp, and tried to swallow but the tight grip around his throat prevented such an action. Mantis blinked slightly as he squeezed the trademark Safe-Action trigger on the weapon, sending one of the excellent Remington Golden Saber rounds through the right temple of Mr. Kane... The Argonian took a moment to examine the weapon...

"Hmm... Model 19C, with a Hogue 'Hand-All' grip..."

He wasn't impressed, mostly because he didn't like polymer framed pistols, but also because his weapons were full custom models built especially for him by Springfield Armory, in the same state he was currently in. Mantis pressed the index finger on Mr. Kane's right hand to the trigger, and closed the limp hand around the grip of the weapon, before flipping the arm that held it in the opposite direction to make it look like a suicide. There wouldn't be a motive for such a drastic action, and he hadn't left anything DNA-wise aside from some faint but odd marks on the man's neck from his suffocating grip. He slid a claw down the collar of the t-shirt the deceased Mr. Kane was wearing, pulling it towards him slightly. The odd plastic and wire composition of a microphone wrapped in black electrical tape on the man's sternum was enough closure for him. Mantis collected his coat and, after shrugging it on, vanished into the night to find his car, a black Lincoln...

"No luck, boss?"

Mantis nodded, looking out the window of the back seat as the driver started the car...

"Indeed, Seervak. It seems I will have to look elsewhere for a dealer..."

The large vehicle pulled off into the slumbering city, heading towards the hotel they had rented for the duration of their stay. Due to the sensetive nature of their personages, namely, the fact that they weren't human. Mantis had rented an entire floor, as well as secured a private rear entrance for himself and his staff, which included a number of protective specialists, as well as an accountant who was of all things, human.

Mr. Kevin Kline had graduated from Harvard with a double major in Business and Accounting, which impressed him. While Mantis wasn't much of an academic, he respected the man's appetite for knowledge. He trusted Kline with his fortune, gathered slowly through dealings in the arms trades and cocaine markets around the globe. His thinking had been that people always needed two things: A means to kill each other, and a means to relax afterward. This had rung true, and he had made vast amounts of money, enough for custom handguns, hired henchmen, and a name change for himself. He'd chosen the moniker of Mantis some time ago, from a nickname he'd recieved in the Orient from a client during a friendly sparring match, highlighting his cautious nature, until it was time to strike.

As the Argonian entered the rented floor from the elevator, he was greeted by Mr. Kline...

"Good evening, sir... I trust everything went well?"

Mantis shook his head slowly as his accountant fell into step with him...

"Quite the opposite, Kevin. I'm afraid the DEA has identified me, and is seeking to incriminate me in a court of law..."

"They didn't see your face, did they?"

Mantis again shook his head to indicate a negative...

"No, I made sure their agent wouldn't be reporting back to headquarters with his findings..."

Kline fell silent, turning his head away from his employer. While a shrewd businessman, he didn't have much of a stomach for the colder and more calculated aspects of the enterprise he'd gotten into. He dressed similarly to his boss, clad in a fine Italian suit colored black, accented with a matching neck-tie and collared shirt...

"Should we attempt to relocate?"

Mantis nodded, for once...

"Yes, I believe Amsterdam would be a fine location to hole up in, at least until we can make arrangements to possibly visit the west coast of America..."

It was apparent that Mantis had given a bit of thought to where he wanted to relocate to in the event of a run-in with law enforcement. Kevin Kline fell out of step with his boss, allowing him to continue down the hallway towards his room while the accountant went off to make the needed arrangements. He was the only human on the payroll, the rest of the staff was simply hired muscle of the ex-Argonian military variety, like the aforementioned driver of Mantis' vehicle, and they didn't have the expeirence to deal effectively with travel agencies and airport managers to get the private jet the small organization traveled on into an international airport. They would leave the next day, provided Mantis didn't recieve any calls reguarding more business, and they remained hidden from the autorities...

OOC: How would one go about getting involved outside of the trade side. I was thinking having a special forces raid on the suppliers, which could cause problems for the sellers on your side?

OOC: As long as the suppliers are outside the United States, since the military can't take any direct action in civilian law enforcement's issues. I usually don't have a really strict plot-line for my RP's, I mainly started this one to kill time until my registration to the 'Nomad Road' site went through. There's been a lack of good RP content lately, at least open to the general RP public. This is more of a dose of nostalgia than anything, for myself and any of the older nations who remember the pre-Jolt days.

I'd prefer something less drastic, however, since the outfit in question is sophisticated enough to know that such things will happen, and are therefore supplied by numerous cartels and independent growers.

What I'm trying to say is that it would cause issues, but nothing serious. If you wish to pursue this course, I won't stop you, as long as you can tie it into the story. This RP will be a bit more of a preface to another story I'll post much later, as Mantis will be one of the antagonists.

Keep in mind, however, that the DEA will most likely launch a raid on the warehouse where the meeting went down, since their agent isn't responding, and will have a corpse on their hands. That may also be a viable venue of plot pursuit.

I appreciate your courtesy in consulting me, however. I leave the choice up to you.

OOC: I liked your intro, and this is an interesting idea. I wonder, since this is obviously Elder Scrolls influenced, if a multi-national corporation mirroring Morrowind's House Telvanni could be involved? If not, understood.

OOC: On the contrary. I've only used the name and the appearance from the Elder Scrolls series (I liked the look in 'Morrowind, 'Oblivion' went a little too far with the reptilian look, coming off more as miniature Tyrannosaurus Rex-faced creatures and not the smooth aquatic look 'Morrowind' achieved.) for ease of identification and for the availability of visuals, such as screenshots, etc.

If you wish to use the multinational corporation method, this particular outfit would find them useful as a money laundering front, since Mantis believes heavily in covering his tracks, and as such, not using dirty money in his dealings.

As with Imitora, I'm not going to stop you from doing what you wish, so long as you can do it in a halfway decent format and tie it into the developing storyline. I've read a few of your past works, such as the vampire attempt with Tanara and the rather arrogant King Arthur The Great, and I have faith, so long as you can maintain participation. Otherwise, some unfortunate event will be depicted to explain the lack of activity from your characters, such as an assassination of an inactive business executive.

This will not be done without due cause, however.

I leave the decision up to you.

OOC: I'm beginning to worry about the success potential of this thread.

Department of Justice
Washington, DC

Jason Fawkes sighed audibly as he flipped through the stack of paper work on his desk. The one time Texas Ranger out of Dallas had expected a more exciting life in the DOJ, working the US desk of INTERPOL. He assumed it would be one of the fun jobs, jet setting around the world, arresting the big names, sleeping with exotic women, driving Ferraris. Instead, he sat at a desk in a dark hole in the Department of Justice, passing on info to DEA, ATF, and FBI agents that came by. His house issued Sig had never left its holster in anger once, and he rarely got a chance to get down to the range to work on his shooting. An FBI buddy got him into the Buero range once a week to work on his MP5 and M4 shooting, but beyond that, he was on his own.

Four years had passed since he left Texas, four years he had lived in complete boredom. The cost of living was high, the nightlife sucked, and he had to be a diplomat. He went back to his papers, adjusting his position in the seat, keeping the belt mounted holstr from chaffing his hip to much. He had once been in the Army's elite, a ranger with the 2nd 75th. His term ended, and he returned home to Texas, becoming one of the feared and respected Texas Rangers, hunting down some of the worst that was out there. And then he made his transfer to INTERPOL, only to work a desk. Another sigh, and back to work.

A clock clicked to the 5:59pm mark, and he began the shutdown procedure on his computer. A quick lock up of his files, and another day of work was over. His walk was slow, more of a plod out to the parking lot. He glanced up, the sun shining right into his eyes, blocking the veiw of his car. His one joy in this world, a 2004 Mercury Maurader. The Mercury was based on the classic Ford Crown Victoria frame, but the engine bay was stuffed with a 4.6L V8 out of the 2002 Mustang Cobra. He had taken the lead, and bored and stroked the motor out to a full five liters, supercharged it, and added a little bit of spray. It was the one thing in his world that kept him sane.

It was as he neared he noticed two suits leaning against the car. He sped up his walk, his hand drifting down to his sidearm in defense more than anger. There was anger, yes. No one, no one, touched his car. His walk slowed, however, when he saw the badges. They matched his own, in a way. The small piece of paper, laminated, and tagged on their own jackets was the symbol of INTERPOL. His run slowed to a walk, and that to a slow pace as he approached. "Uh, can I help ya'll?" he asked, in a low, southern draw.

"Yes, Agent Fawkes," one of the men said. "I believe you can."

That had been five weeks earlier. He was now sitting on a street corner in Boston. The Texan wasn't Texas born, he had moved there when he was 18. He had been born in Bean Town, and raised near Bunker Hill. It had taken him only a few days to get his old accent back, and soon, he was 'pakin tha ca in Havad Yad.' His post was sitting across the street from one of the more famous sea food resteraunts, and from there, he could watch the warehous across the street. He was part of the mutliagency task force, the DEA agent had pulled the short straw to go into the warehouse for the meet.

A few hours had passed when the Argonian left, sliding into a limmo and drifting off into the night. The idea was to let the Argonian leave before they moved in if the agent didn't leave with him. When the limmo was around the corner, and off, Jason drew the Sig P226 from his over the shoulder holster under a pea coat, and broke out into a hard run, fearing the worse. When he arrived in the meeting room, the worse is what he saw. An ATF agent arrived shortly behind him, breathing hard.

"Fuck," the other man swore, pulling out a radio. "We got a man down."

Jason stayed quiet. He knew that the mutliagency task force, DEA, ATF, and INTERPOL for oversight, was going about the mission all wrong. They needed to send someone in to the organization, infiltrate, and needed to do it soon. He looked at the wire set up, knowing that it wasn't long till the Argonian, who the file listed by the name 'Mantis', was gone from the radar again.

OOC: Sorry for the shitty post, like I said, my awesome one got lost when my computer blipped. Next one will be better.

Preparations were soon completed, and arrangements made for the trip to the airport early the next morning, around three. Self-contained as the organization was, it even had a few trained pilots on hand to pilot the little Gulfstream out of the country and into safer territory, courtesy of two former Argonian Defense Force fighter pilots Mantis had added to the payroll some four years ago when he'd purchased the jet.

There was much collecting of product, namely cocaine in kilogram-measured wrappings. Contained in four large suitcases, he had a decent amount on hand for any sort of casual transaction with the lower-level dealers in the area. The arms that were also on-site consisted of Argonian Defense Force salvage bought from religious rebels who confiscated them from dead government troops, as well as the Russian surplus items that had become so popular. The nicer Argonian gear had been packed in a series of Pelican cases, four to be exact, for a total of eight rifles. The Russian equipment, mainly AK-47's and a few variations on the Kalachnikov theme, had been simply bound together in bundles of five with empty magazines locked in place.

Three of Mantis' hired muscle, two of which were former ADF infantrymen hardened from fighting the long-standing civil war in the marshes of their homeland, had begun loading the three bundles of hardware into the spacious trunk of the Lincoln, each carrying a weapon of his own. The former ADF preferred the AAR-16, a mid-way between the American M16 and M4 weapons, ideal for the close confines of the Black Marsh. The heavy machinegun barrel was sixteen inches long, with a chrome-moly bore, M203 stepdown cut, and bayonet lug. The stock was a Bushmaster 'Stubby Stock', a smaller version of the standard A2 buttstock on the M16, but shorter. It was a bit more handy in melee encounters, and didn't break as easily as the telescoping stock on the M4 did when you hit something with it.

The third was of darker stock, a Dark Argonian assassin from the Deathwraith Guild, who simply carried a handgun in a thigh-rig as well as a healthy collection of knives. The cased rifles followed, set aside the bundled weapons. Finally, the cocaine and what minimal luggage the group travelled with followed. There would be a rotating watch around the vehicle, in pairs, until the departure time. They would rest when they were safely in the air.

The two former infantry soldiers took the first watch as the last of the luggage was loaded. The group consisted of ten people, excluding Mantis himself. Two pilots, the accountant, the assassin, and six gunmen. As the time grew nearer, tensions escalated. Too often it was the last few seconds that caused a problem, like inactive tail-lights. The driver, who was also one of the six enforcers, would make final checks on the vehicle as it made ready to depart.

They were scarcely an hour away from the departure time now, and all that had to be done was wait...

The DEA was en massé on site, they had a down agent, and wanted to know what the hell had just happened. Jason just sat back, leaning against the wall, letting them do their search. Some agents were going over the tape, but nothing important had been said. "Fucking Christ," Jason swore under his breath, his hand resting on the now hip mounted holster, the Sig sitting securly in place. "Why the hell are we wasting our time here, we know he's gonna try and leave the country."

His words went unheard, and Jason had finally reached his limit. He began walking towards a door, almost hoping that one of the DEA agents would try and stop them. None of them did. Jason had been stuck at a desk for too damn long, and he wasn't going to let his first real field up get away that easy. He stormed out of the building and across the street, pulling the pea coat around him in the cold night air. He had brought his own car down, nothing that the joint operation had minded, the black Mercury looked enough like a squad car, but could easily hang with most of the cars out running, unlike a squad car.

Where would I go? he asked himself, turning over the engine. He popped the car in drive, and pulled out of the parking lot. He made his way towards the highway, still asking himself the same question over and over again. This late at night, there was no traffic, so he could afford to look out over the harbor with no fear of rear ending anyone.

"Where the fuck would I go?" he shouted out loud, watching the water go by. He had an apartment in Boston proper, one where he could go to take a break, think things over, and start packing. The DEA had shat the bed hard, sending in someone who really wasn't able to go. He sighed, thinking about having to trudge back to DC to work another desk. The only thing worse was sitting in the waiting room at Logan, kids screaming in his ear.

That was it.

He floored the Mercury, the supercharger roaring as he matted the throttle and quickly increased his speed. Logan International had a private aviation wing, which was oddly quiet at night. Most of the richers flew out on a Friday afternoon, and didn't come back till Sunday night. Anyone flying out would be lonely. He also knew that the private aviation wing at Logan wouldn't give him anything, they usually kept to themselves, and like most worker a menial job in Boston, were Irish, and easy to accept a bribe.

But then the're were the tower boys. Boston had its own ATC, and thats where he was going. He kept the speed up on his Mercury, moving around the occasional car, keeping the pedal down hard as he slid up towards one hundred and fifty miles per hour. He was nearing the mark when he let off, letting gravity slow the car. He had reached sane speed just as the exit came up, and he moved quikly into the airport, the INTERPOL badge getting him past security easy.

He skipped the elevator, running to the top of the tower, taking the steps two at a time. With his last breaths, he pushed open the door, still holding up the INTERPOL badge, and looked around. "Whose in charge?" he asked, panting from the run.

He grabbed the man who identified himself, and showed him the badge as well. "What do you have outa private aviation?"

"Uh, just three tonight. Two Leers, one going to DC, one heading west to California. That, and a Gulfstream, gonna make the water jump, final destination is Amsterdam."

"Can you ground it?"

"Nope, left about twenty minutes ago."

Fuck, he cursed mentaly. He nodded, thanking the man, and used the elevator to get back down. As he made his way back out the car, the engine still running, he pulled a cellphone out of his jean pockets, and dialed his superiors. He requested a stipened check, he needed to get to Amsterdam.

Devil's Mountain, California...


"Suggestions? Anyone?" asked the man in the black suit, his lean face creased by a wide, cheery smile. No one answered, few even dared breathing.

"Very well then, see you all next month."

The board members filed out, looks of pained relief on their mostly overwieght features. Meetings with Andrew 'The Shark' Kurtz were nerve-racking at best... deadly at worst.

"Have a good'un, Mr. Kurtz." pealed a small, plump man of about fifty in a whiny, syncophantic tone.

"You too, Henderson. And call me Andrew, for goodness sake." replied the man in the black suit, still smiling his friendly, slightly paternal smile.

"Sure will!" answered Henderson in his squeaky bray, and scuttled out of the dark boardroom.

Kurtz's smile vanished as the last of beetle like creatures fled from his sight. They were little men, and he was tired of playing their little games.

Sighing, the man in the silk black suit, shirt, and red tie ran a thin, long fignered hand through his neat raven hair and sat in his chair- no throne- at the head of the long mahogany table which ran the length of the boardroom. He flipped absently through some papers with marked disinterest before the intercom beeped. Kurtz pushed the button and spoke, "Who is it?"

"It's Vic and Oz." replied a gruff voice from the other side.

"Come in then."

Noirtech International's founder and CEO frowned, neither Victor Quinn nor Osmond Vander came to see him often... since they dealt with Noirtech's more clandestine products, it was wise to keep them at an arms length. Something must be wrong, then...

The door opened and in stepped a man wearing a cheap black tie over an even cheaper blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Below this he wore black pants and loafers.

"Vic," said Kurtz in a cold voice.

Victor Quinn nodded at his boss and planted a Marlboro between his yellowed teeth. A hardened mercenary with a taste for torture, Quinn had little patience with formalities.

"We may have a problem," he growled in smoker's rasp as he shut the door behind him.

"Where's Oz?"

"The car, but listen Andy.... our lizard friend's decided to leave the country..."

Andrew 'The Shark' Kurtz raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"We think he's headed for Europe... but that's all we know..."

The Shark leaned foward, smiling a smile much different than the one he had shown the board... it made his normally handsome face look monstrous; gave his eyes a lunatic glint.

"There's one way to find him, Quinny..." he purred dangerously, and the mercenary shrank back slightly.

"What?"

"Call him, you stupid fuck. He still think's we're working for him... he's left 'cause of the Feds, I think, not because he suspects our intentions."

Quinn grunted in assent, and Kurtz's smile faded.

'Mantis' had been using NoirTech to launder money, smuggle drugs and guns, and call in hits for three years now. What the overgrown iguana didn't understand was that his little operation was putting a crimp in the Corporation's own illegal market. The drugs Kurtz didn't mind, but when it came to gun-running, gun-selling, and weapons of all types, the Shark wanted the whole market. For months NoirTech had been plotting to off the Argonian, but now....

Vic quickly punched a number into a cell phone, puffing his smoke steadily.

"It's Quinn," he growled into the phone, "I need Mantis."

OOC: The overgrown iguana crack was a nice touch.

Any calls going through for one of the many cellular phones Mantis maintained would go unnoticed for another four hours, when they would touch down in Sweden. In the meantime, the Argonian cocaine czar relaxed in the comfort of his elaborate private jet, enjoying a glass of vodka spiked with a bit of cranberry.

His henchmen, and as much as he hated to use such a crass term there wasn't another word to describe them, amused themselves by cleaning their weapons, as well as making sure the precious cargo they'd risked their scaly asses for was tightly secured. The drugs wouldn't be an issue when they reached their destination, since regulations were not as tight as in the US. The guns would be the only issue, and he planned to rent something with a large trunk to deal with it.

The assassin, however, seemed content to twirl one of his many knives between his dexterous fingers, occasionally sending the blade rolling across the back of his hand in a rather impressive grip-reversal maneuver. The black-scaled creature had come highly recommended, despite his unusual mannerisms. He made a fine personal bodyguard, besides his stated occupation. Mantis wasn't exactly an expert on knives, but he noted at least four different types on the creature, and all were fixed-blades. Three of the four types had a twin on the opposite side of his body, hinting at a preference for attacking from all directions. The pistol on his thigh, however, seemed to be a last resort. The magazine pouch on the front of the holster had been stuffed with a silencer, and not a single magazine pouch was to be seen on his belt.

This struck Mantis as odd, even for an assassin. While he himself had two spare magazines apiece for his pistols, that struck him as sparse. Then again, his weapons only held eight rounds each, but he didn't think the Model 21 Glock the assassin carried held much either. Mantis had been interested in watching his newest hireling to what he was hired to do, but there hadn't been much of an opportunity. He'd been told that the 'Quiet Butcher' was truly an artist in his chosen field, but such a title didn't speak of a conversational individual that might share a few stories.

Instead, it seemed he'd have to wait a bit for a demonstration. He knew just who he'd volunteer for the show, too. Amsterdam wasn't all about money-making and merriment, Mantis also had a bit of a score to settle with one of his suppliers who had been cutting his purchases with baking soda to increase his own profits. Having a reputation as being a dealer of medical-grade product, Mantis wasn't about to let this offense go unpunished...