NationStates Jolt Archive

You know you have arrived in the heart of the Malaqah Desert when it feels as if you have fallen off the edge of the Earth and into the rabbit hole. Nothing is as it appears. The landscape leaves you pondering, are those pillars of black ingneous rock ten miles away or fifty? Visibility reaches more than a hundred miles on a clear day, and since there are few roads or buildings to use as milestones, distance is difficult to judge. A jackrabbit runs so fast across the hardpan that it hind legs stretch ahead of its front ones, like a cartoon. A black bear rumbles through high desert canyons, picking its way through the yucca and prickly pear, oblivious to the fact that it appears out of place in this landscape. But that’s OK. No ones around to notice.

Legend says that God created the rest of the world and dumped the leftovers into this giant sandbox. This is the place where water runs uphill, where rainbows have to wait for rain. The line between myth and reality blurs. Stare long enough at the two mountain ranges, known as sky islands, that anchor the territory and they levitate above the plain. And you haven’t had a drop of tequila.

Ground truth is harsh in this desolate place, with some of the lowest elevations in the world: scant trails and water, scrubby brush hiding snakes and scorpions, sun-roasted surfaces with no shade. Seen from high, however, the land appears cool and serene, with marble-like swirls and waves. The patterns derive from limestone eroding slower than the surrounding clays. This is the view that the two hoverships approaching the drop point were able to appreciate. Sadly, they were able to take little time to notice. Largentian authorities were increasingly talented at intercepting drug-running vehicles. The two had to fly in a formation in which one was only a foot beneath the other. At speeds of six hundred miles per hour, the two pilots found themselves flirting with death.

Moments later, the drop point was in sight. A lone, massive moving truck. No one was around. The crew’s instructions were simple: unload the product into the truck and leave, the buyer would take care of the rest. Within minutes of the landing the product was unloaded, and at dusk the engine started and the product was on its way.

The truck pulled up to an old warehouse on the outer edge of Malaqah. The part of the city they don’t want anyone to see. The opium fouls everything up in this part of town. It poisons the people and stains the hands of politicians and generals, who siphon off its profits. It taints the ambitions of the young who will try anything to scoop up a share of the riches—fire a gun, ambush a transport, kidnap a foreigner.

Dense, garbage-heaped slums stretch across these outer limits of the city. Streets are cratered with potholes and ruts. Vicious gangs roam school grounds. Peddlers and beggars rush up to vehicles stalled in gas lines. This is the city where trillions of dollars are made each year in countless illegal activities. The city should gleam; instead, it rots. The town has been subverted by the very thing that gave it promise. The town was a festering boil of the face of the newly reformed Largent.

The truck came to a halt and workers began to unload it. Within the warehouse, standing above the sweat and toils of the common man stood Lawrence Aurelius. While the city rotted, he himself gleamed with the millions he made monthly. His cold eyes scanned the scene as four thousand kilos of opium were unloaded and examined. Thirty minutes later every ounce of the drug was accounted for.

There had only been one instance when someone had been so bold as to steal from Lawrence, and the horrifying state of his body right after he was granted his wish to die stood as a reminder that stealing from this Capo Crimine was not a smart idea.

This shipment was only one of ten that had arrived in the last week. The others were already on their transport in Malaqah Harbor, aboard the freighter Walther Scott. This ship would carry forty thousand kilograms of opium, large amounts of arms, and several humans, all to be sent out to various buyers and to serve the various interests of the Sacra Corona Unita. After a glance at the clock, Lawrence gave the signal to reload the product and send it out to the ship, it would leave tonight.

It was quite a different scene at the downtown restaurant within the bustling heart of Malaqah. Around a small table sat the three most important men within the Sacra Corona, Ernesto Amontillado, Guiseppe Rigoli, and Renato Gagliano. A fine wine from the Greek Island of Santorini sat in the middle of the table as the three friends discussed anything but business.

“Honestly my friend, your stubbornness will be your downfall,” Gagliano retorted after Amontillado had insited upon referring to Malaqah by its Christian name before the Empress’ reforms : Màlaga.

“Do you mean to tell me then, that you have never wished to kill that infadel that dismantled our churches and forever altered our beautiful skyline.” Amontillado, well actually, the Amontillado family which now only consisted of Ernesto had a long standing vandetta against the Empress, and it seemed that Ernesto’s only reason for engaging in any illegal activity was to simply kill the Empress one day. Which is largely why he so desperately needed Gagliano to guide him when his motives went astray.

“You of all people should know, revenge is never a straight line, but a forest. It is easy to loose your way and forget where you came in.” Rigoli spoke for the first time. He was essentially the founder of the Sacra Corona and had given the organization to his younger companions when he had stepped down. “You are too guided by your emotions. However you,” he motioned to Gagliano, “you, do not understand them. You are a calculating machine. That is why I insisted that you share the organization. Without the other it would crumble in a day.” He chuckled to himself picturing the catasrophe. “Now, sadly, I believe it is time to talk business.”

“Yes, the matter of the shipment going out tonight. We have quite a bit of our main product going out to buyers normally supplied by an Austarian organization. Magliozzi Waste Management Co. I believe it goes by. Our intent is to flood the market, find some business, possibly buy out Magliozzi if he will listen to reason. If not then some of the thousands of black market arms going out to our mercenary buyers could certainly be pointed their way.”

“What about the product not going to serve our more selfish interests?” Rigoli inquired?

“That is going to various buyers all over along with stolen goods and some illegals we caught who make perfectly good house servants. Transports will depart from the main freighter and enter ports under the cover of darkness. I don’t have a list on me but I’ll find one later tonight if you wish. Now if you excuse us, counter intel found us some employees working for the LIB that we need to take care of.” With that the two excused themselves.

This is intended to be totally open ended and if you wish to get involved by being one of the receivers of the products on the freighter just RP it out and we can get involved in business. Also, if you wish to be involved on the law enforcement end ill get you involved. Just see the ooc thread here ( http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=514374)

Upon receiving some reports, and some degree of trickery from Sacra Corona, authorities were able to turn a blind eye to some of their intended imports whether they had realized it or not. Nevertheless, most of the ships made it into Austarian dockyards without a problem - their precious cargo hidden on board and stored in some of the less integral warehouses. From there, drugs and other assorted shipments would make their way all over the country, and into the underworld's various networks where product would eventually have made its way onto the street, and then passed onto the consumer who was one way or another in debt to the local dealers. Granted, the Corona network was small, some of Waste's own associates had decided they were making more money with them rather than those they had pledged some degree of allegiance too. Still, they were not made men and would have no real problems; or so many of them had thought anyways.

Christopher sunk his boot deep into the man's side as he lay on the ground clutching his head. Bleeding from the skull and now with a couple of broken ribs, it wasn't until now that he had realized he had made such a terrible mistake.

"Where the fuck have you been buying your product?" yelled a very angry Christopher.

Ludovico let out a groan as blood gurgled from his lips, "I'm not allowed to say."

Another boot to the side ensured and Ludovico rolled over, "Alright, alright, just, please don't kill me." Christopher pulled him to his feet and leaned him up against a nearby wall - Ludovico could not be promised such things however. "I got a visit from some people just a week ago. They reminded me of some debts my brother had, and told me that unless I started working for them, they would kill my brother."

He started to sob, "He still lives in Largent, with my pa, my whole family."

Christopher put his hand on Ludovico's face, "Alright alright, you don't need to fucking cry over this. Who are these people?"

"My Uncle Divo, and his boys," confessed the dealer. "I hadn't seen them for five or six years until now. I wasn't expecting it."

"Some fucked up family," Chris snickered. "Where can I find him?"

Giving him the address, Chris didn't waste any more time before contacting Joey, his Don. He was a fucking Captain, and wouldn't waste any time Enforcing his crew's authority over the matter.

The desert heat was something they'd grow accustomed to. Both men had served in the first Gulf War, and countless private sector operations in the middle east. The truck, an old US Army surplus five-ton painted desert tan, rumbled across the sand towards Malaqah, their intended destination.

The truck was loaded heavily with numerous makes and manufactures of military-grade hardware. The driver was a powerfully-built man, with sun-darkened skin decorated with a collection of tattoos. His brown hair was cut short, a buzz-fade style in lieu of the usual 'high and tight'. The forearm of his right arm resting on the window of the truck displayed the word 'FORCES' in an old-english font, while his left was inked with the word 'SPECIAL'. A pair of crossed rifles poked out over the collar of his T-shirt. The shirt was crimson in hue, with his last name silk-screened onto the left pectoral.

Jackson Davis was a former Green Beret unsatisfied with the amount of money he received via his pension. He'd turned to mercenary work a year or so after his retirement. Red Dawn International, the company he worked for, maintained a vast network of underworld connections through which it distributed weapons. They weren't just battered Russian surplus AK-47's, either. All of their hardware was military-grade, from the handguns up through the light machine-guns, as well as the specialty items the corporation's custom gunsmiths came up with for various tasks. While they did have a few AK's in the back, those were meant for the lower-class buyers. The remaining crates displayed the logos of Heckler and Koch, Bushmaster, Colt, FN Herstal, and Israeli Military Industries.

The rest of Davis' uniform was a pair of digital desert-pattern fatigues bloused into a pair of Bellville desert boots. His sidearm, a Beretta M92FS outfitted with tritium three-dot sights and a Hogue rubber grip, was worn in one of Blackhawk!'s excellent Serpa thigh-rig holsters. Three additional magazines were on his tac-belt on the left side, loaded with the same Speer Gold-Dot hollow-points he currently had in his pistol. Dressed similarly to Davis was his partner, Marcus Scotts. Scotts, a dark-haired, dark-eyed, and dark-skinned ex-Ranger, wore the same uniform, albeit with a variation in the boots. His were Converse-brand, and not the Bellville-brand. One might have suspected that Scotts had a bit of Hispanic in his blood, and that was true. He was also part Caucasian. Scotts had a lot less ink, and carried a different sidearm as well. His Sig-Sauer P226 still sat in a Serpa holster, but his weapon featured factory rubber-grips and Sig-Tac night-sights. Again, he too had three magazines on his left side, but he'd gone with Remington Golden Saber BJHP instead of the Speer +P loads Davis preferred. The man wanted .357 performance from a Beretta 9mm, where Scotts was content to put larger holes in people...

"We there yet, man? This is getting old, and that fucking country music you keep turning up is royally pissing me off..."

Davis simply ejected the Hank Williams CD from the CD player and launched it out the window, it had been skipping something awful anyway...

"That better?"

Scotts had stifled the urge to laugh...

"Yeah... What else you got?"

Davis slung a dusty CD book at Scotts, smacking him squarely in the chest. Scotts rifled through the numerous pages, settling finally on a blank disk with the handwritten title of 'HIP-HOP ETC'...

"Try this one..."

The former Ranger slid the CD into the player, and shortly afterward turned the volume knob towards him a few clicks. His efforts were rewarded with the voice of Snoop Dogg's 'Gin and Juice'...

"What you know about Snoop, old man?"

Scotts asked with a smile on his face, happy that the older soldier had actually shown some taste in music...

"That was my era, boy. What you know about that?"

Davis was clearly mocking the younger man, even though their ages were only some five years apart, Davis had been stamped with the title of 'Old Man', due to his extensive experience...

"I grew up on this shit, man. NWA was always in my tape-player..."

They had arrived, and began to wind through the streets of the filthy town. Scotts laid a little extra security across his lap, in the form of an FN Herstal Self-Loading Police Shotgun in 12 gage, loaded with Federal Tactical slug shells. The little blue tubes contained two projectiles, and put very large holes in soft targets...

"Who are we looking for again?"

Scotts was quelling an uneasy feeling with light conversation...

"The local organization called 'Sacra Corona'..."

The ex-Ranger laughed softly again to himself...

"What now, asshole?"

Davis asked jokingly. The pair had developed a unique style of communication between themselves, usually involving calling the other some sort of nasty name...

"I could use one of those right now..."

"One of what?"

"A Corona... With a slice of lime... That'd take the edge off this heat..."

Now it was Davis' turn to laugh to himself...

"Keep your eyes open for a bar then, we'll make a pit-stop after we make this deal..."

Cimine Luchresi sat within the Sacra Corona meeting house within the Austar Union. It was located in some city that Luchresi had not taken the time to learn the name of. It was a small house, which really was closer to a bunker now. The only up side to this assignment was the fact that he had managed to escape the oppressive heat of Malaqah. The house's windows had been boarded up and the door reinforced. It was not like the Sacra Corona to take such militaristic precautions. They were business men--or at least most of them were--who left intimidation and killing each other to "thuggish gangsters" who mostly worked for them anyways. However, they were working to establish a strong foundation in a place where friends would be hard to come by.

Across from a small round table was the man known to Ludovico and 'Uncle Divo'. Luchresi preffered to maintain a business relationship and reffer to him strictly Capo Bastone or Bastone Divo. The tiny dark room was light only by a light hanging from the ceiling, only enhancing the feeling of being in a bunker and casting a light on the two men that would have appeared to come straight from an eighties mobster film. The two were reviewing numbers and amounts of products which had arrived only the night before. Now they were being sorted and counted within the adjacent warehouse under the supervision of various Consiglieres, advisors to each family who could be trusted with the two mens' money.

"So this nephew of yours. He can get us the connections to some buyers that we need, eh?" Luchresi asked in a rather casual manner now that business had been attended to. As the two spoke they rose from their seats, Luchresi carrying a breifcase, as they used the access tunnel to the warehouse to essentially get a pulse check and find out when their product could be moved.

"We reminded him of his brother back home and he seemed to see things our way." Divo responded.

Had Luchresi lacked the experience he had, he would have found the idea of threatening the life of one nephew in order to get what you want from the other nothing short of repulsing. If his past experiences had taught him one thing, however, it would be that business is business. Plain and simple. Still, no amount of exposure to the atrocities committed by the Sacra Corona would prevent him from noticing just how odd Divo's family must be. Some families were tighter knit than others though. The Sacra Corona was the real family, and all family members knew where their loyalty rest, and if their memory failed them, one of the various psychotic family advisors would be happy to clear the matter up.

The two had arrived in the warehouse and it appeared things were just finishing up. Luchresi told Divo to check with the Consiglieres to see if everything was done while Luchresi made a call back to Malaqah.

Luchresi dialed Aurelius' number back in Largent as he stared out a window, standing on the platform over looking the entire operation. "Lawrence my friend." He began. "We have received everything. One of the men you sent me with has told me he is confident he can get us a connection."

"Excellent. Have you met this connection yet."

"No, his name is supposedly Ludovico. We gave him a little something to start with to guage returns, see how he operates, find out who he knows." There was a momentary pause as Aurelius drew out the information he knew his friend was holding back without using a word. "You know its not fair."

"No?"

"I should be back in Malaqah. I have paid my dues and I deserve better than this." Luchresi had been one of the key players in reviving Largentian organized crime only a few years ago and now found himself doing nothing short of "bitch work" as he so keenly put it.

"I don't make these calls. Ernesto is your friend and believes you will suceed there. When you do, you will weild more power than any man within Largent at your level. You are essentially creating your own organization which answers only to two men. You must have patience."

"You are right...I apologize for the outburst. Any news of the Rosa recently?"

"Nothing of interest. It seems we are in the "calm before the storm" if you will. Goodbye my friend."

"Goodbye." Luchresi continued to look out the window when something of interest appeared. It seemed that he would have no need for Ludovico. It seemed Magliozi wanted a crew to send a house warming gift in person. Without a word, Luchresi motioned for soldiers to be on guard. He and Divo would meet with these men in person. He doubted Magliozzi's men would be stupid enough to barge in, guns blazing, when there was a potential friend to be made. Luchresi pushed the button to open the warehouse's main door and greet his guests.





Back in Malaqah the scene was quite different. As the truck reached the edges of the city it would certainly be a sight that would leave most men wondering where they had taken a wrong turn and ended up in war-torn Africa. On almost every roof sat a man, usually black, in camoflouge and holding some sort of assault rifle. Patroling the streets, the scence would be much the same. Every mile or so the truck would pass an abandoned ally, save the occasional corpse or rape being committed out of the public view--not that it mattered.

Where did this ethnicity come from? All minorities who were not within the SCU or openly practicing Islam had been driven from the city at one time or another, creating one of the greatest rich-poor divides in the world.

The two men riding in the truck would not have to stop and ask for directions. There was only one reason people like this came to this part of Malaqah, and that was to meet with the local Caporegime and create some sort of business agreement. Wise men stayed away, reckless men died, and business men made damn sure they were carefull not to push too hard. Caporegimes didn't care to negotiate. First timers would agree to their terms, with very few exceptions and perhaps the next time they would be able to negotiate slightly without putting their lives at jeopardy.

The man these two would be meeting with was Caporegime Da Gama, one of the few hispanics who had achieved such a ranking. He had a reputation of zero toleration, however such an attitude was necissary to make it in this world and he had no regrets. The only thing these two strangers would have going for them would be the fact that Scotts had some hispanic blood and for his own sake new a little spanish.

The truck was directed by the local armed men who patrolled the slums. It pulled into a garage where several men in black suits met them and guided them to an underground meeting room, which, unlike the streets above, was a blatant display of wealth and power. The two men were searched and their weapons were taken. Sitting at a table was Da Gama. He beckoned for them to take seat. As they did he motioned for a nearby waiter to fetch him something to drink. He offered each of the new arrivals something as well. After they had made their decisions he began.

"Well. I'm afraid I am not familiar with either of you. I assume you have contacted various Sacra Corona represetatives and had your backgrounds checked or else you would be dead before you made it this far through the city. Now, would one of you care to explain your presence if I may get right to the point."

Shadowood, Imitora

The crisp afternoon air of the Imitoran winter sent chills into many of the officers surrounding the single story house. It was in a small neighborhood in the smallish Imitoran city of Shadowood, an area that, despite an dark and almost foreboding name, was usually quite peaceful. However, a three month long investigation by the IFCIB (Imitora Federal Crime Investigation Bureau) had pinpointed numerous money laundering and human trafficking operations being organized and run out of the house. It was now surrounded by numerous Bureau Mercedes Benzes as well as the local police’s Dodge Chargers. There was also a single black BMW X5 with heavily tinted windows, and a general air of meanness around it. The X5, however, was empty, the older driver standing next to the head of the operation.

He ran a hand through curly red hair, looking on to the house. “So,” he started, letting his hands rest on his hips, hooking his thumbs through the belt loops on his cargo pants, “what’s the deal?”

The Bureau investigator, someone who had more than his fair share of taking on organized crime syndicates, shrugged. “Nothing you RIA boys need to worry about. I don’t really care if the government is lifting the Military Intervention Act, it isn’t repealed yet, so technically you’re here only to watch.”

First Sergeant John Dunbar chuckled. “Ok Nancy,” he said, reverting to his tried and true tactic of referring to those who annoy him by a girl’s name, “your boss and my boss are great friends, and your boss asked my boss to help out because you have had some problems keeping your shooters alive dealing with these organized crime types. So, Jane, what is going to happen is you are gonna stop giving me shit for being here. Good? Great.”

He stretched out, then looked back at the house. His eyes went to his left, where an IFCIB SRT (Special Response Team) was loading up next to a black Suburban. They were dressed in the ever fashionable tactical black, with load bearing vests and other gear, gas masks already pulled over their faces. The IFCIB had been trying to negotiate surrender, but at this point, nothing had been decided. The element inside the house, a group only comprehended as the Sacra Corona, had been quick to agree to talks, but eventually the idea broke down. They were convinced at any minute their higher up buddies would call connections in the Imitoran government, and the raid would be called off. But it wasn’t happening.

The standoff had been going on for a good three hours, and the Special Agent in charge had had about enough of the situation. He waved over to the leader of the SRT, who nodded back, and began talking to his fellow assaulters. “I’m sending in the team now,” he told Dunbar.

“Have them go in through the back, there are less windows, less chance for them to get ambushed on the way in.”

“Listen, bud,” the SAiC grumbled, “I’m in charge, and my team is gonna go through the front door. It’s my call, and it’s faster that way.”

Dunbar sighed. He waved over to the three men standing next to the X5, and they all seemed to nod in coordination, moving towards Dunbar and SAiC. The SRT was halfway across the front yard when fire erupted from the house, the familiar sound of a Russian AK-47 barking out as the 7.62x39mm rounds ripped through the air, looking for soft flesh. One round found it in the form of the exposed throat of the lead SRT shooter. A fine red mist sprayed in the air as he hit the ground hard. The second man in the six man stack grabbed him by his vest loop, pulling him back towards cover. The agents and police officers surrounding the house dropped behind cover, returning fire from their side arms.

The military team on sight charged over to Dunbar, dropping behind the Benz belonging to the SAiC. They all had weapons drawn, different variants of the venerable 1911. Dunbar’s own clone, a Springfield Armory Loaded Operator, was out and ready to fire as he used the German sedan for cover. His second in command, Ryan Fortier, was using an open door for cover as more automatic weapons opened up on the authorities. He was still fifteen to twenty yards from his commander, but the years upon years of training with the other shooter had him in the same state of mind, thinking the exact same thoughts. He reached into the squad car he was behind, pulling out the Springfield SOCOM II, holstering his Rock River Arms Tactical 1911.

John reached into the Federal Agents car, looking for a heavier piece. He found the H&K MP5/10I, a weapon produced solely for the nation, and popular among the law enforcement agencies. He checked for some extra magazines, finding a handful, and waved back over to Ryan. He used a set of hand signals, and within moments, Ryan had popped up and squeezed off three rounds from the M1A. The automatic fire from the window stopped immediately, and John, Ryan, and the two others were quickly up, weapons trained on the house, moving towards the front door.

John reached the door first, weapon up, and Ryan came in beside him. He turned, his back to the wall, and slammed the bottom of his foot into the door. It splintered open, and the world suddenly slowed down. John entered first, Ryan going left as he went right, searching for targets. There were two men down, their faces a mess from Ryan’s accurate fire and the impact of 7.62mm JHPs. He stepped over the bodies, and rounded a corner. He saw a man, young, no more than twenty, struggling to get a magazine into a FN rifle. His look was scared, full of fright as guns went off around him in other parts of the house. John didn’t think twice, never thinking about the young man’s life, how he wound up here, why he was doing this. He just reacted. He stroked the trigger twice, sending two rounds into the chest of the young man.

Hours later, John was sitting in a debrief room, alone. The takedown had lasted a minute at most, with Ryan and the two other team shooters clearing the left side of the house with minimal fuss. John had only encountered the young man, who was now laying in a morgue in Northampton with two 10mm Auto hollow point rounds lodged firmly in his chest. Dunbar had already undergone the legal part of the debrief, how he and his team violated national, federal laws, and would be receiving a red letter of mark in their files. After all, no good deed goes unpunished. He then went through the takedown debrief, which was a blinding success, and would be recorded for future operations to study.

It was at this point when the door opened, and another IFCIB Agent strolled in. “Mr. Dunbar, I want to thank you for your actions earlier today. Of course, no official report will be filed blah blah blah, you’ve done the job long enough. I’d like to ask you a favor.”

“Shoot,” he said, glancing at a wall clock.

“As you know, your team will be punished due to today’s actions, legal matters and all. But, I’ve got some good news. We can get those letters pulled if you do us a favor. Our investigation traced this operation to Largent. They’ve been dealing with this similar situation for a good bit of time now. We’d like to send you to help with the investigation.”

“Love to help, Anna, honestly would, but I’m not a cop, I’m a door kicker.”

“About that,” another voice said, and in strolled a fit man, dressed in Imitoran fatigues, with a fancy looking emblem on his right shoulder. However, much like John’s own uniform, it had no unit insignia, no name, nothing. John nodded at the superior officer, standing with a stiff salute. “Sit, Dunbar,” he said, walking up to the man. “Listen, John. We both know how old your getting, your two years away from the required retirement from operations. We need you to take some time away from your team.”

“Why?”

“Well,” he started to trail off. “We’re gonna give Ryan his own team. The team you run now. The guys respond well to him, and we have a selection unit coming out. We’ve already picked someone to move into your team.”

John just nodded. “So, what’s the deal?”
_

John stepped out of the airport, a rifle case in one hand, a duffle in the other. He waved down a taxi, and was soon off to the Malaqah Police HQ, as ordered. A short time later, he stepped out of the cab, grabbing his rifle case and duffle, and entered the building. He made his way to a front desk, and waited till the receptionist looked up to him. “My name is John Dunbar, I’m looking for Chief Armstrong.”

Davis was used to this sort of treatment, but stayed on his guard. Organized crime-types liked to think they were in control, but a multi-national private military corporation staffed by some of the finest special ops personnel in the world was not something one wanted to make an enemy of, especially when they came bearing such wonderful gifts...

"I'm sure you already know why the corporation myself and my comrade represent has contacted you, if not, then I'd fire the guy I talked with on the phone for incompetence. It's very simple. We bring you a selection of the hardware we can provide low-cost, fairly legally, and without much hassle. Our employer being a private military corporation, the UN's arms sales sanctions don't exactly carry as much weight as they do with actual nations. In short, we can get you military-grade hardware, and not just firepower, for less than what you're paying, along with some extra goodies they don't sell in stores. If you'd like, I've brought along quite a few samples, but they're stacked in the back of my truck..."

Davis paused for a moment, taking a more relaxed posture in his chair. He'd done this many, many times before. Either the buyer took the offer, or he packed up and left. Few people seemed to realize that the guns weren't his, he was a salesman for a much larger, more powerful organization. While being the message boy wasn't exactly his choice job, Jackson did love playing with guns of all sorts, and this job allowed him to do so almost every day of the year. He'd been an 18B, a Special Forces Weapons Sergeant in the US Army for the better part of fifteen years, seen combat in several parts of the middle east, first with the 5th SFG, then the 1st. He'd considered Delta, but figured he'd gotten a little too old for that sort of thing, and gotten out with his joints still intact.

All of the information he'd poured out would take a moment to soak in, but that moment had passed. Now it was time to continue...

"Red Dawn International is a full-service organization. Once they get to trusting you a bit more, the corporation will start offering you more specialized services like assassination contracts, training for your rank-and-files, hiring highly capable individuals like Marcus and myself, and finally, preferred customer status..."

Now he'd play the waiting game, which shouldn't last very long. Either the guy liked what he heard, or he didn't. Davis was confident that he'd at least want to see some of the sample items he'd brought along. They had some really interesting stuff this time...

Da Gama was taken off guard. He would certainly have to have a little discussion with his secretary concerning passing messages along. Although that could wait, these men had peaked his interest. If there was one thing the SCU did not purchase an excess of it was military grade hardware and specialized personel, both of which Da Gama preferred to business and polotics.

He appeared to gaze off into the distance for a moment while he was actually looking towards the guard at the door who looked into the garage with the parked truck. He gave his boss a nod and Da Gama returned to the conversation. "I will admit, your offer is interesting. I will gladly take a look at the scpecimen you have brought along with you." He rose from the table and as they began to walk to the garage Da Gama's guards took up positions just incase these strangers were involved in any trickery.

"While we walk, you must answer me one question. Besides your standard arms and fire power--humor me with this hypothetical scenario--if I wanted to compile something in the area of a small army, what are the more pricy items I might be able to get from you. If theres one things my bosses love it is making more money than anyone else and buying things no one else can afford. If you prove to be a worthwhile investment there is nothing you carry that we cannot afford. The question is, can you meet all of our outrageous orders? Secondly, besides firepower, what exactly do you carry?"

Fluid time to Davis/Marcus' departure

The Malaqah police organization was one of the most corrupt in the world. It was not out of greed but rather survival that the higher ranking officers had given in to the offers of the Sacra Corona. When word had spread about the fate of the former police chief, a little supplimental income and protection sounded pretty good. The Sacra Corona had been ruthless in their methods all thanks to the work of Crimine Aurelius.

It was almost five years to the date that the former Police Chief regained conciousness. The room was dark and carried an odd odor, it was the dampness of the Aurelius catacombs that made it so. The chief was already chained to the far wall as Aurelius was just finishing his work. The chief found himself in a recess as Aurelius used mortar and stone to wall up the entrance to the niche. Aurelius knew his drugs had worn off as a low moaning cry came from the depths of the recess, followed by silence. The wall was complete as Aurelius thrust the torch he had carried into the remaining aperture. His heart grew sick; it was the dampness of the catacombs that made it so. Aurelius hastened to make an end of his labour. He forced the last stone into its position and plastered it up. Against the new masonry he re-erected the old rampart of bones. For the half of a century no mortal had disturbed them. In pace requiescat!

The attrocities had gone noticed but not punished as one by one, successing officers were approached by smaller bosses and offers were made, and usually accepted or else the bold fool found himself lying next to his chief. Chief Armstrong was no exception to the rule. He had been approached the first day on the job while news of the former chief was still just speculation and entirely more frightening than the truth. He had seen himself with few options. He was not a man of poor morals though, or at least he never saw himself that way. He made sure that in order to protect his own interests that he interfered with either Sacra Corona affairs or police ones. He was nothing short of a sitting duck.

This was the environment Dunbar was sent headlong into. As he spoke with the receptionist at the desk, Captain Brownell spotted him and approached him from across the office. Brownell had yet to be approached by any part of the SCU and had remain uncorrupted. His family had made their fortune long ago, and legitimately, unlike most Malaqah families, and he could afford to dress unusually well. Perhaps one of the reasons no one had tried to buy him off; they simply assumed he was on the payroll. "Its okay, Stella. I'll show him to the office." He brought Dunbar into his own office and offered him a seat before taking his own.

"I'm sorry but the chief is on his luch break, as we had planned. You see I needed a few moments to talk with you alone. You will be working for possibly the most corrupted police force in the world today. It is estimated that over seventy percent of all men currently serving and enforcing justice are working for at least one organization. The chief is no exception. I will be heading all operations and any information is to go only to me. It is far to great an undertaking to judge who has been bribed for even a seasoned member of the force. Such a burden on you would only be unfair.

"You will be working with a small team. We have compiled masses of information for you to work with. There are two general rules I want you to operate by. The first is that you recognize the fact that the rule book went out the window long ago. And two, I want you to understand that a dead crime boss is better than one who makes bail.

"If you have no questions so far I will give you the necessary information for you to start work on your first job." He beckoned Dunbar to follow him over to his computer, akwardly place off to the side of the room, free of wandering eyes. "We have received this intercepted phone call between two bosses. One of which we know has the last name Luchresi, the other we are unable to identify:

"I should be back in Malaqah. I have paid my dues and I deserve better than this."

"I don't make these calls. Ernesto is your friend and believes you will suceed there. When you do, you will weild more power than any man within Largent at your level. You are essentially creating your own organization which answers only to two men. You must have patience."

"The topic of the conversation is vague. The interesting thing is the mention of the name "Ernesto". He is obviously of a higher rank than these two making him at least a Crimine. We have no records of him in any police record and he could not be tracked down anywhere in Malaqah, although we have reason to assume he is operating somewhere within here. Your job is to find more. You will be working with this man." He motion behind them.

Colonel Bigua had entered the room without a sound. He wore army fatigues and was well built to say the least. He smiled akwardly and extended a had before taking over the conversation. "We have a lead. Its a drugs/arms dealer and buyer located in the Malaqah slums. He goes by the name "Da Gama". Intel placed him meeting with some interesting entrepeneurs earlier today and we'll be going undercover to find more. We have a small team and will create a false shipping agency for any goods he purchases. We'll head over as soon as you've settled in to the accomidations the local government will be providing. I'll be happy to show them to you."

The two headed to the appartment the government had purchased for Dunbar and then the two headed over to meet with Da Gama jsut as Davis and Marcus were departing.

OOC: Imitora, check the ooc thread

Dunbar was almost suprised on how quickly he was swept in to the fight. However, the feeling of suprise was quickly replaced with a feeling of happiness that he was going to bypass the political B.S., and get right into the fight. A small character trait that had often plagued him.

He greated Brownell with simply a nod and a firm handshake, staying quiet as the more expierenced man led him through the station. He needed a good explination of the situation, and felt little concern about the burden that would be placed on him. He kept his thoughts to himself, keeping to himself any worry that he had comming into the sitution.

He followed Brownell into his office, and placed his rifle case and duffle bag beside him.

You will be working with a small team. We have compiled masses of information for you to work with. There are two general rules I want you to operate by. The first is that you recognize the fact that the rule book went out the window long ago. And two, I want you to understand that a dead crime boss is better than one who makes bail.

With that, Dunbar nodded, and spoke to Brownell for the first time. "My kinda operation," he commented, his knee tapping the rifle case. "I was hoping I wouldn't be spending to much time reading rights to these guys, they've already put down a number of good Imitoran officers and agents, so there isn't any love lost."

In the case, as well as on his hip, he carried not the usual CAR-68 or 1911 clone, but a a different set of weapons. Before his assingment to Largent, he spent three days with a former mentor turned survivalist in the Castian Mountain range in Northern Imitora. His mentor had been in the 3rd, a Captain who led Dunbar's unit. He had retired three years before Dunbar's dissapearend into the dark, complex, and secretive 1st SOG. While Dunbar had gone into further military operations, his mentor had spent several years in law enforcement. In the mountains, he learned what he could about law enforcement procedures and how they compared to military life, and spent hours and hours at the range learning his new weapons.

In the case was a Springfield Armory M1A SOCOM II. The 7.62mm NATO chambered rifle had become popular among Imitoran law enforcement agencies, its compact size allowing it easy manuverability, but the round giving it good range and deadly stopping power. However, the rifle had been slightly modified with a lighter trigger, and an Imitora Military Industries (IMI) Match Grade Barrel, topped with the classic M14 style flash hider. A surefire weapon light was mounted on the foregrip's side rail, and the extended sight rail was home to a Aimpoint CompM2 red dot sight. The trigger, a two stage military trigger, had been dropped from its five to six pound pull to a four pound pull.

On his hip, in the place of the usual Springfield Armory Loaded Operator MC 1911, was a Glock. He had never been a fan of the plastic pistols, but again, in his move to work in a more law enforcement related enviroment, he chose a weapon loved by Imitoran police. The Glock 31 was chambered in .357SIG, with an IMI ported barrel and Caspian slide, a Houge rubber grip, and Metropro night sights. The .357 SIG round offered more punch than the standard nine millimeter round, which he liked.

He also carried in his duffle the usual assortment of knives and other fun gear. However, he hoped that most of it wouldn't need to come into play, that the locals were armed and ready to take the fight to the SCU already.

He took in all the information he could, and greeted the colonel in the same way he greeted Brownell. He was quiet when being taken to his quarters, focusing more on learning the current situation than dealing with small talk, leaving that for later. He could form new bonds with his new team over beers and pizza later, but now was more time to act. He dropped most of his gear off at the room, and dug an SOG Trident assisted opener out of his bag. He was already wearing good operations gear, a red polo shirt and light cargo pants, and he had three magazines for the Glock on his left hip, the polymer handgun loaded with a magazine, a round in the chamber, on his right side. He pocketed the kinfe, and nodded to Bigua.

"Let's go meet this De Gama character, see what we can find out."

OOC: Sorry for crap reply, tired and worn out, long day.

Cruising at a comfortable speed, the Caporegime had brought along two of his crewmembers to 'meet' with this Divo character and the friends he had brought into Anatoba City. Coming with little more than just their fists and the standard pistol they always had on them, they had instructed Ludovico to ring ahead and tell the men that some members of Magliozzi Waste would be paying a visit - presumerably to negotiate, but mostly to inspect their current situation, and make them aware that dealing on their turf was out of line. It was their money, and their product which would be sold on the street; not some shit from Sacra Corona, Largent.

Approaching the house, Christopher parked the groundcar across the street, and stepping out he turned to he two of his associates.

"Keep your cool," he instructed. "I don't want to be answering to Mr. Peeps if fighting broke out. Got it?"

Two voices responded in unison, "Yes sir."

Turning toward the property, he led his soldiers toward its entrance and finally onto the front door. He was a fairly confident man, but what lay ahead of him was much of the unknown. Knowing that he was probably already being watched, Christopher knocked loudly, only to make a point of it of course.

One gloved finger pressed down gently on the player's 'play' button, and soon, Beethoven's 'Moonlight Sonata' was audible -- though not very well, as the player was of decidedly poor quality. That was the idea, mind.

Athryn Kage smiled, then turned to his prisoner. The short, rotund, ugly man was trussed hand and foot to a rickety wooden chair. The gag that Athryn had removed mere seconds prior lay on the ground -- it was stained red with blood, from a split lip.

"So, buddy, why don't you just go on ahead and tell me what you did with my girlfriend, eh?"

The fat man spat blood onto the ground to clear his mouth, then spoke in what he probably thought was an intimidating manner, but really ended up being merely comical, "I don't know what the fuck you're talking about. Let me go, and maybe my boys won't kill you. Maybe."

Athryn laughed, then turned to the folding card table on which the crappy player sat...along with two bags, a duffel and a drawstring canvas sack. He opened the sack and showed the fat man its contents: two heads.

"I don't think that your boys will be doing much of anything ever again, buck-o. Now. How's about you start talking. Individuals under your control kidnapped a Revenian woman by the name of Sarah Resner while she was vacationing on this shit-hole. Where is she?"

The fat man's facial expression was quite a sight. Surprise, sure, but mostly fear. The heads in the bag were of his two biggest, meanest toughs, his best soldiers...and Athryn wasn't even scratched -- in fact, he looked utterly pristine.

The fat man stuttered, "I, I don't know what you're talking about!"

Athryn sighed, "Well, isn't that just unfortunate. Hmm...you know, Sarah had a thing for ears...I wonder if she'd like yours? I doubt it -- you're hideous -- but I'll give it a shot anyways."

Somehow, a folding knife had appeared in his hand. The blade went Ssniick! as he flicked it open with a practice motion, then walked behind the fat man and lay the knife's cutting edge to the man's ear.

"Though...if I knew where Sarah was, I could show her your ears while they were still attached to your body, you know?"

The fat man whimpered.

Then he began to scream.

Athryn took his time. He sawed viciously, clumsily, at the ear. The folder he had in his hand was kept quite dull for just such a purpose as this, and to the extent it was sharpened, it was with a very, very rough stone, creating micro-serrations that were quite good at sawing through rope...and other things.

He drew the action out for a couple of minutes before finally his knife severed the last bit of flesh holding the fat man's ear to his head.

Athryn dangled the ear in front of the fat man's head, moving around to the other side, so as to whisper into the remaining ear.

"Care to talk now?"

The fat man spoke through his sobs, "The Revenian girl -- she was bought by some suit-types. I don't know the, ah! Names! The ship they came in on was out of some place called...mal...mal...something."

Athryn sighed again, "'Mal-something' isn't going to cut it, buddy."

He rested the back of the knife against the fat man's remaining ear. That got a response.

"Malacah! it was something like that! Please, PLEASE don't hurt me anymore! Oh god, please! All I know is that they were goin' ta sell her from there, thassal! I swear, thassal!"

Athryn brought his lips in very close to the man's ear, then whispered, his voice dripping with venom, "You're lying. I can tell. There's something you don't want me to know...something you're afraid to tell me."

The fat man sobbed louder, "No! I swear, I swear, I told you everything! Don't hurt me! Oh god, please, please don't hurt me!"

Athryn slowly turned the knife over, so that the cutting edge rested on the fat man's ear.

The fat man screamed, "Oh God! Oh God! No! No! Please! Please! These guys are crazy! Largent! They're from Largent! We sold her because my buyer wouldn't take damaged goods! Oh god, no, no!"

Athryn's confident smirk stilled for a moment, then recovered. He pulled the folding knife back and closed it, dropping it into his pocket, then turned and walked towards the motel room's door. Just as his hand was about to touch the doorknob, he spun about, lightning quick, and sent a throwing knive -- produced from somewhere about his person -- flying at a viciously quick speed, to embed itself in the fat man's forehead.

The fat man slumped forward, his eyes glazed over.

Athryn stepped out of the motel room, slipping a stocking cap on over his short-cropped brown hair. It'd take him a time to infiltrate his way into Largent. Not difficult, as such, just...time consuming.

Then he'd find Sarah and rescue her...or he'd kill, and kill, and kill...until there was nothing left to kill. His hand moved into his pocket, finding the smooth locket, her locket. She'd given it to him as a good luck charm all those years ago...as it turned out, she was the one who could have used the luck.

Bad storm coming.

Fluid Time Once Again

A black pickup truck rolled into the same parking garage that had been inhabited by Davis and Marcus only a slight while ago. The routine was much the same. The car pulled in, the two men were escorted to Da Gama's meeting room where they were offered drinks, but declined and then began to discuss matters of business.

Da Gama was the first to speak. "So, I'm told you gentlemen are from an Imitoran shipment agency who feel that you could move my products rather effectively." The two men nodded slightly. "Allow me to run some statistics by you. We move one thousand kilos every week through each shipper. That means you boys would be incharge of moving this same amount within seven days and making the pick up by the end of the seventh day. When people tell me they will do something I expect it to be done and done well. Now explain to me how you will do things."

Bigua chose to speak. He had far more experience with men not unlike Da Gama and figured he would be most suited to convince him of their professionalism. By air we copilot a single plane. Fly it below and behind a second plane to avoid radar detection until airspace is safe. We make a landing at one of our more "private landing strips" and then our people make the trip by land to a location of your choosing. By sea, we begin with a freighter. Speed boats make a pickup. One rides the wake of the other and have deployable tarps and kill switches to avoid visual audio and radar detection. Choose your port and well be there on time. The only catch is that we only use our people."

"Now tell me why should I trust you. Who have you worked with? Who knows you?"

"Anyone whos anybody knows us! Business comes to us! You would be lucky to have us moving your product. If you are dumb enough to refuse business we'll gladly leave." Bigua started to get up.

"Oh don't use cliche tricks with me. I don't like you. I wont lie. Your friend however, has not said a word. He seems more reserved, practical. I like him." He paused a moment. "You will not be my best men, but I will take a risk with you. Your first shipment will be in warehouse 5 on the pier at Malaqah harbor tommorow. The adress will be with it."

With that Dunbar and Bigua left. Once they returned to their car Bigua said, "We'll probably be shipping this stuff to some nobody. Unless the adress suggest different, you should orcastrate a sting. I doubt Da Gama will ever check to see how the operation went."

The next day, Bigua's hunch was confirmed. The two would be shipping 1000 kilos of opium into Anatoba City, Austar Union. Sadly, Luchresi and the bosses would prove illusive, but--although the two didn't know it--the sting would reveal more than they could have hoped.

Anatoba City

"I just got off the phone with my neph--" Divo proved unable to finish his scentance as the knock came and Luchresi opened the door. He came down from his perch with a look of neither anger nor fear on his face. It was more a look of intregue.

"A word to the wise, your business adress is priviledged information." Divo nodded solemly. "Well, lets get this over with," Luchresi said, unable to conceal the joy of finally seeing something of interest in this forsaken place. He greeted the Magliozzi men. The one who he would later know as Christopher struck him more than the others. He appeared to be the type of man Luchresi had expected. A short fuse, emotions easy to read, never kept his cool. He was the type of man who would force things rather than find an alternate way of approaching a problem. Luchresi recognized the fact that he could be entirely wrong but it never hurt to play to an opponents possible weakness.

"Hello. My name is Crimini Luchresi. Please, to what do I owe this visit?" He beckoned the men to enter as he showed them to a small table in the room where they took seats. Luchresi glanced around. Each of his men were less than an arms reach from some form of a fire arm. He shook his head, wagged a finger and clicked his tounge as almost to scold his men who became more relaxed. With that he turned back to his guests. "I apologize for them. They are perhaps a little jumpy. Now, would you care for a drink." He motioned and had a man bring him and his guests a fine bottle of Dominion Wine. "Its imported." he added with a slight smile.

"Now," he sighed. I believe you were about to explain yourselves and tell me why you insisted on arriving at my door and tell me exactly who you are. I've gathered your not pleased with me for some reason. All I need to know is why."

Dunbar kept his mouth shut through the meeting. He spent the time not talking to the De Gama, but analyzing him. He had no problem letting Bigua do the talking, and as the two spoke, Dunbar started running De Gama's manersims and words through his wn personal personality filter. When they had their instructions and returned to the truck, Dunbar spoke.

"He strikes me as not quite sure of himself, so he's trying to make it up with teh tough guy attitude. We get him alone in a chair, I'm sure we can get him talking, even if it takes a little, well, physical coercion." He almost smiled with the last few words, and puased shortly to figure out what the options were.

"I'm all for the raid, but I wanna meet some of the guys before we go in, and I need you to get me an area map and blue prints of the area where the werehouse is. Let me get a better look at the set up, where everything is. We might be able to scare the shit outa these guys and make it look like a rival faction did it." He watched the outside world roll by as the truck headed away from De Gama's hide out.

"Actually, I got a good idea. How long till we get a trustworthy assault team ready?"

Bigua shrugged. "I guess that depends on how fast I can drive back to HQ." He smiled slightly as he added unecessary pressure to the accelerator and the car began tearing through the streets of Malaqah. "I've got an assault team that I have had to command on several occasions and I've found them to be top notch. I don't imagine you should find them much different."

As the car pulled into the parking garage of the police headquarters Bigua pulled out his cell phone and exchanged a few brief words with a man he only identified as "Mac". He led Dunbar into a standard briefing room. An overhead projector displayed satellite photos of the location given by Da Gama and around a table sat six individuals. One of them rose to greet Bigua and Dunbar. He introduced himself as Robert MacDonald, or simply Mac. Then came Hans Wachtmeister, a rather large and and trigger happy German who had proven exemplary with explosives. The others introduced themselves Greg McGee, John Paul Doherty, Tommy Dumont, Barry Gallup, and Daniel Williams.

"So," Bigua began, "You said you've got an idea?"

Malaqah Harbor


Sarah Resner's hands and feet were chained together along with the other hundred plus inhabitants of the lowest deck of the Sea Viking. The freighter was full of even more shipments that would be distributed throughout the world. Not a soul on that ship could possibly have known where they would end up. Most of them had been snatched at night. Various Sacra Corona emolyees would approach them in a bar and offer a drink. They would then add a little something of their own and before their victim knew what had happened they were waking up on some ship, naked, and chained to a wall with ninety nine other poor souls.

Sarah Resner's case had been different. Hers was a case of the SCU using their business to make even more. Once opium was distributed to various buyers, those buyers would often establish underground opium dens amongst Sacra Corona human trafficking tunnels. If someone accidentally wondered into the wrong place after having too much of the drug they were free for the taking and were quickly on a transport to Malaqah harbor.

The ship began moving and low crying moans came from the inhabitants of the dark smelly room. As the freighter began taking on waves several prisoners found themselves becoming sick and vomiting all over their neighbors. It was a six hour ride until the ship came to a halt and each of the prisoners was blind folded. If their captors found one particularly attracting they may be raped, but most of them were professional and simply loaded them onto the speed boats that had come for their cargo.

Sarah was promptly tossed into the back of one such boat and covered with a tarp as the boat pulled away from the freighter. Once again some found themselves sick and vomiting all over the back of the boat. It was another two hours before the boat slowed to a halt and the tarp was removed.

Still blind folded and still nude, Sarah was brought to some location where her buyer met with her captors. "Welcome to Anatoba city." Said some mans voice. As she would later discover, this man had no real connection with any formal SCU activities, however he was a regular customer who had come from Malaqah in hopes of lower prices as the new branch of the organizaiton got some feet under it.

Entering, the two of Christopher's henchmen took up positions on either side of the front door. Their weapons were kept concealed; better this way, for the time being. In the meantime, when Chris was offered a seat, he gave no indication that would be sitting at all.

"Consider me a messenger on behalf of a higher power," he began. "You're welcome to stay here within our Union, but be forewarned; keep moving in on our territory and the next time we visit will be more than just words."

He shrugged, smiling wryly, "Let's just face it, if we were doing the same in Largent I would be expecting a similar visit." He paused, considering his options. "But if you're looking for a greater level of cooperation, it might be worthwhile considering contacting our offices for a sit-down instead of beating our associates into submission."

His face went dark, "Let me make things perfectly clear Signore. I'm not going to tolerate this sort of behavior. Sacra Corona, of all organization should have understood that already."

Behind him, the two henchmen both adjusted their standing positions, to maximize readiness, without looking like they were literally about to jump Luchresi.

John smirked as Bigua floored it, bringing them to back to the station.

He greated each man with a firm, yet not challenging, handshake. He was on their turf, and even though he was running the op, they were the locals, the ones who knew the game.

"Alright," he started, taking his place at the front of the room. "First off, if you boys run anything like what I've seen so far, this should go real smooth. Thats what we are hoping for. If it doesn't, well, you boys look like you can handle the situation anyways. Bigua and I just got back from De Gama's little home away from home. His operation looks simple enough, nothing major, but we could be wrong. I wouldn't be suprised if he's got some big guns, but we got something better on our side. Suprise."

"I need two of you to head down to his safe house now, and get us a general look out point. There looked to be some decent overwatch positions, a sniper spoter team could get a good post up and already be in place. The rest of us will roll in five, maybe ten minutes later. Standard take down, flashbangs and door kickers. Overwatch will take down the front of the building as we move in. I want to take De Gama alive, but we need to go in covered. We can't leave any survivors in the room other than De Gama, we need to make it look like some upstart gang bangers moving in on turf, trying to act tough. Maybe drug related, or idealogical differences. That means no badges, no id's, no POLICE on anything."

"We already have an address for a shipment starting point tommorow. As soon as we are done with taking De Gama, the sniper spoters along with a two man QRF group will post up at the operation site. Whoever goes, if you see anything odd, just give me or Bigua a call, and we'll give ya the thumbs up or down on a go."

"The rest of us will take De Gama, and see what we can get out of him information wise. We won't notify anyone, we won't be looking for a warrant, or any of that. I got the ok from Brownell earlier, and I'm holding it up. Sacra Corona is better dead than in jail with connections for parole. As far as the rest of the world knows, he will be dead. We'll try to get what info out of him we can, and if we get in trouble, well, its easier to ask forgiveness than beg permision."

He paused for a moment, letting all the info sink in to the men. "Listen, I'm gonna run ya'll pretty hard, but if you boys are anything like your buddy Bigua here, I doubt it will be too hard. If you have any questions or suggestions, come to me. Don't hold back anything, this is ya'lls turf, I'm just a shooter. Unless you have some questions, we're done and you boys can get to suiting up."

He walked away from the front of the room, and over to Bigua. "I'm gonna need to borrow some gear, mainly a vest and a weapon, we don't have time to get back to my apartment. We're also gonna need a vehicle that isn't a department car, something that can be traced to some local criminals." He paused for a moment, then turned back to the room. "Whoever is going ahead, our sniper spoter team, I need to see you two."

"In over your head, Ath?"

The man was impossible to view. Shadows seemed to move of their own accord to hide him. It was a little disconcerting to watch...

"Yeah, a little bit."

Athryn wasn't exactly at a dead end, he'd just exhausted the easy options, the ones that involved not hurting people. It was more than a little irritating -- whoever these bastards were...SCU...something like that...they had loyalty in their hangers-on. Fear, maybe...but fear could be cut through without direct interrogation, usually.

What he'd done to the fat man earlier...that had been wrong, but he'd needed to do it. Nerves.

The shadowed man laughed, "Need a little help, then?"

Athryn nodded, "Yeah...yeah I could. Listen, Shade, how the hell did you find me?"

The man, Shade, giggled. It was a very, very disturbing noise. "The thing I can't find has yet to exist, the lifeform I couldn't track has yet to be born. You know these things, Athryn. Now...let's think, hmm? What about Sarah's comm implants? She was lower-level with Harm's people, no?"

Athryn frowned, "Yeah, but I tried that already. I think they pulled her implants when she went on vacation. Didn't want her getting captured for her implants. Shade, if you're here...does that mean He knows?"

The shadowed man laughed again.

"Oh, yeah. He knows. He knows, and He is not at all amused. That is why I am here...to help you out. Not do it for you, mind. He's wierd like that, y'know? But...anyways, he sent you this."

Shade handed Athryn a metallic briefcase. There was no question as to what was inside...Athryn simply laid it down on the crappy apartment's sole table and flicked his thumbs up against the locks. They were coded to his genetic signature, effectively impossible to break.

Inside...inside were things he'd hoped never to see again, but would almost definately need before this was over. A RevTek APSP and a RASP Dart Shooter, plus a sheathed Eldensteel warknife. They weapons of a RASP Operator.

Athryn blinked away tears as he slowly uncased the weapons, holstered the guns, and strapped them into place. It felt like coming home.

Shade smiled, a sliver of white in darkness, "That...and he told me to tell you that there are ways, and then there are Ways. You're like Him, you know, Athryn? You know what I mean?"

Athryn blinked, then his eyes went wide.

"Oh, shit! Yes, I'm a Lifehand. DAMNIT!"

It was a few minutes before he spoke, moved, again. Then he drove his fist through the drywall. Not particularly hard for a Halfling Ascended whose muscles were native to an environment with a gravity twice that of Earth's...

"They moved her again. I don't know where, I just know she isn't here anymore. Damnit. Damnit. Damnit. 'n if you're here, and He knows, then he's willing to go all the way, isn't he. Fuck."

Shade nodded again, "Yeah. That's the other reason I'm here. If you can't do it, I will. The alternative...full-scale invasion...outright war? I hope it doesn't come to that. I hope I don't have to do anything but read a few books...Athryn, you're a good man, and a good Op. You can do this. Get Sarah, teach these bastards not to screw with Revenians. Most people already got the message -- touch a Revenian, and you found yourself touched back...somebody didn't. Deliver the message."

Then Shade was gone.

All that was left...was a very, very, very angry individual.

He would sleep, of sorts...then he would act.

Anatoba City

Luchresi found his first observation of his visitor to be rather accurate. He had a certain tough-guy attitude and rather little tact. However he made an interesting suggestion. Perhaps a sit down was in order. There was little sense in making enemies from the start. There was almost no chance that if any agreement was made that it would be upheld for very long by either party but at least it gave Luchresi a little breathing room and this "higher power" a little extra cash flow. The SCU's approach to any opponent was very similar, pay them off until you acheive your goals.

"Well my good man, I don't appreciate your intrusion and rather disrespectful manner but I do appreciate your bluntness. On that note, tell your higher power that a sit-down would be nice. Get back to me on that.

"If there is nothing else then I wish you the best of luck in all your ventures and I look forward to hearing back from you concerning the sit-down." Luchresi rose from his seat, smiled slightly, and bowed.

Malaqah

Dumont and Williams went to speak with Dunbar as requested him on the way down to the armory to outfit him with the latest dragon skin and the rifle of his choosing. Meanwhile Bigua picked up two impounded cars that belonged to former gangsters. The team went through standard perperations and were given appropriate armor and rifles while waiting for the sniper and scout team to get into position.

Once the team was in position several minutes later the others loaded up into the unmarked white van and pulled up to the entrance to Bigua's meeting house. Some guerilla soldiers on the streets took notice and aimed their AKs, Dumont was quick on his trigger eliminating the thread. Bigua looked to Dunbar, that was their qeue. The van smashed through the door, flashbangs went off and muzzels flashed.

Christopher arched his brow at the Largentian.

"I'm not sure you quite fuckin understand, Signore," his face turned cold, almost steel-like. "We are the fuckin authority round these parts; you want to do business, you come to us. You don't want to come to us and still want to business, I suggest you run. Otherwise get on a plane and get the fuck out."

Chris turned to grab his coat, and without saying goodbye to Luchresi, he left.

Luchresi watched his guest leave. He was however afraid that this poor man was the one who misunderstood. No one spoke to that Luchresi that way, no matter who you were. The Sacra Corona was said to "Learn nothing and forget nothing". Luchresi was certainly no exception to this rule and in due time he would repay the ignominy that this man had tried to place upon him.

In the mean time he intended to speak with whichever 'higher power' he was told of. Of course Chistoper hadn't had the decency to give Luchresi any names so he sent Divo to find out who the local powers are. He eventually returned to inform Luchresi of a Magliozzi Waste Managment co. Divo had told his nephew, their former customer to tell his suppliers of the interest that Luchresi and Divo expressed in meeting. All they could do was continue business as usual and wait.

Pre Raid
Dunbar sized up the shooters, and nodded. "Ok guys, listen. I want De Gama, and I want him alive. But things don't always work out. If he tries to run, take him. A dead mobster is better than a living one that we don't have. Good stuff?"

When the the snipers nodded, he took his leave, following Bigua to suit up.

The Raid
Dunbar litterally exploded out the side of the van with the flashbang, hitting the ground running. He turned, seeing an initial target, and squeezed off a burst from the MP5 he had selected. He watched as the mobster droped, and he rounded the front of the van. He took another shooter, ignoring the bright red mist that filled the air from the dead mobster's chest. He began to search for De Gama.

"Son..." smiled Joey Peeps, giving his kid a hug. "What have you got for me?"

Christopher patted his father on the back before breaking. "Not much, Paps. It seems that Luchresi hasn't done much in the way of arranging a sit-down." He frowned. "But I heard from a butcher that he's been asking about us."

"Hmm," pondered the Capo Crimine. "This is not good. Take a seat."

Christopher sat at a round wooden table, pretty standard in design.

"I'm a little concerned about this, it's fairly difficult to tell whether Luchresi is working on behalf of Sacra Corona, or whether he's trying to make a name for himself." He turned to Chris, and his face went cold. "If it were the latter he'd be sleeping with the fishes by now."

Sighing nonchalantly, he frowned. "But, if Sacra Corona is behind it, the last thing I want to be answering to Hector for is a bloody nation to nation mob war. Killing Luchresi will no doubtly force their hand into responding in kind, and I don't want that blood on my hands. Nevertheless, whomsoever's motive is behind it, these actions are perfectly unacceptable, and I'm tempted to take a gamble."

"Have you tried to contact the Bosses in Largent, Father?"

"I was getting to that," Joey's expression lightened a little. "But, I had another idea; I have a few contacts within the Austarian Federal Police who might be able to place a little heat on him."

Christopher shook his head, "You know just as well as I do that the Police aren't going to want to get involved. They'll turn a blind eye if speak with the right contacts, but there's just no way-"

"-You're right," Joey cut him off. "But there is no point in contacting Sacra Corona about this. If they are responsible, then any actions I want to take should serve as a fair response to a man unwilling to cooperate with the willing gentlemen in Magliozzi Waste. They would be best to distance themselves from him, and contact either myself or Hector if they want to try again. In the meantime, I'm not going to be made a fool over this, we've warned him once over this. The second will become a bullet lodged in his brain."

"Actions, then Father?"

"Leave Luchresi to contact us for another three days. He's had enough time and he knows who to contact. After three days has expired, we put he and his crew to sleep with the fishes, understand?"

Christopher grinned, "Right."

It was well into the night, possibly even early morning when the phone rang and Luchresi was greeted by the voice of Joey Peeps. "Mr. Peeps, this is Luchresi. I believe we are long over due for a short chat, no? If it suits you meet me at the location where a young Christopher visited me tommorow. Bring only yourself and those you would call your equals, I can assure your safety."

The receiver clicked. The ball was in his opponents court now, they decided how this would go.