NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC: Before you join, please post your angle, information off-site at this post (http://theforsakenoutlaw.com/phpBB2/viewtopic.php?t=402). If you do not post here, your posts will not be considered valid and ignored. The reason this is required is because this thread will get very long and very confusing. Therefore, without a basic guide, nobody will know what is going on. It takes 5 seconds to do a post there so think in advance. Thank you.

The Emperor stepped out of the castle, onto the helicopter pad. The heat over Layarteb City was unbearable. With temperatures expected to peak at 100°F for the day, giving a heat index of 105.5°F. That was hot, perhaps too hot. He was happy that there was air conditioning inside of his personal transport, an VH-97C Sea Serpent helicopter, which could seat 16 VIPs very comfortably along with 4 crew members, which were two pilots and two gunners. The guns were usually retracted into the helicopter, able to be quick deployed and moved to the window for firing externally. The helicopter looked unarmed but a pair of M35 Light Machine Guns would make quick work of any enemy who threatened it.

http://www.theforsakenoutlaw.com/Graphics/Nation-States/Role-Playing/War%20Against%20Drugs/vh97c.gif

The VH-97C sat comfortably on the pad, which was sturdy enough to hold a Bulldog V/STOVL transport unit, which was usually sitting on the pad. However, the Sea Serpent would work perfectly for the need. The Emperor was going to the airport for a flight down to Havana to attend a drug summit with other leaders of the Empire. The recent rash of drug-related crimes in the new Province of Raef and in South Eastern Virginia had raised concern. For too long, drugs had been suppressed and their crimes had been minimal. With the ever-changing scope of the world, things were changing and even drug crimes within the Empire weren't able to be fully suppressed for long.

Drug dealing, making, selling, using, all of those carried heavy penalties. The laws were strict, very strict. Anyone caught under the influence of a drug, committing a crime, was charged with one degree higher than what they would be if they were not under the influence. Dealers were sentenced to a minimum of twenty-five years for marijuana and as much as life for harder drugs like cocaine and heroin. Drug makers were often executed or sentenced to life. Most drug users walked away with strict penalties of five years for a simple joint of marijuana to as much as life for a kilo of cocaine. It all depended on the circumstances.

http://www.theforsakenoutlaw.com/Graphics/Nation-States/Role-Playing/War%20Against%20Drugs/vh97c-02.jpg

The helicopter lifted off as he strapped himself in. The temperature was high, the humidity was surprisingly low. The VH-97C Sea Serpent was cold inside and the Emperor enjoyed it. The heat outside was unbearable, especially in a suit. The Sea Serpent passed over New York Harbor and headed towards Layarteb City International Airport, located on the southern coast of Long Island, in Queens. The air at 5,000 feet was colder than it was on the ground, bearable, but still not comfortable. Down below, citizens scurried about, running to and fro, working, shopping, living. Few of them had any idea what was going on in the seeded underbelly of the drug cartels throughout the Empire. Three had popped up since the last war, the longest war fought by the Empire, a war that began with the Republic and ended by the Empire. There was the Esmeralda Cartel, based out of southern Venezuela, the Muertes Cartel, based out of Hispanola, and there was the San Cartel, based out of El Salvador. Those were just three cartels, three of possibly hundreds worldwide.

The drug trade was highly profitable. People became addicted fast, especially the weak minded. The Emperor loathed this and the strict laws put into effect to stop the drug trade within the Empire had done their job, until now. With new territories, new conquerings, new people, new cultures, the rules had stayed the same but the history had not. Cultures reliant on drugs for revenue and for medicine were now without. If only they knew...

http://www.theforsakenoutlaw.com/Graphics/Nation-States/Role-Playing/War%20Against%20Drugs/vc26f-01.jpg

The Emperor's helicopter landed smoothly and he stepped out, back into the balmy heat, now mixed with the exhaust from the hundreds of aircraft taking off each and every few minutes from the busiest airport in the Empire, perhaps the world. Aircraft took off for flights across the Atlantic, across to the Pacific, to the Caribbean, to the north, to the south, to the east, and to the west. Aircraft were lined up on the runway and waiting just to get off the ground, each one roaring into the air like a giant beast. The mechanics, technology, and sheer mass of the situation at the airport was nothing to understate. The Empire was the Empire and this airport was a symbol of that, a symbol of the 1.25 billion people that occupied almost 5 million square miles of territory.

When the Emperor climbed aboad the VC-26F Condor, a modified Airbus A380, the ground shook. Its engines roared up, all four of them. Together, they produced 306,000 pounds of thrust and the 1.235 million pound aircraft could fly as fast as 595 miles per hour, at altitude. It was a beast amongst beasts, the king of the jetliners. As its engined roared up, doors closed, stairwells retracted, its crew and the Emperor all got seated for take off. The aircraft began to taxi and moved towards the runway. Callsign "Imperial One," the aircraft was given priority clearance for take off, after all, this was the Emperor. The beast parked at the edge of the runway and the pilots piloted down, waiting for an aircraft to take off and another to land. Priority was given but they couldn't hold off a plane on final, that could be disasterous.

"Imperial One. Tower control. Cleared for take off, runway 13L. Departure heading 2-0-0. Good luck sir."

The airplanes' engines roared up, all four of them and the aircraft slowly nudged forward. The roar was tremendous, deafening anyone on the tarmac. Inside, the noise was much quieter but still loud. As the power increased and the aircraft picked up speed, the roar became louder than thunder. The pilots pushed the throttles to maximum and the heaviest airliner on Earth roared down the runway, at 100 knots. It picked up more and more speed with each foot. At 160 knots, the pilots rotated and lifted the nose wheel off the ground. They kept increasing speed, faster and faster and faster. Runway 13R/L was 14,572 feet long and the aircraft would use up 13,280 feet making its way to 195 knots, takeoff speed. At that distance and that speed, the pilots pulled back just slightly and with the flaps down, the lift was enough to push the VC-26F into the air. Like a giant, a beast, and a god, the Condor rose up into the sky and increased its speed with every step. The force was so great that the ground still shook underneath it. The pilots soon retracted the gear and banked to the starboard, to a heading of 200°. Soon, the tower called back, "Climb to 35,000 feet, resume own navigation." The aircraft was on its way...

http://www.theforsakenoutlaw.com/Graphics/Nation-States/Role-Playing/War%20Against%20Drugs/vc26f-02.jpg

Vladiviostock Harbor, Imperial-controlled Siberia

An hour ago word came in from up the chain (courtesy of the Inquisition) that a large shipment of narcotics was inbound into the harbor. The orders were quite detailed; specifying the name of the ship, type, crew complement, nationality, suspected cargo. And what weapons were likely in use by the crew.

The drug trade in Doomanum was never that much of a problem, but it existed none the less. Courtesy of foreign organizations such as the Yakuza, shipments did occasionaly make it through and onto the streets.

These intoxicants were quite attractive to the poor, homeless, and desperate. It was also part of the reason that they were just that: Poor, homeless, and desperate. They had every reason not to use drugs such as Opium and Speed that the Yakuza smuggled in: the penalties for drug use were among the most cruel in the world. A man could be fed to the lions in the arena for getting high.

As a result, drug use was generally quite low, but not nonexistant. That was why such organizations as the Imperial Guard existed.

Gaius Cassius had, after his required time with the Guard ended when he was twenty years old, decided to stick with the organization, eventually rising to the rank of Centurion in the Excubitor Urbanus, the Urban Guard. These were the elite of the Imperial Guard, the best equipped and trained. He himself was the commander of a small boarding team attached to the Excubitor Aquarius, which was the Imperium's equivelent of the Coast Guard. The Excubitor Aquarius was actualy part of the Imperial Guard, and so such attachments were quite normal.

He had command of seven Guardsmen trained specifically for boarding operations. They were equipped for this duty as well, packing DAC-97 sub machineguns along with their sidearms.

The standard uniform of the Excubitor Urbanus were urban-pattern digital fatigues, and his team was no exception. Their body armor was army-issue, so it was more than capable of stopping whatever the smugglers carried.

Currently his team was on the aft deck of a Lupus-class patrol boat. Well, gunboat would have been a more accurate term with the firepower it packed. Eight 7.8mm miniguns along with a turreted twin 15.7mm gattling gun mount, not to mention a tripple-barreled eight inch mortar on the aft deck. They could blow the smugglers right out of the water if they wanted to play games.

Luckily, the suspects decided to play it cool.

The target craft was a rather sizable commercial yacht, owned by some wealthy Japanese individual. The Imperial Guard were not known to hassle the wealthy, and so the occupants were quite surprised to see the patrol boat pulling up next to them, four miniguns, two heavy machineguns, and a whole lot of rifles trained on them.

The crew of the Nefarius, the patrol craft in question, was on deck with their DR-78K-II carbines trained on the crew on deck, who had their hands up. Orders were shouted to those on board and the Nefarius tied up to the suspect vessel.

Cassius did not like the look of this one bit. The crew of the vessel seemed more arrogant than afraid. The innocent, in an instance like this, tended to be afraid. He was the first man aboard. His face was covered with a black balaclava and he had tinted goggles on in addition to his helmet, same as the rest of the team. These were not ordinary Guardsmen.

Cassius directed his men to force the crew on deck to the ground and bind their hands while he and two others forced open a door and entered the bridge, immediately training their DAC-97s on the helmsman and captain. The lasers mounted to their SMGs' rail systems were switched on and a red dot danced about the face of each of the crewmen on the bridge.

They were held at gunpoint until four more Guardsmen entered from outside and arrested them.

The Nefarius' crew, meanwhile, had sent a boarding party of its own to the deck of the vessel and began extracting the prisoners and taking them back to their ship to be imprisoned below deck.

Meanwhile, Cassius and his fireteam proceeded downwards from the bridge into the main cabin. Immediately all hell broke loose. A grenade landed at the feet of his men, and immediately they dove for cover as a deafening explosion errupted. The sound of gunfire cut through the once quiet yet tense are, and soon chunks of plaster and sparks shot from the walls as bullets impacted them, inches above Cassius' head.

He immediately shouldered his weapon and found his target, a masked gunman weilding an M-16. Cassius squeezed the trigger immediately after he got a bead on the bad guy and felt the weapon recoil against his shoulder. He saw the rounds he had fired impact the head of his target and the jet of blood and grey matter caused by the rounds hitting. Angry shouting could be heard from above. It was his own men, they were not pleased with their new captives at all, and had begun to beat them while sending reinforcements downstairs.

Something was definately not right.

Cassius cautiously approached his kill and looked down at him. His burst had been quite accurate: rounds had impacted the neck and face of the target, blowing away half his head. Quite a mess.

"Sir! You'd better take a look at this!" one of his men shouted from behind him.

Cassius turned. The Guardsman was pointing towards the hole the grenade had blown in the vessel.

"Damn," was the reply from Cassius.

The hole revealed a secret comparment containing several fully stocked crates of Speed, a favored export of the Yakuza.

The bust was a bountiful one, turning up a few hundred kilos of speed and eight prisoners. It was the largest bust ever on Vladiviostock Harbor, and it definately turned some government heads...

He was going to hell anyway, so he'd figure that he'd get rich going there.

Vicenzo Sparetti was a low-level person, grown the outskirts of Rome. His family returned to Sardinia after five years, and from there, he learned the trades of the local Cosa Nostra. He climbed the tables high enough to get some good words from Sicily, where the fathers invited him to their house. Since then, he's been a good middle man, dealing effectively and seamlessly. He's careful never to mix his business with family and politics, so the trail never comes full circle to him. His strategy was quite astounding, and it managed to baffle the local authorities in Europe and beyond - how he obviously ran some business and never got connected to it.

It was his secret, and a secret few knew.


His official business was as a head of a successful vineyard in Tuscany. He controlled his vast empire of drugs through a loose association of corporate offices around the world, although the drugs never entered his explicit possession. He was careful never to leave any trails, especially since most of them would end up back to Messina, and it wouldn't bode well for him or his superiors. Besides, he was part of the family, and business couldn't mix well with it.

He looked around the docks of Monaco, now a new state. As it seemed always, new states had problems policing areas that they had never policed before. They would shuffle through items senselessly uncertain of what to find and what should be found. It would be easy work getting past them, unlike the iron fences around other Empires, especially in Sicily, where the local Doomani and Roman officials were always ready to pounce on him at a moment's notice. No, he couldn't afford to bring drugs into Italy at all - at least not through Tuscany.

The new plan was to round the coke into Italy from France, through the weak portal in Saint Lazare. If they made any breakthroughs, it would certainly lead to bigger business in Italy, and most certainly appease the Capi. Again, the Lazare dock guards had no experience in dealing with drugs, let alone the care of ships. Unlike them, his team had experience and managed to smuggle 10 kilos of coke.

10 kilos - you might ask why so little? Well, it's part of strategy - never sell too much, always too little. He passed the harbormaster - arriving on a luxury yacht about ten piers down from where his primary spot was unloading. Behind him was a faithful consort - Emilia Morelli. She was a native of Venezia and a beauty to his eyes. They were vacationing in Saint Lazare, as he made his way around to pay the fees for docking. He quickly kissed Emilia before heading to a private limo.

"Don Sparetti, we have a call for you."

He looked over to the man and nodded back to Emilia - it should only be a little while. He turned to his associate and answered:

"Si?"

"We've got a government freak trailing us. We don't have a positive ID, but one of our guys saw the chap with a PPK, and very few crooks carry those around - at least the kind that give us trouble. What should we do about him?"

"Leave him alone," Sparetti answered. "I'm with Dona, so I don't want any excitement. Besides, I'm on leave anyway. Use common sense and don't get caught. Otherwise, you'll have me to answer."

"Of course. But shouldn't we take him out?"

"If you do it, do it quietly. And don't bring that blood on my hands, because I'll do something worse. In fact, don't even touch him. If it becomes desperate, just dump the stuff somewhere and let him ravage for the scrap pieces. If he's that interested, knock him out. Otherwise don't touch him."

"Si, mio capi."

Sparetti was sick and tired of calls like that interrupting his good family time. It spoiled his attitude too quickly. But he faked a smile and returned to Emilia. They continued on their way to the hotel while the company continued their business.

OOC: Good posts guys. I like this so far.

OOC: I'm going to rp my nation for EOL and my Neon Sun against. And rp the cartels. So much in so little time.. Well my intro.

Pitcairn Harbor

9:32am in the port control briefing room.

Coast guard chopper crews as well as swift boat crews sat in metal chairs waiting for the briefing to begin. Captain Stephen Fernadez walked into the briefing room to brief the crews on a raid that will take place later in the day. As he entered the room one of the coast guardsmen rose to attention. "At ease. Good morninn gentlemen. Today’s briefing is on a raid that your units will be carrying out today. CTA intelligence has indicated that a shipment of illegal substances will be entering the harbor today on a transport ship carrying Metals from the Antarctic territories. We’ve been ordered to intercept this shipment before it has a chance to unload its cargo onto the peers. Everyone understand?" Nods proceeded through the audience of coast guardsmen. "Very well, man your stations." The crews pulled back there chair and proceeded out of the room to there station.

11:23am

The transport ship SS-Elusion pulled into the harbor. The ships crew began to slow her to 10 knots to prepare her to dock.

http://www.uic.com.au/graphics/ship.gif

Once the ship passed the locks a coast guard 378-foot High Endurance Cutter pulled up behind it matching its speed. Captain Stephen Fernandez came over the loud speakers. "Elusion, this is the Dweladelfian Coast guard. Heave to and prepare to be boarded, I repeat Heave to and prepare to be boarded." The crew of the elusion new they were caught. In a last minute panic they began to try to turn around and head out of the port. The transport ship made a huge turn to the starboard side. The Coast guard cutter and the Elusion were now face to face. Captain Fernandez came over the load speakers again. "Elusion, Heave to and prepare to be boarded. If you do not stop immediately we will open fire!" The Elusions crew did not comply with the captains orders. They continued to barrel on towards the cutter and the lock. Seeing that the transport ship was not going to stop the captain ordered the gunners to open fire. The Cutters MK 45 MOD 1 5"/54 caliber Gun Mount (lightweight gun)began to explode with activity. Firing 2 rounds into the bow of the oncoming transport. The ship came to a full stop. The Elusion began to take on water. 5 Rigid Hull Inflatable Boats were deployed to rescue the crew on the elusion. Boarding crews boarded the elusion. They began to make there way to the bridge and engine room. The teams were armed with MP5 SMGs. Team 1A reached the bridge. Team leader radioed back to the captain. "Sir. There’s something you might want to see here." Captain Fernandez boarded a RHIB and rushed to the sinking transportship. When he arrived he was horrified to find the dead bodies of all 25 crewmen. They all committed suicide. The captain ordered the teams to continue to searching the ship for what the ship may have been carrying. The crew unearthed 100 kegs of Crystal Meth. The captained later reported that the crew must have committed suicide because they had something to hide....

OOC: Hope you like it

Fear is your only God

Somewhere in Madagascar

Cigar smoke. Cigar smoke and whiskey wait no, something else…maybe…no no bourbon. Hm, sweet bourbon how I could go for some. It’s such an easy give away, cigar smoke and bourbon they may as well have just hung themselves and saved me time and money. It’s like their trademark or secret handshake, all corrupt evil fate white men smoke and drink…and play poker. Wouldn’t that be great, if they were all gathered around a large table, their glasses of bourbon at their side, their cigars glowing neatly between their fingers. They would laugh their big disgusting laugh more a howl than anything and all the while they’d be swinging their cup around splashing their precious bourbon. The conversation itself would be entirely pointless just pitiless boasting of their evil doings, sickening. I can almost taste the sweat from here.

Static from the voice link sent a jolt down his spine snapping him out of his trance. He blinked hard as if he had just waken up. He noticed a bead of sweat drip quickly down the center of his face, to the tip of his nose, and than off splashing gently against his Remington M-40 modified sniper rifle, custom made of course. “Addict Black Addict Black you ready?” came a young voice on the other end of the link.

The sniper replied, “Nothing fancy eh kid? I want it done.” The voice was raspy hardened yet strong.

Through his thermal mounted scope he picked up two targets via body heat through a seemingly solid wall. Granted there was a window but with the blinds down and the lights dim no figures could be seen to the naked eye. They were both sitting, counting money. This money wasn’t clean however in fact not only was it not clean but it was stolen and nothing good can come from stolen dirty money now can it?

“Hey…hey Sandro, damnit man, stop counting for a god damn second!”

“For the love of god you stupid little dego what, what could you possibly want?”

“Listen…do you hear that?” His voice was beginning to get shaky.

“Hear what, no…it’s quiet?” The reply was nothing to comforting the larger man now becoming slightly aware at what his skinny Italian friend was getting at.

“It hasn’t been quiet all night; the poker game can’t be finished can it?” Nothing more could be spoken. The larger man got up and walked for the door which was directly in front of the window which provided false protection. He walked up good and close to the door pulling a 9MM from his pocket while putting his ear against the door. With a gross look on his face he squinted and looked at his feet. A small pool of blood had found its way underneath the door and engulfed his boot. He turned to look at his partner whose gun was already drawn squaring his body to the window. As he did this a bullet left the barrel of the M-40 sliced through the window with such a velocity that it left only a small hole not even shattering it, and punctured his skull just above the meeting place of his eyes pinning his head against the door for a split second. He slumped to the ground against the door leaving a large trail of blood behind him. Instantly the other man fell to the ground cowering gun in hand praying to god. He was shaking uncontrollably unable to even aim his pistol. A second shot left the barrel, traveled through the same hole made previously and knocked off the lock keeping the door shut. The door swung open revealing to the man a slight glimpse of hell as he could spot two men with multiple 45. marks embedded into their cranium; blood covering the entire floor as if flooding the room.

As if nothing had happened a young man walked into the room, his face covered by a sinister black ski mask. In each hand were Colt M-1911’s smoking from the barrels. He calmly walked over to the man who was weeping and praying and pleading for life. The masked men put both barrels to the man’s forehead. “Fear is your only God my friend” Two splashes were all that were heard as the casings hit the blood soaked ground.

“Addict Black package acquired”

Ipiranga, the Brazil/ Columbian border...

Security presence in the town was low, several regiments normally assigned to that sector had been moved South, leaving only 800 troops to defend the town and the area around it. In a small farmhouse several miles to the north, 13 of the troops were on a routine patrol, picking their way through the countryside, in the humid weather - longing for another shower similar to that that had occured earlier in the afternoon. At about eleven, the squad reached the farmhouse...

Sergeant Ortega lead the squad, whilst corporals Juarez and Diego each lead teams of 5 troops. Juarez's squad kept guard, while the others rested. Drugs were commonplace in this forgotten corner of the empire, and tonight would be no exception.

"I'm outta water" one of the privates complained.

"Go to the house, get some more" Ortega motioned in the direction of the building. Inside a child was crying, whilst out in the courtyard, one of Juarez's squad members patrolled halfheartedly - smoking a cigarette and slowly kicking a ball that had been left outside around. The private approached, and opened the door, on the other side, a shifty looking character opened - clearly very nervous at the prospect of troops outside.

"Can I get some more water round here?" The private asked. The man nodded and shuffled off, as he did so, the private took a few steps through the door, and looked through the living area. "Hot weather today, eh?" he called to the man. No reply. The private advanced further, there on the floor, a man - the farmer - was dead. A burst of automatic fire rang out, hitting the private in the face - killing him instantly, in the courtyard, a second burst rang out from another point - at greater range - injuring the troop who had been moping around. He lay on the floor groaning, blood spilling across the courtyard.

More troops approached, but the mystery shooter blew his game by firing another burst at hopeless range. Giving away his position, and cuasing no harm to any of the troops. From the upper floor, more fire came - which was quickly seen to by a rifle grenade. The stranger who answered the door made a clumsy break for it through the courtyard, but was mown down only 5 steps from the door. The third shooter was all that remained - hidden behind the log pile on the far side of the yard. Diego and two troops kept his head down, whilst one of Juarez's troops moved round the back of the house, M2000 (FN-2000) at the ready. He rounded the final corner and emptied off three rounds into the back of the shooter's head at point blank range, spraying blood over the wood pile.

The troops bayonetted the dead men once more to make sure, before taking the injured soldier to shelter, and calling for an evacuation by helicopter and moving into the house. As the two UH-60N helicopters lifted off in Ipiranga, the troops made a startling discovery in the house. Bags of Cocaine ready for shipment littered the kitchen, probably to be taken down the Amazon to one of the ports, shipped out of Fortaleza, and then on to either Africa, Layarteb or the Roman Republic.

"What's this worth?" Juarez enquired, gripping nervously at the handle of his rifle.

"This must be worth $4 million at least" A private replied, opening a cupboard to reveal even more drugs.

"This is odd" Ortega said, crouching by the cupboard, "Why leave drugs sitting around the home? These aren't the kind of people who can afford to simply leave several million dollars worth of Cocaine around the place."

"Must be a pretty big operation." Juarez replied, taking a look at the badly mutilated dead man's body.

"No shit..." Diego butted in

"I've had just enough of you and your wise cracks Diego you little..." Juarez tensed up

"Can it!" Ortega yelled, "we get outta here, and report this to regional HQ, Two new squads are coming with the helicopters to guard this place." Outside, the two helicopters drew close. The squad were airlifted back to HQ at Ipiranga, whilst 30 troops stood guard back at the house...

WARNING: THIS RP CONTAINS GRAPHIC VIOLENCE.




Somewhere in Banjul, Gambia

It was sunny outside, another clear blue skyed African day. The beaches on the Banjul coastline were packed with people, overlooked by giant white and pink and yellow apartment buildings. The skyscrapers of the city could be seen behind them, glinting in the heat. Another perfect African day.

There was one place in the city, however, whose inhabitants never knew what time of day it was. Above ground the building was the Banjul Drug Enforcement Agency office, but below ground it was something else entirely.

Below ground was a dingy jail cell, deliberately kept devoid of any real light, except a few low power light-bulbs. In one concrete room, a single lightbulb hung down from the roof, directly above a stainless steel chair, bolted to the ground. Right now there was a man sitting in the chair, a green bandana round his neck, and wearing some cheap clothes, mottled with sweat and blood. He breathed heavily through is nose, dried blood coming down from his nostrils into his small moustache.

There were two other people in the room, one behind the man, the other in front, both invisible due to the lack of light. A deep, disturbing voice rumbled out in the darkness, "You have lied to us David, the house was empty, in fact a local businessman lived there- a man who's family you had terrorized. Thats how you knew the address. Well, David, did we not tell you what would happen if you misled us?" At this David jerked in his seat. He was chained to the chair itself, and the chains clanked as he jerked around, breathing more and more heavily through blood-filled nostrils.

Behind David something moved, and the room was filled with the whine and loud hum of a drill, constant and unnerving in the darkness. David let a muffled scream, that turned into a groan of sorts. The drill suddenly snapped off, and the voice returned- "Now, David, have you anything to tell me before we force the information from you?" David looked wild eyed into the darkness and said in a young and scared voice, "...they'll kill me...I can tell no one. They'll kill me...you have no idea."

The voice in front of David laughed slightly, "They'll kill you will they? Well David, you were caught in a house with 200,000 Credit Notes worth of Marijuana, with traces of Poppy flowers in the house itself. Your looking at a firing squad unless you co-operate. I only want a name and where the next shipment is leaving from. You give me that and I can help you." David was silent.

The drill started up again in the darkness, and then a small, wiry figure appeared holding a large black drill, with its bit going at a massive rate of rpm's- David could just about make it out in the dim light. His eyes were wild, his breathing eratic. The wiry figure wore a huge plastic face protector and a surgical mask- only his un-emotional eyes were visible. The wiry man set the drill down and tightened David's chain's so he couldn't move at all. The masked figure picked up the drill again, checked it, and then knelt down, bringing the drill up to David's knee.

As soon as the bit hit the few centimetres of supple flesh over the knee, it began to grind into the knee-cap beneath. David let a sort of inhuman, animal like scream, jerking his head wildly and trying to tear out of the chains as the drill bit into the knee cap, forcing a strange kind of pressure on the joint. As the drill kept going David lost control of his faculties and urinated himself, he didn't even realise over the crunching of the drill and how own screaming. And then he shouted, his voice rasping over the noise of the drill- "Its a guy called Noboko, Dock 17, Dakar..." As he tailed off the drill shut down and it simply popped out of the ragged hole, followed by a stream of blood and some bone fragments.

Don Silvestro Maggiano was a burly man, aged some 60 years of life. He lived much of that time in Messina, under the Doomani yoke that seemed sometimes oppressive to the native Italians. Of course, he could really complain too much – particularly since he flouted the law long enough sometimes, just enough to maintain a sane attitude on life. For a time, he lived in Venice, learning the refined world through his mother, who didn’t want Silvestro to engage in anything serious and criminal. But family called him back home, when his father died to a heart attack [he still maintains that he was poisoned, but has yet to find the perpetrator]. Nonetheless, since then, he has ruled the family and somewhat estranged his relations to his mother, still living in Venice.

Today was no occasion to celebrate. Word from around the world in Layarteb suggested that the family’s business might just come under pressure a little, especially with the increase in pressures by the Empire to stamp out any effective drug trade. Cokes from Latin America were already expensive to come by, so profits were harder to maintain in that aspect. There was also the beloved tirade of assassinations, but Maggiano was getting too old for that sort of business – the sort that gets people killed.

He gathered all of the Dons that he could afford to gather at his court, some miles away from the downtown center. Doomani spies were likely to be everywhere and anywhere, so he decided family matters must come home sometime.

There were numerous old folk in the gathering: Don Marco Giovannini from Liguria, Don Pietro Piscitelli from Lombardia, Don Giorgio Morano from Napoli, Don Raphael di Cino from Taranto, and even Capo Re Don Giovanni Corelli from Siracusa. There were some new faces there as well: Don Giuseppe Tottini from Cagliari, Don Orfeo Benedetti from Taranto, Don Niccolo Caesarini from Roma, and most notably Don Matteo Raguso from Romagna. They had all come to speak about this new development from over the sea, and it nearly troubled them all. Both Rome and Doomingsland were renowned for their harsh – if not inhuman – persecution of drug lords, and more importantly of the Family. If the Empire in America was going to conscript these two powers, Family business would certainly take a deep dive for the worse.

“So, we have the Emperor of Layarteb going to Havana, probably to make deals and stuff. You know – like we do,” Maggiano started, passing around the wine and cheese. Some chuckles rippled through the crowd. Maggiano smiled brightly, as he ventured over to his father’s bust. He wore a nice white vest, with a purple tie and a brown leather belt. To hide his fading eyes, he wore dark black sunglasses, with the reflective covers. In one hand, he gripped a white cane to support his frail legs. In the other, he held a half-burnt cigar, an old habit he inherited from his very father. It was Cuban – ironically. “More than likely, this Emperor will discuss drugs and its trade. They’ve had no problems until some idiots decided to stir the market and make good profits for themselves. Now that same Emperor has some panic, that this problem is going a little too far, even for his state.

“That means problems for us, since we do deals in South America, si? So you know, there’s going to be a war, and we have to decide whether or not it’s something that we want to fight. You know? All of the Capi before me said coke was our biggest profit; but ever since we’ve diversified our market, we’ve had more share in low-level deals. Drugs are almost second-nature to our market – we wouldn’t die if we quit it.”

“Mio Capo,” Caesarini then said, standing up and interrupting the Don in mid-speech. All of the older men turned their eyes to this youngster, with the nerves to disrupt an older – and superior – man. Caesarini didn’t seem deterred by the attention, as Maggiano politely turned and faced his, puffing out a long breath. “Italy is our turf; we own its streets. This Empire can’t do anything to us without willing wanting blood.”

Maggiano nodded. “Of course, the same could about us in their turf. But that’s why we are having this discussion, to see what we should and where we should go next, if there is a next.”

“Italy is our turf, Don Supremo. It is our home, and I don’t that stupid Empire over in America really understands the connection.”

Maggiano puffed another long smoke. “You do know that we’re criminals.”

“Si…”

“But we’re the good guys. I don’t shit like that from young folk like you. The Empire of Layarteb is a renowned institution – lots of papas moved from here to there and made that country strong. We don’t make insults so easily and so calmly, because a word can start a war. You need to relax that tongue, or you’ll find trouble from more than just that stupid Empire.”

Caesarini nodded and sat back down. Maggiano suddenly slapped his white cane on the table. “I’m not done talking to you. Stand up!”

Reluctantly, Caesarini rose to his feet as Maggiano slowly edged his way over to his chair. He passed off his cigar to a waiting servant and stood paces away in front of him. “I take respect from all of you – especially you youngsters. Family is too important, and it doesn’t make much of a good family if your youngsters start to rebel. If you’ve got to speak, wait your turn.” With that, he extended his free hand, revealing the crown jewels of the Maggiano family – a ruby, a topaz, and an emerald. Caesarini kneeled down and kissed each of the jewels. Standing up, Maggiano held out his hands and embraced Caesarini – an official pardon.

After that, they went their ways – Caesarini to his seat and Maggiano to the front of the room again. He retrieved his cigar and inhaled a good dose of the smoke. The pleasure from the fumes struck a unique sense of euphoria, something that he didn’t want to lose, so he decided to let things off for the moment. “I’m a little hot now. We’ll finish this later.”

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The mighty beast turned inbound as it neared Havana. It was already in its descent, miles and miles and miles away from the runway, still high up, moving quickly. The VC-26F Condor tilted as it turned towards the airport, banking to its starboard as it dropped its wheels, coming inline with the runway. Inside, the Emperor, his security staff, his cabinet, and anyone else going along were all seated comfortably as the aircraft slowed down to approach speed. Landing such a heavy bird was tricky and they had been in the air for almost four hours now, a long time but not nearly that long when the entire scope of the Empire was put into view.

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As the Condor turned to final, lined up with the runway, the roar of the engines decreased, the gear was down, and the flaps were down. The aircraft was maintaining a slow speed but still had enough lift to avoid from stalling. Power was plentiful and the aircraft would coast down to the runway. Both the pilot and the co-pilot were monitoring the descent rates as the other seven crew members tucked themselves into seats throughout the cabins, comfortably. Laptops were powered down and communications were temporarily off, just to make sure that the aircraft could land without distortion.

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As the lofty bird came over the runway, descending lower and lower, the entire airport stood and watched with awe. This aircraft was massive, so massive that had it not had so many wheels, it would have sunk into the asphalt of the runway. "Here we go." The pilot said as they crossed over the edge of the runway, just lingering in the air, not even fifty feet above the pavement. The plane was a beast and was controlled as such.

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The aircraft hung in the air for a few moments as the landing gear inched towards the asphalt. Each step closer to the ground that the Condor drew, the more and more it wanted to slam into it. Finally, the rear wheels made contact, all 20 of them. The 2 nose wheels didn't touch the ground until last but with a thump, the rear wheels made a perfect impact on the ground, not too hard nor too soft, just enough that they wouldn't shatter or cause the aircraft to lurch back upwards. "We're down." The pilot said as they immediately engaged the reverse thrusters, air brakes, full flaps, and wheel brakes. They had to slow the beast of an aircraft down within 13,123 feet. They had enough room and they would stop well before the end of it but it would be one hell of a run.

Soon enough, the aircraft taxied towards the hangars. There was a special hangar reserved for the Emperor and his Condor, which was currently being guarded by no fewer than 40 soldiers, all armed with assault rifles, locked, loaded, and the safeties were off. These were extremely trained, disciplined soldiers who were all capable of putting each of those thirty rounds within the Bulls-eye at 500 yards, with nothing but iron sights.

When the aircraft came to a halt inside the hangar, the stairwell was moved into place. Cameramen were sitting, ready to take each and every picture as the Emperor stepped down each and every step. He smiled and waved as he traversed the steps, his security staff no more than a few feet away, ready with their concealed pistols and submachine guns. The Emperor kept his .45ACP pistol tucked tightly inside his jacket, never letting it reveal itself. He waved until he got to the bottom of the steps and then walked over to the roped off area, where reporters stayed quiet, albeit eager to ask the next question. "Mr. Emperor sir. Could I have a question?"

"David. Sure, go ahead." He smiled more.

"Sir, what do you expect to gain from this conference today?"

"Well, good question David. Today I'm meeting with leaders of the Empire, as you are all aware, I hope." He smiled again. "The latest figures have shown that the number of drug-related crimes is on a rise. This is appalling. We have stamped out drugs in the past but it seems that they are on the rise again. This is to be expected, I blame myself. I was living in a veil of hope that they would not return but, to quote Machiavelli, 'Whoever desires to found a state and give it laws, must start with assuming that all men are bad and ever ready to display their vicious nature, whenever they may find occasion for it.' I cannot agree furthermore. Secondly, there are nations throughout the world that are directly affecting our own drug problems. The more nations that exist, the harder it is to control each and every cartel. The more cartels that exist, the harder it is to keep tabs on them all. This is what is happening. Weak countries, too concerned about corruption or survival are paying less and less attention to the domestic drug problems, which have, now, spilled over onto our own domestic backyard.

"Therefore, today, I hope to set a full and complete agenda and policy on the control of this ever-growing problem. It will be stopped before it becomes an epidemic. After today I will meet with world leaders to discuss this problem ever so significantly. Thank you. Are there any other questions?" Everyone's hand shot up. "Yes Jackie?"

"Emperor sir. Has the situation in Grenada affected the drug trade at all?"

"It is a distinct possibility. After the insurrection on Grenada and our decision to let them fail upon themselves the island of Grenada has undergone some significant changes, none of which are going to last, mind you. We will be investigating this fully. That is all folks, I have a conference to attend and I wouldn't want to be late. Good day." The slight press conference would be aired on the Layarteb News Network for the rest of the day. He arrived at the conference only minutes later and met with the plethora of leaders. He would emerge again eight and a half hours later, getting back onto his aircraft, and heading back to Layarteb City.

Dakar, Dock 17, Civilian Docklands, Senegal

The sun had set in the sky some hours ago, leaving the odd pink trace here and there. The traces were visible further out to sea, as were the last vestiges of light, probably descending out on Cape Verde now. Dakar, the huge metropolis, was still wide awake, but many had gone to bed, ready for another work day. However, there were some people just starting their nights work...

The DEA's Tactical Narcotics Team (TNT) were spread out around Dock 17, and snipers were sitting on Dock Cranes on Dock's 16 and 18, in overwatch positions, their green NV scopes picking out all the detail they needed.

Dock 17 itself was a carbon copy of all the other Civilian docks at the port, one big Crane on rollers, a few warehouses and plenty of space for cargo. The whole place was still and quiet in the cool night air, only the sound of ships and water moving in the breeze, the odd flag fluttering, its cables clanging rythmically off the pole. There was a single ship sitting on one of the sides of Dock 17, it said Roving Queen on the front-side and it was just a typical cargo liner, exactly the same as every other boat that came to and fro every hour of every day. The DEA Agents from Banjul had suspected that their informant had fed them lies, but their suspicions had been confirmed as the snipers, early on, caught sight of armed men moving about the main castle of the ship. The strike itself was hastily planned, the ship was leaving in the morning.

At 1am exactly the four snipers in overwatch locked onto targets on the bridge and fired, the only sound was the tinker of glass, the silenced weapons doing the perfect job. Then the TNT burst forth from their hiding positions and were up the gangway in a minute, squads splitting off, one going across the ship, the other heading down to the bottom, and one more team heading off to the bridge.

A couple of minutes later there was the chatter of automatic weapons coming from the ship, pierces of light in the night-time darkness. But the ships crew had been taken by complete surprise, and they were utterly helpless. On the Bridge they found manifests of where the ship was going, and they found a man who claimed his name was Noboko hiding under a console, the bodies of his men lying around him. Each man and dead man on the ship wore the same sort of green bandana, either around their head or neck-the same one the informant was wearing.

Below decks the sleeping day crew were stumbling out of their beds and into the muzzles of weapons carried by ski-masked black clad men running about and shouting at them. Some struggled and were shot on the spot, others cowered and were flex-cuffed, dragged by their hair up the steps and out onto the deck to be accounted for.

The containers in the hold were promptly opened up and packets of food, cans and loose vegetables fell out. But it didn't faze the DEA Agents, that trick had been used in the past and it always proved useless. Behind the food debris there was the prize, twenty huge containers, some filled with bags of Opium that would make Heroin, others filled with Marijuana. The Manifests had the ship going to the Roman Republic in South America, and then the ship was scheduled to make a stop in Cuba before returning to Senegal. It seemed the drug trade was alive and well.

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Caesarini returned to Rome later and tried to drown his anxieties with a draught of Polish vodka. The hot days were too much to bear, so he took off his black overcoat and unfixed his golden tie. He walked into his private chambers, kicking off his shoes into a neat corner as he sat down on the bed with a table nearby on which to settle his glass. He undid the top button of his collar and opened all of the windows.

Damned antiquity – no air-conditioning and I’ve got millions the bank! he thought.

His old mansion was indeed old – it lacked the vivacity to support his youthful vigor, just as much as the old Capi were too bland to satisfy his pleasures. The old gentlemen were too easily swayed by rumors – yes, rumors of the Layarteb Emperor’s visit to Havana. The truth about it was that it was only a rumor; gangs from Layarteb City somehow linked the information and the gossip spread quickly. Of course, it didn’t hurt much to know that the Emperor did leave the city, but why would the Emperor go to Havana anyway? Obviously, the older folk were making excuses to clamp down on illicit trades and cut back into safe territory, especially after Don Pietro Bonavista died in a Doomani raid that surprisingly ended Cosa Nostra’s hegemony in Italy.

But unlike the old folk, Caesarini was looking to get back into Italy – after all, he hails from Rome and all good Italians know where home is. He wouldn’t accept making peace with Doomingsland or any power that stood in his way of making Italy his home. If need be, he’d make war – a foolhardy war at this point, but nonetheless, home was worth fighting over regardless of the circumstances.

Ever since his family died 12 years ago, he’s fought his way through life – earning his reputation as a “get-er-done” chap. For the longest time, he’s looked at the old Capi as a stumbling block into a massive potential for the family. Indeed, all of Italy was family, and their tacit compliance to the Doomani and Roman occupation of Italian lands was only neglecting the greater family of Italy. Their strongholds in Sicily and Sardinia were slowly slipping as stricter controls extended to these regions. Obviously, it would only be a matter of time before the family lost it all, and they would find themselves exiles from a land they all called home.

But Caesarini was a gambling man – he would be willing to gamble his life for this project. He would make Doomingsland suffer for their penances; they would rue the day they set foot in Italy. But what if he failed? Ah, he shook it off as meaningless doubt; he would succeed. If he didn’t, then he didn’t deserve to call himself Italian. Garibaldi did it with ragtags against the mighty Austrians centuries before – how could he fail with a sophisticated network and comparable military arms, smuggled from wherever and whenever?

At this point, Dona Maria-Annetta Gioiosi entered the room, as Caesarini drank his vodka. She was the matriarch of the clan, a towering figure of 6 feet and slim like a stick. Of course, she was very old as well, some 70 years of life. After her husband died and left the clan to Caesarini, she’s had a dominating influence over the family, almost to the extent where Niccolo acts as a puppet. But of course, she couldn’t let things fall that far. She wasn’t yet to live much longer anyways, so Niccolo needed some independence to get some courage to step up to things – and it didn’t hurt to have a little direction from time to time. She nearly always wore a purple robe with a white minx fur around her neck, but this morning, she donned a traditional blue and white hoop-dress. She wore a corset as well, although she didn’t need it for support in the first place; it was formality.

She approached Niccolo, fanned herself with a light silk fan.

“What vexes you so much?” she asked.

“Nothing at all.”

“Then why are you so… hot?”

“The Capi,” Caesarini replied. “They are too weak, and yet they call themselves Italians!”

“Old Giorgii complained about them too,” Maria said, leaning against Caesarini’s armoire. “They were too weak then, and they are too weak today. It does not surprise me. You know, with the way that things are going, the family will simply die out as one of those criminal gangs. There’s been word that there’s been some work in Siberia these days. Of course, it’s too cold there.”

“I wouldn’t a trip there right now,” Caesarini commented. “It’s blazing hot! And I can’t think while I’m angry, because I’m hot.”

“Don’t blame the weather. You know how Giorgii would talk about the dog days, and he’d complain about the Canini boys, how they’d bother his business and all that other shit. Complain was all he ever did – and now he’s dead, and perhaps he’s still complaining to Lucifer about Limbo. But at least I don’t get to listen to it – the Devil does that for me.”

“I need to get to work soon, mia madre. It’s going to be a long and slow trip, but I’ll get back Italy. It’s our turf; we belong there.”

Maria nodded. “I’ve wondered why he didn’t choose his brother, but every time I see you – I know why he chose you. You will win back Italy, and quite frankly, I don’t give a damn. You really be looking to win out the Capi and getting their sorry asses out of there. Then you can take back Italy from whoever still wants to share blood.”

“If I take back Italy, I won’t need the Capi,” Caesarini replied, gazing at Maria for the first time since she entered the room. She nodded again, and stopped waving her fan. “Well, you’ve got work to do. I’ve got my own business to take care of.” She left with some haste, and Niccolo quickly closed the windows to the chamber before setting on his work.

Inquisitional Headquarters, Capua, Campagnia

What Caesarini and many "native" Italian gravely misunderstood about their new government was that the Doomani were not a foreign power: They themselves were Italian. The same blood flowed through their veins, and it was obvious. They looked Italian. The one major difference, of course, was the language.

The Doomani were Romanized Italians: they spoke Latin. Of course, the Doomani themselves were not what you would call freethinkers. They were intolerant religious fanatics that were slowly filtering into Italy. Capua was exclusively a Doomani city: it had been rebuilt to its former glory under ancient Rome and was now the centerpiece of the might Imperium Doomanum.

However, true Doomani were not limited to living there alone. They were filtering in slowly all over the place, quietly replacing the Italian-speaking Italians. It was a blatant assymilation. And a brutally rapid one, at that.

Kicking the Doomani out of Italy would not be like kicking the Austrian invaders out of Italy. It would be more along the lines of bringing down Musilini's fascist government.

The Inquisition sought to hault any such plots in their tracks.

Grand Inquisitor Cassius Junius Flavius was among the Imperium's most trusted and loyal servants, a true man of God. One that had ordered thousands, if not millions to be tortured and killed at the hands of his brutal Inquisitors in the name of God Almighty. Any who would oppose the Will of the Imperium was a heretic and was to be punished as such. And punish he did.

Long did he find these...Mafiosi as a thorn in his side. At any given moment, he could have their homes surrounded by cohorts of Imperial Guard, their assets frozen, their family members dragged off never to be seen again. He could have the streets lined with stakes, and tied to them those who would oppose God's will. And there they would be used to illuminate, their souls encompassed in a purifying flame to prepare them for the Hell that surely awaits them.

And yet...he had been gentle thus far. He had not massacred the families or truely punished them. The Dons may have felt their power shrinking, and it was, but they really weren't in any physical danger...yet. They had so far managed to keep cool and not try the patience of the Inquisition, who's eyes were everywhere. If they remained in line throughout the transition to a more...civilized state in Italia, they would be able to exist in peace with their vast fortunes safe.

Whether or not they knew that was not Flavius' concern. Reports of increased activity in the narcotics trade throughout the world, even in remote corners of the Imperium, were. He truely despised narcotics: Tools of Satan which turned bright young minds into slaves to the Devil. They were one of the hallmarks of the decadent and immoral.

If anything of this sort went on in Italia Doomanum, he would know. He saw all that went on. Citizens, including the native Italians, were all meticulously barcoded and kept track of by the Inquisition in secret control centers, from which orders to dispatch Imperial Guard units to places of suspicious activity originated. And the Imperial Guard presense was ever present, with soldiers standing on the street corners with rifles, tanks and armored cars making their patrol runs.

There was an Imperial Guard precinct in every neighborhood, and so they were able to keep a close eye on everyone. Then there was the Inquisition. One in every four Imperial citizens worked directly or indirectly for the Inquisition, whether they knew it or not. Most of the time they did not know it, and accidentaly turned in close friends for various charges without even knowing they did so. Plain-clothed Inquisition agents were everywhere. It was a true police state, one enforced with the latest technology.

Those that were caught (or suspected) of commiting a crime...their fates were generally very public and gruesome. Torture and execution in the many arenas established by the Imperium was a favorite spectacle, as was gladiatorial combat. For those actualy convicted of heresy, public burning at the stake in the town square was another favorite. There really weren't any prisons in Doomanum unless you counted the slave labor camps criminals were often banished to, or the dungeons beneath the well-fortified government complexes in every city.

Luckily, there were positive side-effects. People were simply far too terrified to do anything that could be seen as criminal. The brainwashing campaigns in the schools were also taking their toll on the youth of Italia. The non-Doomani youth, that is. Those were already well-indoctrinated, along with the adults.

Flavius had the entire country by the balls, as Caesarini was soon to learn...

Crime Scene Investigation
Analalava, Madagascar
2100 Hours

It was a mansion no doubt, however unkempt it might have appeared from the outside however sinister. It dated back some time; former home of some of the first Dutch settlers on the Island. It was built in the northern most end of the port city, away from all the happenings of a young thriving port, in the think of the jungle. Only a small dirt and gravel road let to its gates which now stood bent and mangled from years of the harsh jungle climate. As said before the house itself looked almost evil from the outside. Vines, roots, and all sorts of greenery grew along its old brick walls. Windows with shutters half closed or shattered blanketed the mansion. Whatever impression was taking from an unsuspecting bystander gave no hint of its interior. That was a completely different story. The inside was rich and vibrant, as if time had never entered its walls. The rooms were lined with extravagant paintings, golden borders, and dazzling lights. Without a doubt home to a syndicate leader, or at least a meeting place. Unsuspecting from the outside, pure eye candy on the inside, how interesting.

The Northern end of Madagascar was full of hidden bays and inlets perfect for smuggling operations. It was a pirates dream if they still existed which in this case could be made an argument they in fact they do exist however un-noble they may be. Not only were the harbors protected by land but the land itself was quite formidable due largely in part of the dense Island jungle. Nevertheless swarms of high end criminals made home in these parts feeding off of the thriving deep water ports now starting to line the coastline. TN’s government made little attempt to dislodge them from their home for a number of reasons. 1) They had a lock on the local economy in the area. Their smuggled goods, which weren’t just drugs, provided the town with cheaper goods than the rest of the empire and with a little money going to the government they lived and traded with impunity. 2) They were quite well armed. As mentioned before with the economic strangle hold, many a young man found service in their name quite profitable. 3) They really didn’t care to much. The government itself was quite negligent especially during its later years before it fell into disarray. During that time period before USB control was known to the crime lords as the Golden Years. The name had two meanings a sort of criminal joke pun. Golden meant both care free and…well rich. They had literally made northern Madagascar their own country.

Unfortunately for them the world caught on not only the United States of Brink. Their supplies and ports in other countries began clamping down and issuing bounties for the most prominent of men. To make things worse the USB had turned a once negligent government into a full fledge money making democracy. They began to loose business to more legal ways of generating revenue. Fearing that their small time workers would begin to turn them in for more money they started to let go of their huge drug smuggling efforts. Although a harsh environment after the new government switched, compared to some, Madagascar was still a safe haven and now they flocked by the dozens. What the locals lost in small time numbers runners they gained in big time drug lords. Nevertheless time was running ill for those and not only did they have to reorganize they had to relocate to somewhere still safer than they were now. Across the Mozambique Straight lay Somalia even still to this day the Wild West making a prime location.

News reporters crowded the gravel road just by the rusted gates, the sinister looking gates. Red and Blue flashes lit the surrounding jungle as sirens drowned any attempt to make a solid news cast. Flashes from cameraman blinded the ambulance crews and they wheeled out body after a body from the mansion. The blushed inside was evident to all those who stood behind the police line as the stream of bodies had not stopped for quite some time, the number somewhere at 7 so far. Detectives and crime scene investigators joined the commotion with flashes from their own special cameras while detectives lurked about the surrounding jungle with pistols drawn. The crowded began to part as a black jeep grinded against the soft gravel creating a smooth crunching sound. There was one blue light located inside the jeep near the passenger seat windshield. It pulled up to the police line which was quickly moved aside to let the vehicle pass.

Inside the devastation was evident; this was a well paid, well executed job. Any detective could tell the men that cleaned this house were good not to mention motivated. There were 14 bodies, counting the 7 already removed from the house. Those 7 were strictly pawns, body guards, numbers runners; nothing of significance. The other 7 however were all top notch crime lords. The fight that brought these men down was clean; their sidearm’s not fired at all, not even drawn. The bullets seemed to fly in only one direction that night. The man from the jeep entered the mansion, his long black overcoat strange for the weather. It slide just inches above the ground almost as if he were floating. His eyes were set deep in his head, lines near his eyes and forehead gave hint of his veteran status. A long scar gave him an evil look about him, the scar itself starting from his right ear and curving in just missing his right lip and ending near his chin. He simply walked to the back room, past every dead body on the ground. His boots squished, much to the disgust of the CSI members, on the pools of blood which had formed around the dead. It was the back room which he was most interested in and for good reason.

The back room consisted of a table, a fireplace, two dead bodies, and a briefcase. On the table was a sheet of paper and packets of Cocaine. In the briefcase was a substantial sum of money, at least a few million. Both of these however remained untouched as if they weren’t even there. What could possible be worth more than a few million dollars that is, besides more money but why take only some. The only thing that could have made it seem even more unusual was the one paper left behind.

The man read it aloud but only to himself, “Harbor Manuscript July 30th Analalava…Sunday…large shipments…page 1.” That latter part stopped him dead. There was a second page, a missing page at that. He looked around frantic only to himself; he did not want to upset the man who was standing next to him with a rather perplexed look on his face. He searched the room, went to the bodies and searched them but nothing. They weren’t here, this was the package, and this wasn’t a hit. His head rushed with thoughts and possibilities.

Finally the puzzled man spoke up, “Um…excuse me sir but may I ask your nature?”

His only reply was a grunted, “No” as he left with the paper in hand. His job was to locate large supplies of Narcotics and contain them and to eliminate any hostiles deemed in cahoots with the drug dealing organization. He was a lone ranger so to speak, a government issued splinter cell…he was a killer. The government was under the impression that to eliminate killers you must act as one and he did, very very well. Nevertheless he knew something was strange, something way more important than drugs and money on the second sheet. The possibilities were endless. Still he had an entire page worth of drug and arms shipment in his grasp regardless of the fact that since this was all over the news the ships themselves would be ditched or worse yet rerouted. He had found himself yet another dead end and this one ironically had started something much more.

Maggiano was a little stressed after the face-off with Caesarini. He was getting too old for these youngsters, thinking that they knew the world in and out. It hurt him as much as it most of the other children of Italy – the Italy that he had known was lost to the ravages of Empire and History, and it was something that he could live with. He didn’t like it, but at the very least, Italy was still in his heart.

Besides, he still had the family, and that was the most important thing at the moment. And keeping the family together would prove difficult, since there were some loose ends left undone since Don Bonavista had that clash with Doomani officials. Few people knew that it was in fact Maggiano who ratted out the wild end – otherwise, how could they connect Bonavista to the crimes that his underlings committed? No one knew for whom they worked – all they knew was that they paid good money. The names never came out in the interrogations because there were none to give. Of course, interrogation often led to other trails, and the death of other innocents because who knows what the mind thinks when it goes the agony of torture?

So Don Silvestro gave up Don Pietro – why?

Family. It’s the biggest part of the whole Cosa Nostra, and Pietro was acting very selfishly, before his departure. He was ranting about the old rhetoric of the “glory days” of Italy, when the family could stroll from Milan to Sicily without getting stopped by a soldier off the street. You had to pass through two border gates when you crossed from Rome into Doomingsland – both of which preferred the “Roman” styled Italian – something that ultimately seemed illegitimate to the younger folk that managed to escape the books of the schools.

It was something of a major operation for Pietro – only Maggiano knew about it, other than the numerous underlings that worked for Bonavista, but they didn’t know Bonavista. They had about sixteen packs of plastics, ready to bomb the forum in Capua, when Doomani strike teams closed on the plot at the last moment. Names flied everywhere, but nothing came of it. Maggiano didn’t like the idea in the first place – what could Cosa Nostra gain by killing a few innocent citizens? They were Italian, albeit Doomani Italian, but Italian nonetheless. If anything, Bonavista should have targeted the Doomani military installations and the illicit chambers reeling with hundreds of captives. But he chose to kill Italians – so Maggiano had to save the family.

He arranged a meeting with a senior Doomani official late one evening in Taranto, on his way back from Venice. Neither knew the other, and it worked well that way. Both sides had watchers, to see if anything came up with it, as Maggiano sent out the bait to talk to the official – more than likely, the official was also a phony. But it didn’t matter much – both sides came and left clean. In minutes, the plot was over, and Bonavista’s house was raided sometime thereafter. He died with a pistol in his hand, although Maggiano knew Pietro hated them – he preferred revolvers.

So the family lost Bonavista. They soon lost Capua, as the nearly the entire ring running there disappeared overnight, and Maggiano had some fears that they would be after him as well. But nothing came of it – not for those four years since the incident. Regardless, Maggiano tried to spend as much time outside of Messina and in places away from Doomani hegemony, since he didn’t like the risk.

So, he was back inn Sicily again, and Caesarini was starting to brew some trouble. More than likely, Caesarini would try something like Pietro had attempted, except that it would be doubly difficult. First, Rome was in Roman hands, so attacking Doomingsland was somewhat out of the picture. Attacking Rome [the Republic] was stupid, because the Gioiosi family had several important and friendly ties with the Republic [although they kept their illicit trades a secret from the other]. What exactly could come of this young brat? Should he rat him out as well? Not likely – Caesarini was protected by Rome too much for some Sicilian to try to put a bad name on him. Perhaps the family could take care of itself.

But Caesarini knew everyone that Maggiano knew. And if he didn’t know, the witch – Maria – would know how to stop it. She stood over him like a pouncing cat, with a ferocious but unnerved hostility. She was one person that he did not want to cross. Besides that, he needed to find someone who was as efficient as a government execution squad without the burden of family knowledge. He quickly wrote a note to his secretary, demanding that she find a name quickly.

Offical DFP Report

At 11:23 a ship named the SS-Elusion was sunk in Pitcairn Harbor. 100 kegs of Crystal Meth were found on board as well as the bodies of all 25 crewmen. The investigation has uncovered that the crewmen did not commit suicide but were killed. No other bodies were found on board but Officials are guessing that the killer jumped overboard and came ashore in the harbor. Crime lab is working on what type of weapon killed the crewmen.


Director of the DFP Elisabeth Zimmerman put the report on her desk when she was finished reading it. "I want a full investigation on these murders and drug trafficking. This threat presents a clear and present danger to the people of the Imperium."

Kiss Kiss Club - Henderson Island

Jammorn Falconsflight walked into the club. A dancer was entertaining the crowed on the stage and several drunken men were slumped over the counter. Jammorn walk over to a dark corner on the side were a figure was sitting smoking his pipe in, silence. The figure spoke, "Is it done?" Jammorn replied with a smile. "Yes it is. Where's my money?" "You'll get your money Jammorn." "I want it now." Jammorn replied with Ernest. "What is the haste my friend?" "I don't like staying to close to the scene of a murder I committed." "Indeed, If you did it right you'll have no problems." The figure replied with a sly grin. "Are you going to give me the money or not?" "Fine I will, but not here. Meet me at the pear warehouse tonight at 9:45." Jammorn pondered this for a moment. "Fine, but you better be there. Or I'll hunt you down." The figure laughed. "Indeed my friend, Indeed..."

OOC: Hey DP, I like your post and all, good atmosphere about it, but the grammar and presentation is a bit off.

When someone is speaking, try and put it in Italics, and have regular line breaks when the speaker changes. Makes it easier to read.

Inquisitional Headquarters, Capua

Office of Counter-Mafia Operations

This particular office was one of the less busy ones in Inquisitional Headquarters due to the relative lack of activity in recent years, although work had picked up as of late. The meeting of the Dons did not elude the prying eyes of the Inquisition; they knew full well of its occurance. Just what had occured inside was still being pieced together (albeit at a rapid pace), but the fact that the Dons were still meeting like this, even under Imperial authority, was troubling to some.

Master Inquisitor Gaius Varus Herius was an older man in his fifties. He headed up the Office of Counter-Mafia Operations and for good reason. He had much experience in the area, more than any other member of the Inquisition could boast. He had delt with these people first hand. He knew and understood their ways, something few others outside of La Cosa Nostra could boast.

The office was a fairly modern looking facility consisting of dozens of cubicals. It could have been an office anywhere else in the world were it not for the sensitive data and conversations that went on daily. Herius' own office was seperate to the others, surrounded by tinted bullet and blast resistant glass (sound proof, as well, of course).

He kept his office unusualy dark, possibly reflecting his own nature. This was an experienced spy master, and one who spoke very little unless it was conducive to his own agenda. He rarely smiled but was by no means ignorant of the world around him. He was as sharp as he had ever been.

There were no windows in his office or in the entire OCMO, due to the fact the entire office was three stories below ground. Such security measures were necessary. All communication that went on was either verbal, written, or fiber optic. Wireless transmissions were not allowed, and outbound signals were immediately traced by the local ELINT office. Security in such a building was very necessary.

Herius sat at his desk straight up, staring intently at the screen of his laptop. He wore a black shirt with a Priest's collar: he was, after all, a man of God. The only decor in his room was an image of the Virgin Mary and a Crucifix on his desk, and a portrait of His Holiness the Pope on the wall. He was reading the latest report on the whereabouts of the Dons that had taken part in the meeting. Of course the Inquisition made sure they always knew of everyones whereabouts, it was necessary for the security of the Imperium. Several new names had turned up at the meeting in addition to the regulars. He had made sure to personaly find out all he could on every one of them. The man had an acute memory and had absorbed every last detail his agents had delivered him. It was all necessary, for one needed to understand one's enemy in order to defeat him.

With the meeting occuring at Maggiano's place, Herius had hopes that cool heads would ultimately prevail in the end. He had met Maggiano in person once. That meeting had been what ultimately landed Herius this high ranking position. Of course, with these hot headed youngsters stirring up trouble all the time, he couldn't be sure. He was afraid- and rightfully so -that the older ones would lose control at some point.

The ones he worried about most were the ones outside of his juristiction, the ones in Roman territory. He could not monitor them nearly as closely there as he could in Doomanum. The Romans were, of course, allies. Brothers. In fact, there was talk of unification between the two houses to bring the Empire to its former glory. Politics, of course, always kept the two seperate: The fiercely conservative Doomani and "progressively" liberal Romans (Grand Inquisitor Flavius had once called them "decadent sodomites") often found themselves divided on key issues, and that slowed things down.

As for Herius, he did not care for politics. They always got in the way of the more important things, such as keeping Imperial citizens safe. That was, of course, his life's purpose: ensuring the security of his brothers and sisters so that they may rest easy. Where others sought out heretics and witches, either real or imagined (not limiting themselves to only the general public...they did, of course, want to keep the Inquisition itself pure), he sought out murderers, thieves, and smugglers. Now, this report he was reading was especialy interesting.

The Inquisition, of course, had some rather scary technology at its disposal in terms of electronic surveilance, and they were piecing together just what had occured by monitoring the conversations of those who had taken part in it. This could be done hundreds of different ways, be it by positioning a team with sofisticated sound surveilance equipment across the street, bugging their home phones (more likely tapping the line), monitoring their e-mail, monitoring cell phone transmissions, or having someone sitting right there listening in.

They already had garnered, it seemed, that the youngsters were becoming increasingly rebellious towards the older ones. They wanted revenge for what they saw as wrong doings and oppresion. Typical rebellious youth. They would be broken eventually, just how soon was up to Herius. The older ones seemed to know better. Herius could possibly make allies of them...as he had done before. This Caesarini fellow seemed to be one of the sources of the problem. Of course, therein was another problem: Caesarini was operating out of Roma. He had friends in high places in that city in the area of internal security, so he was certain cooperation would not be difficult to attain.

Now, it was probably best that he assign someone to keep a close eye on this...Caesarini. Someone who would work directly with the Romans and the Imperial Guard to get things done. Finding someone would not be difficult, as there were many very qualified men working under him. For this assignment, he would need a man especialy ruthless...

The house had led to nothing. Other than a large drug bust, and several maps showing the more 'obvious' drug running routes down the Amazon nothing came of the bust. The 5 or so dead bodies that had been found were buried, and the search began to find where the drugs were from.

Ipiranga HQ...

The large building took up the centre of the town, with a large dirt courtyard in the centre which served as a parade ground. On the opposite side to the entrance, a large baroque style building consisted the main regional HQ, with several bunkers deep beneath the surface. On the west side of the courtyard, one wing of the building created a living space for one of the three regimental companies, whilst an arch lead off to a smaller courtyard which acted as a helipad, 4 UH-60N, 2 EH-60N and 2 AH-60N helicopters rested in the midday sun. On the east of the courtyard, the old plastered over brick building had collapsed in the distant past, and now the one remaining wall on the east side propped up a roof, creating an auxilliary motor pool. Garages existed for more important vehicles elsewhere. Finally, the gate seid of the building - perhaps the most impressive. A large gateway led into the courtyard, whilst either side, the thick buildings housed an armoury, and in each corner, guard towers stood.

Inside the main command area of the HQ, Sergeant Ortega was having a discussion with two people. First was Captain Ahmed Chan - a tall gaunt officer who had been transferred here from the 2nd Brunei Regiment a month or so earlier. The other, Miguel Ikas was the town mayor of Ipiranga, a fat, balding man of native descent with a constantly nervous look in his eyes.

"Those drugs must have come from somewhere! Chan was in a bad mood.

"They came across the border" Ortega tried to come up with an answer.

"No they didn't, Layartebian security would have seen to that. Hell, there was even talk of them blowing a cartel chopper out of the sky a while back.

"The townsfolk have said nothing to me," Ikas gave his two cents.

"Well it's good to know you're doing your part - lard boy."Chan was in a very bad mood. "Ortega, increase B company's patrols in the region, and get more air patrols in from AF regional HQ."

"I have duties to see to..." Ikas left, having contemplated returning an insult of some sort to Chan. The mayor shuffled off, Ortega walked off down another corridor, whilst Chan stood at the window and watched the large, decaying courtyard.

OOC: Hey DP, I like your post and all, good atmosphere about it, but the grammar and presentation is a bit off.

When someone is speaking, try and put it in Italics, and have regular line breaks when the speaker changes. Makes it easier to read.

Thanks man.

Sparetti had a decent wake-up, and was out on the porch of his penthouse overlooking the morning sun, rising slowly over the distant horizon, right where the land and sea met. Emilia was peacefully resting on the bed, dressed in an elegant purple robe. Against his desires, Sparetti decided against sleeping in the same bed. He couldn’t really think about sleep while he had an operation going on – it rattled his mind, and the pleasure wouldn’t be worthwhile.

So he slept on the porch outside, next to a small grove of myrtle bushes dressed only in tanks and shorts. He had a glass of pinot noir settled on a cooling table, half full and untouched. The phone was two steps away on the same table, ready for the one call that would arrive. He was serene when he slept – unlike his youthful appearance. For his age, he was very calm and controlled – more mature and comprehensive. But even so, he had his hot temper that few would ever dare to know. His imagination was vast and his killing methods were equally innovative.

Of course, he was an unholy man, and he knew it well. He tried to repent years ago, but for some reason, God never really clicked in his mind, and so he remains convinced that he fell out of His favor – so there was no point to try to please Him. It upset some of the older Capi, who were railing that “God is as essential as family!” But he didn’t take too much of it – after all, the pious old folk were the same murderers who reigned over the family; they weren’t the best examples to teach about doctrine. He needed a priest, but he’s nearly always killed them all for one reason or another. There was one priest, Monsignore Ferrari, whom he truly loved as a man of God; if only he had lived long enough to teach him more about the sufferings of Christ, perhaps then he would be convinced. But unfortunately for him, thugs working for a rival Don Morelli [different from Emilia’s family] killed the old priest, and Sparetti did his part of violence to rectify his loss.

*dial-tone featuring La donna è mobile*

Sparetti quickly rose to his feet and rushed to the phone. He donned the white cloak from over the seat and picked up the phone. He let the phone ring a little longer, singing along somewhat. It was a comical relief from the tense sleep that he had had last night.

“Si?” he said.

“Mio figlio, è stato un mentre.” It was Don Maggiano. Sparetti was shocked that the Capo di Tutti Capi would dare to call him – especially for such a man of high esteem and power. But of course, it had happened before, back in Cagliari when he was still a simple umano soldato. It was at that time that Don Maggiano gave him an “appointment” – so he called it – to become Capo Crimini of the Sparetti clan – for which there was none before. And more than likely, if things stayed the way that they were, he would be only the Capo da Sparetti.

“Perché lei me chiama?” Sparetti asked.

“Io sono cattivo. Qualcuno ha bisogno di andare a Roma di regolare qualcosa.”

“Chi?”

“Io l'invierò un amico che dirà tu la storia. Cio è tutto.”

“Perché lei me vuole?”

“Si... che tu fa un lavoro buono. Sempre non inquietudini. Tu me capisce?”

“Si, mio Capo.”

“Bene, molto bene! Io ta vedrò poi!”

With that, Don Maggiano closed the line. It was a short conversation, somewhat unexpected and moreover confusing. It had to be very important if Maggiano called him directly, since almost no one else in the family knew of the Sparetti clan or of his operations. But regardless, he would go to Rome and do his father’s bidding.

*dial-tone featuring La donna è mobile*

Sparetti grabbed the phone again and answered. It was the crew.

“Don Sparetti, we’ve finished the job.”

“Good. Now pack up, we’re going to Rome.”

“Really? What about Donna Morelli?”

“I will take care of her. Let’s not forget that I’m still on vacation.”

Ikas headed back to his home, a large villa on the edge of the town, where the Jungle met the suburbs. Several security guards were employed at the house, given Ikas' likely target status. Sitting by the pool, he reached for the phone...

Ramone?... It's me... Army attention has been drawn away from the north side, the trick at the farmhouse worked... which units?... B company or some mumbo jumbo like that... Increased patrols they said, around the farmhouse... when do I get my cut? That private helicopter isn't going to fund itself Ikas laughed, and continued talking...

-------------------------

Ramone 'The Caiman' Parez was head of the largest drug cartel inside Neuvo Rica. Compared to the organisation run by Ramone, the Mayor of Ipiranga was small fry. He was in league with several bery prominent figures - including the Count of the Lower Amazon, a high court Judge in Bulgaria and a police chief somewhere in the Indian ocean territories.

He placed the phone down, and leaned back in the chair, blowing a plume of smoke out into the room around him. Everything was in order - the army was distracted, the idiot in charge of the town was drooling at the thought of being a millionaire, and the main elements of dissent in his own ranks had proved useful cannon fodder at the farmhouse.

What was to come next was not a drug bust, it was an incursion. A group of his rebels would launch an incursion, create chaos over the north Amazon basin, and in the chaos, massive stockpiles of Cocaine would be shipped down river. The largest drug shipment ever - something that would far outweigh the loss of life caused by the incursion. Ramone himself, would be on a first class Neuvo Ricair seat to his black sea villa at Varna.

All that remained was the lack of army presence on the north side of the town, over by the native settlement. They had been restless all along the upper river recently, and an incident like the one he had planned would surely grease the wheels of the up and coming crisis...

---------------------------
Ipiranga Native Settlement...

The six black Land Rovers and 4 black jeeps pulled up. On each of the jeeps an Amazonas arsenal made Browning .30 calibre machinegun waited ready to fire. Several members of the community had come out of their houses to see what the confusion was. Out of each of the land rovers 8 fully armed troops poured - carrying MP5K SMGs, a type in use with the Neuvo Rican army.

The gunfire began, the troops smashed down doors to houses and killed all inside with gunfire and knives. Several of the women and children were hung from trees, whilst another citizen was beheaded in the centre of the street. 4 troops attacked a man attempting to defend, with knives leaving very little of him left afterwards. After 5 minutes, almost 100 members of the native settlement were dead.

One final sweep of the houses saw 10 Men women and children led out in front of the settlement, where the ringleader of the gang walked along the line of kneeling civilians planting a bullet in the heads of each of the weeping people. When he ran out of ammunition on the last survivor, one of the women, he kicked her in the face.

The man walked over to another troop - one holding a camera - and joked. "So, did you get that on film or are we gonna have to do it again?" The troops laughed, and shouldered their weapons.

The troops walked back to their vehicles, one pulling off his gas mask/ helmet to reveal that he was Ramone - he had come along for the fun. The brutality had shocked him, and a cold feeling ran down his spine, but the thought of all that money was enough to make him realise that this would all be worthwhile.

Unfortunately for the murderers, someone was still alive - the woman who had been kicked - lay unconscious, with a broken nose and skull fractures, she was in a bad way, but alive nonetheless.

Worse still, this was on camera, and it was going out on Neuvo Rican national television in 8 hours time, when everyone would be waking up...

Don Matteo Raguso was a young man, aged 20 years of life and with much youthful vigor in his actions. He dyed his hair blue, principally to hide his albinism; it was seen as a sign of weakness in most Capi families, and he couldn’t afford to show any signs of weakness with an already lax hand on politics and the Family. He dressed in a white suit, hoping that it would make hiss sign seem darker than it was, and he always wore sunglasses, along with a good coat of SF-45 lotion. It was the typical lifestyle for the youngest Capo Crimini in the entire Cosa Nostra.

He fell into Don Maggiano’s graces when his father had died. The Capo made an unusual visit to Don Raguso’s funeral, and Matteo must have sparked some interest in Silvestro. Later that evening, he invited Matteo to his hotel room and they talked. Whatever it was that was said those 6 years ago, Silvestro truly loved it and Matteo has since become one of Maggiano’s favorite of the younger Capi.

Matteo was a devout Catholic, and spent every morning in the abbey next door, with his Consigliere – Monsignore Paolo Domenicatti. He would confess his sins of the day preceding and repent of them. The Monsignore was always calm and collected and kept all of them secret. Even though he detested the Cosa Nostra, he loved Paolo like a child, and did all that he could to ensure his salvation, perhaps even the salvation of the other members of the Cosa Nostra.

But that was the typical day – today was different. Don Raguso walked cautiously into the abbey where he expected to find Monsignore Domenicatti praying with the nuns. Instead, he found it empty. He turned to hiss guards and told them to wait outside, as always, even though he really wanted them to follow him. He uncovered his eyes, revealing their soft pink hues as he searched the sanctuary. The place was eerily empty – not like usual times. He never really found Padre Domenicatti outside of the sanctuary except for a few occasions.

He ventured out into the courtyard; the flowers were all freshly watered, as he could tell by the moisture on the ground. Perhaps the man was watering the garden. He loved to take care of his flowers, especially his lilies. He had a particular fondness of the purple variety, with the golden center. They were all so small, but it seemed that he loved them because they were so small and fragile.

Not in the courtyard – Matteo continued out, stepping into Domenicatti’s private quarters. He looked around one time and saw a stain in the far corner of Domenicatti’s desk. It was a deep red blot on some paper; as he stepped closer, he recognized it as blood. Without much thought, he pulled out his PX4 and stepped out of the room. He didn’t find any trail of blood on the floor, but he didn’t find any body in the study area. Whoever did this must have had very good skills, carry a body out of a room undetected and without any evidence trail.

It was a good guess that took him to the left, up the stairs. Just a few moments later, he heard a gunshot coming from the tower. Although he knew the direction to go, it would only bring bad news to him, since now his bodyguards downstairs would be rushing to find the perpetrator as well. He quickly ran up the stairs, unconcerned about the tic-tac that his shoes were making as he strolled up the two flights of stairs to the top of the tower.

He arrived to empty company – the bell room was void of any life. What exactly was that sound that he heard earlier? He leveled his Beretta, trying to keep a eye in the darker areas of the tower, as he searched the area. For a bell tower, the space was relatively cavernous. He found his way to the stairs leading to the bell. He looked up and saw nothing in the bell. By this time, he could his guards climbing up the stairs – perhaps he had heard wrong, but certainly not five well-trained men. He had made the right choice…

A sharp crack sounded and Matteo could feel the prick fly through his shoulder. He fell down and grabbed at the shot, turning around to face the assassin. “Santo Lo Vecchio!”

Santo Lo Vecchio was a renowned murderer, supposedly died after a clash with Raguso’s crews back two years ago. It was during a raid on a rival gang master’s stash of armaments; Raguso had heard of the stash as rumors of a gang war started to rise from rumors that Lo Vecchio had cracked the Raguso stronghold on Romagna. Determined to remain in power, Matteo made the decision that led to the biggest clash in Ravenna’s post Doomani history. It was a hard story to explain to the officials after the fray, but he managed to convince them that it was for the better – to make things even better, he turned over the weapons stash to the Doomani officials while evading giving up his own. Ever since then, he has maintained a low-profile and managed to keep the Raguso family on top of thing Ravenna.

Except now Lo Vecchio was aiming a PPK at his face, only three paces away. There was hatred in the air and Raguso could feel his life slipping away. However, Lo Vecchio did nothing; he stood with his blood-stained finger ready on the trigger, smiling as he panted.

“You are an idiot,” Raguso then said, pulling his own trigger and sending Lo Vecchio to the ground. And to think, for his time, Santo was a feared man – yet he fails to disarm his victim and himself becomes the victim. But then again, perhaps Raguso made a mistake in identifying the assassin. He doubted that it was Lo Vecchio, as he rose and kicked away the pistol from the man’s hands. He glanced over at where the pistol now lay and found Padre Domenicatti, still living but bleeding over the floor. He rushed over and tried to comfort the man.

“In all of my life, I have tried to raise you as a godly child,” he said, as Matteo took off his jacket and covered him. At that moment, the guards stormed into the room, shocked at the scene before them. They immediately rushed to help Raguso, both with his own injury and with Padre Domenicatti. They seemed apologetic in their attitude, but Raguso was forgiving – after all, he didn’t want them to come anyway. But now that they were there, they could help clean up the mess.

“Should we call the police?”

“No,” Raguso replied. “Take the Monsignore to the infirmary and get this scum out to the harbor. If the police find him, I think that they’d be happier with him dead than alive. And call the doctor – we need his help now.”

The dawn was approaching as two gentlemen came up to a private alley, somewhere in Nippon. He knew of the city, but he couldn’t quite grab the name of it – it was a foreign town to him. The man in front was equally foreign – supposedly had good connections to something that he direly needed. They came up behind a dumpster; ironically clean from all of the misuse. The one man pulled out a glass tube and offered some dry powder to him. The other man shook it off; “I only take the liquid stuff,” he replied. The one man nodded, and he heated the flask and slowly inhaled the fumes.

In rough Japanese, the man asked him, “What’s your business?”

“I’m here to make a deal, for something big,” the other man replied, in an even rougher accent.

“Lots of stuff here are big; what’s it exactly?”

“My employer has some cash at his disposal, and he’s willing to spark up a trade of sorts – to free up some territory.”

“We’ve got all of Asia –we don’t anymore territory.”

“You don’t have Siberia; don’t you wish you could get all of those stark folk there, wasting their lives in the cold and their sullen lifestyles?”

The man stopped inhaling and raised an ear. “Siberia is Doomani – that’s somewhat a no-man’s land.”

“Well, if it’s a no-man’s land, why did your chaps get raided on a routine trip to Vladivostok?”

The other man pulled out a knife and aimed it at his throat. “Where do you get that from?”

“Word travels, amico…” The man calmly pushed down the knife and paced from the addict. “I know that you work for a powerful group that does business in Asia. I also know that governments around here have been trying – apparently successfully to cut down on your business and your profit margin. I’ve got a willing contractor who can offer you a cold stab to the heart of the problem. And I can say that it looks very promising once this whole thing starts.”

“What’s this thing?” the other man asked, curious about his friend’s intentions. He didn’t come all the way from Osaka to listen to some man rattle about schemes, but what he heard seemed … profitable. Of course, he was just one of those low-level folk who didn’t do too much with his life other than to waste it on heroin and to get other people their fix. Yet, if he could get this info to his superiors, perhaps he’d gain a little in the organization – the man who won the drug war.

And despite his euphoria, he suddenly a crashing question. “What if it doesn’t work?”

“My contractor is willing to gamble a lot to make it succeed. Are you?”

“Hell, it sounds nice, but I don’t know what it is exactly.”

“It is nice,” the man replied, pulling out a small pack of pure coke. “Consider this a gift from my benefactor. It’s pure Colombian, although it was harvested from Brazil – heck, I don’t know what to call it. Just take it to your boss and let him decide whether it’s profitable or not. If he does, I can guarantee that he’ll be a very rich man.”

“Hell, we don’t do coke,” the addict said, nearly refusing the pack.

“Well, how would you know what it is if you don’t deal it?”

The man snickered, and grabbed the bag. It was perhaps the size of two sugar packs, sealed in plastic probably three times before being coated in some dried resin. Before he could ask any more questions, the man had already found his exit and was gone. Carefully concealing the pack, the man found his way out of the alley and decided to make a fast trip back to Osaka.

Kankan, Central Guinea

Kankan is Guinea's second biggest city, a sprawling conurbation stretching for miles near the Niger River. A city with almost 25 Million inhabitants. But tonight the city was not what the police were worried about. It was easy to police the city, with CCTV and other surveillance equipment.

The police and Federal Agents had a handle on the inner city drug situation. It was largely non-existent due to the large War on Drugs that had taken place some time ago. But the drugs had moved out of the city, and were now infecting the affluent, suburban elite.

Drug abuse in the city had been limited mainly to vagrants and lonely businessmen with hectic schedules, stress and too much money. Now businessmen were doing it again, but now they were hiding under the auspices of 'family' and suburban living. Of course it wasn't just businessmen, in some parts of the suburbs drug abuse had become casual and even cheap. There were stockpiles somewhere along the Niger River, as the influx from the ports had been shut off. But the stockpiles were being moved and were impossible to pinpoint, and the cartels were basically impenetrable.

The police and Feds were now moving their drug spotlight away from the city and into the kindly looking suburbs. Teens with too much money and no sense were also a problem, their parents gone on work, they did as they pleased, and they were a big part in funding the drug trade.

Thus public and private schools were a major source of information.

Rowens Hill, Kankan Suburb

The sun had long dropped out of the deep blue African sky, and tonight the moon was obscured by a think blanket of cloud, with the rumble of thunder far off in the distance. Rowens Hill was a multi-million Credit development off the main roads into the city, and five huge mansions of various shapes and sizes had popped up in only two years, with another five planned. The site offered great views across the whole city area, and in the daytime the skyscrapers could be picked out if the heat haze didn't obscure them.

A couple of black clad figures were concealed in a little forested area at the very rear garden of one of the Mansions. The two figures, one with POLICE, the other with DEA emblazoned on their backs in white letters, looked out over the manicured lawn, and onto the white marble like stones, lit up nicely, with the pool lapping gently at its stone sides, casting shimmering, moving shadows onto the building itself.

At three AM the building should have been dark and silent, but instead every light was blazing, the music was thumping and drunken, drugged up rich teens were sprawled everywhere, on sun-loungers and chairs around the pool, some on the ground. Others were still partying in the house itself, just visible through the huge glass conservatory that led out to the pool area. A tip from a nearby Private school had brought the Police to investigate, and then call in the DEA Agent from the Kankan Office. The two men, the Police Captain and the DEA Agent both peered through binoculars at the scene, and then nodded at each other before slowly heading back up the the forested area, and over the wooden fence at the rear. The security guard on the gate was already being questioned.

The DEA Agent immediately okayed a police takedown, and two SWAT Teams a Police Armored Vehicle (PAV), with a huge 50.cal Gun, and four Custody Vehicles got ready. The SWAT Teams would go in on the sides of four INDIAN Super Chief XL Trucks, one breaking off for the garden to go for the pool, the other for the front door. A team of five DEA Agents, who had come with the Field Agent, would take up blocking positions at the Mansions major exits, and police cruisers were already blocking the road around the Mansion itself.

At exactly three thirty AM the call came over the radio and the two mean black Super Chief XL trucks roared off up the driveway, one swerving off onto the lawn and bouncing over a small rockery at the side of the drive, before tearing across the grass toward the pool. The other Super Chief gunned toward the gleaming front of the house were a couple of people were lounging, half conscious, on the lit porch outside the open front door. They were completely stoned and didn't react much to the vehicles, and only started moving helplessly when the SWAT Team dismounted and began yelling, pushing, and thrusting M4's at them.
The SWAT Team moved the several kids on the porch inside quickly and shut the door. They waited, the stoned kids looking bleary eyed sitting in the small hallway, already flex cuffed. As soon as screaming started the SWAT Team burst in through the hall door, just as the other SWAT Team came in via the conservatory area, unseen to each other, both teams kicking, pulling and prodding screaming drugged up kids towards a huge living area. Drug paraphanleia, needles and bottles of beer and spirits were knocked over and dropped.

The Team coming in via the conservatory ended up in the crowded kitchen, some kids slumped unconscious on the ground, drooling, others screaming and running for their lives. The other team now rounded a corner into a plush looking living room and found yet more kids, in the process of taking drugs or screaming and scrambling to the centre of the room, where there stood a couple of chairs and a huge TV which displayed some music video channel, the speakers blasting out the thumping sound. A hand gesture later and the speakers each had a neat 5.56mm bullet hole about half way up. That quieted the screaming kids in that room, but they were joined as the team from the kitchen came out behind another twenty five or so scared teens.

The team from the kitchen immediately dissappeared up the stairs, and dragged fornicating teens from the bedrooms and tossed them down the stairs like bowling balls, the drugged up bastards probably wouldn't even feel it. As the SWAT Team neared the last bedroom a door swung open, a walk-in closet, with a bare chested teen, shaved head, bleary eyed, holding a pistol. He shot at the first SWAT member who reacted, and missed widely. He then fired off another few shots, missing, the gun simply jerking his arm up and around wildly. Then one of the SWAT team shot him in the foot and he dropped the pistol, and went down screaming, blood pouring onto the floor from his shattered left foot.

All in all the operation had taken less than four minutes, and it had been planned and brought to execution in only forty-five minutes, the Police Captain opting to use only two SWAT Teams, instead of asking for another two from Kankan, which would have taken another hour. Ambulances were on the premises a few minutes after the teens had been rounded up, there were seventy in all, only three were not on drugs. Four were unconscious and one had a bullet wound in his foot. Apart from the four unconscious and one wounded teen, the rest were loaded up into the Custody Vehicles, flex cuffs on, looking sullen as they trapsed past the glare of the searchlight in the PAV, some of them visibly moving faster as they saw the big 50.cal pointed straight at them.

Although they were teens, they would be questioned thoroughly and tried for drug abuse, alcohol abuse and tobacco abuse. Some would be tried for drug possession and selling, and one with Illegal Firearm Usage. But the real prize would be what would happen when the parents of the teen who lived in the house (the one who used the gun) would say when they got back to find their house a drug infested crime scene, and their kid on trial for selling drugs and attempting to shoot a police officer.
Finding were the drugs came from would also be a major priority. The amount of heroin and marijuana suggested it was from local pushers, but interestingly, in some of the bedrooms, there was evidence of cocaine and crystal meyth which were foreign drugs.

It was a surprise Don Silvestro in Saint Lazare, especially so unexpectedly. Usually, his visits were well calculated and methodical; he might have made a claim to say that it was unexpected, but he made no mention of it – perhaps it was off a whim of thought. He had rarely heard of this country – mostly because it was so new. But here, he found himself in the midst of friendly company. Don Sparetti, who had recently debarked for Rome, had himself stayed in the city for a short tenure, for whatever reason he was here.

The city struck him odd. It was a bustling metropolis, and its country was dense with buildings and rocks. He could tell that the land was once Italian, but it didn’t seem to him as what he remembered from Sicily. For one, the people actually spoke another language – French – and the few that spoke Italian had the well-pronounced Ligurian dialect. The city was more antique than most other cities. Much of the sleek buildings resided on an island recovered just off the coast of the city. There were also the wide streets of La Condamine, which boasted beautiful scenery and comfortable neighborhoods.

However, the main reason for his visit is more personal – the Opéra de Saint Lazare was opening its doors to the general public, featuring its premier debut of Faust, by Charles Gounod. It was an unusual choice for a premier, since it was a sensual presentation – to say the least. Furthermore, the story refers to Satanism and conflicts of the divine, something that seemed more fitting for tragedy than for triumph. Additionally, the debut of the opera itself was said to have been a failure, as the smoke screens reeked of harsh sulphur.

Nonetheless, Don Silvestro saw publicities for the opera, and as a classical enthusiast, he could reject a prime opportunity to witness good culture in action. He boarded his private yacht to head over to Saint Lazare. It was perhaps a long trip on a boat, but he did make one stop at Civitavecchia. After that stop, they continued to Saint Lazare. It was difficult crossing the various borders from Doomingsland to Rome, and in and out of those two nations, but his yacht and his business intentions were clean – there was no reason to detain a man such as him.

He looked back at his entourage, numbering around 14 covert guards, 3 personal guards, 4 family friends, and his beloved Maria Santo-Castillo – his wife of 33 years. His sons – Luigi and Giuseppe – were in Rome, preparing to meet Sparetti. If Don Maggiano had known that Sparetti was inn Saint Lazare, he probably would have met him personally, even with all of the publicity that it would bring from the Mafiosi, but it wasn’t like Donna Gioiosi had watchers over his back at every turn – he could meet Sparetti if he wanted to. It was just a matter convenience, and it proved to be more convenient that Maggiano not know where Sparetti was and what he was doing. His sons could take care of that – besides that, they needed to talk to other people there, to watch over Family operations in Rome.

The aged man stepped over to the VIP section, where a number of other famous and wealthy gentlemen. His company was the only sort who donned white suits, as is sometimes the standard for the Family. He also wore a rose boutonniere, while his wife courted a flagrant snakeskin scarf [her taste was awkward…]. Just as he was about to step into the building, his eye caught a glimpse of something that he didn’t like to see. In the glass of the teller window, he saw the reflection of poverty, and he turned around, glancing at a youthful boy who peddling tickets, selling the ill-gotten tickets to unwary customers. It reminded him somewhat of his own father’s stories of his father’s youth. His father then told him: “A good Christian – once he has suffered – remains true to his faith.” And he acted on that wisdom.

He patted the shoulder of one of his personal guards, and pointed at the boy. Uncertain of what Maggiano wanted, he shook his head. Maggiano stepped closer and whispered to his ear: “Portarlo.” Without doubt, the man rushed to the kid and grabbed him by the arm, somewhat forcefully. He dropped his tickets on the ground, inciting a rush of other wary folk wanting to gain access. Of course, the majority of the people there were wealthy enough to afford their own tickets, so the crowd was very sparse. The boy struggled as the guard inched him closer to Maggiano by the shoulder. His clothes weren’t neat – somewhat ragged at the knees. His trousers were crafted from cheap denim and his shirt was wrinkled, presumably also stinking. But Maggiano couldn’t smell anything anyway – his nose had burned once in a fire in Venice, and he hasn’t yet repaired the injury since that time.

He looked on this kid, and told the teller: “I want to bring him with me. As a guest.” The woman behind the booth looked on, dumbfounded. “How much would this cost, Signora?” The woman then slowly shuffled through the books. After finding the proper page, she fingered down the list of prices, apparently for the first time in a long time, as the laminated pages left dust trails where her finger fell. “How old is he?” she asked.

Maggiano looked back at the guard, who prompted a reply from the boy: “Quinze ans.” The woman nodded, having found the price. “What currency will you be using, Monsieur?” Maggiano pulled out a travelers check. “Whatever this is,” he replied, smiling brightly. The woman likewise smiled, although hers was more apprehensive. “That will be 160 USD [ooc: yeah… so they use USD, but for whatever reason, just fill in USD with the standard applicable currency for E2…in any case, you get the idea…].”

Maggiano then wrote out the check and handed to the teller. She quickly scanned it, registered the amount, and handed him a ticket. Maggiano then nodded and the company strolled into the opera house. The other members of the family were chatting to themselves what kind of idiocy has befallen Maggiano. It was unlikely that Maggiano had intended any charity for that day, but regardless, why had he chosen a peddler off the streets? Literally? Of all the poor in Saint Lazare, he chose this one.

It baffled the others, but Maria was completely supportive of Silvestro’s decision. “You do this Family honor,” she said. When they reached their balcony overlook in the theatre, he looked back at the boy and signaled to the guard to release the boy. The guard then brought him over to Maggiano and went outside the box. At that, Maggiano invited the boy to sit down on a chair. It took a while for the boy to trust Maggiano, but soon enough he sat down on the plush chair. After that, Maggiano sat down, followed by the rest of the family. The seating plan was rather plain – 3 seats in front, 4 in the back, and 5 seats near the door. The boy sat in between Maria and Silvestro, who sat nearest the stage; the rest of the family sat in the back, hands ready on their weapons if the scenery from the front proved unwelcome. The majority of the 10 guards spent their time outside, either guarding their host or relaxing in the lounge room, which hosted a live-screen of the opera stage. There were guards there as well, notably those of the Grand Duke’s guards, who took the Grand Central Box, about six boxes to the left. But in all, it would take a large effort for any assassin to storm down the hall, through the mass of guards present, to assassinate anyone of the dignitaries present.

In all, Maggiano was comfortable – no worries about assassinations or murders. After all, it was random, so there wouldn’t be much time for anyone to mount anything serious enough and noticeable enough to try to kill him. And he didn’t like worrying about his life – it made it less pleasurable. It would be like living in a self-imposed cage, uncertain if the bars would conspire against its voluntary captive.

He looked at the boy, now visibly shaken from anxiety. He patted his shoulders and sparked a conversation:

“My boy, you are quite scared. What is your name?”

The boy hesitated to reply. Maggiano chuckled. “Very well. My name is Signore Silvestro Giovanni Maggiano. This is my beautiful wife, Signora Maria Santo-Castillo di Piori Maggiano. What is your name?”

“Gaston Feudantal... why I am here?”

“Heh,” Maggiano replied. “Have you even been to an opera before?”

“Non, this is the first one.”

“Ah, then you are in for good treat.”

“Why am I here?”

“Because I feel charitable, and I think that you are a good son. Tell me, do you have any family?”

“Maman,” Gaston replied. “But she works at the casino and rarely comes home.” With that, he shuttered with fear. “Please don’t tell my Maman that I came here. She’d kill me if she knew that I went to the Opera!”

Looking around, Maggiano shrugged. “Gaston? I don’t see Gaston. He was never here.” The boy felt a little more relaxed, and even laughed a little. Maggiano smiled at that. “It is good that you care for your Mama. Family is very important, you know. But if your mother works, why do you steal tickets for profit?”

“Gambling,” Gaston answered him. “She wastes her money on the casino; she nearly spends everything for a game of baccarat. We rarely have enough food for the whole day, and we’re nearing the full lot on the mortgage.”

“You know, she has good heart, but a bad brain,” Maggiano then said. “Gambling is the worth the risk, if the risk plays into your hand. You see? She gambles because that is what she is – nothing but a passionate play of risk. I like passion, but I hate risk.”

“Moi aussi.”

With that, Maria entered the conversation: “He hates more than risk. He hates uncertainty. I hate it too. You know, it’s a heritage of ours. I guess Sicilians never care too much for entertaining doubts.”

“You come from Sicily?” Gaston then asked.

Maggiano nodded. Maris answered him: “It’s the best place in the world… aside from all of the others.”

“We came to enjoy the show. You know, a good man will always go out to make and do what he wants and needs. I’ve almost never missed an opera premier in all of my 40 years working at my job.”

“What do you do?” Gaston asked.

“Me?” Maggiano replied. He tossed his head aside slightly and started to reply: “Well, I have numerous businesses. My principal office is a private customs office. I deal with the transportation and freighting of materials from port to port around the world. It’s quite a big and lucrative trade, if you may ask. It’s been more difficult in recent years, because of the increasing costs of customs inspections and the politics of international trade. I can’t ship products from certain countries to others, because of numerous reasons, and it’s perhaps a headache even to think about the number of mismatched shipments around the world – things that cost time and money, and more importantly time. There will never be anything more important than time. Squander that, and you lose life.”

“Tell that my aching stomach,” Gaston grumbled in reply.

Sensing some pains, Maggiano hit a button on his chair and called out his guards. “Would you care to bring a tray for our guest? He’s hungry.”

The guard willingly obliged and soon returned with a cart of nuts, chocolates, and some soda. Maggiano immediately reached for the pistachios and passed the tray to Gaston. “I’m partial to the nuts,” he explained. “What would you care to have?”

Without further ado, Gaston grabbed the chocolates and began to stuff them into his mouth. Maggiano smiled as Maria studiously began to discipline the boy. “Eat it one at time – you’ll get more out taking small samples than bigger ones. After all, you might lose them all in one gulp, but in smaller pieces, you can make it last longer and enjoy it better.” Oh, Maria – she was the perfect Mafiosi wife.

OOC: I love the multiple story lines and the use of native languages. Good work. Free Translation (http://www.freetranslation.com) site.

The Emperor hadn't been gone long before Havana's underground went to work. The city was bright and modern, fixed up following the fall of the Ninjan Empire. The death and destruction that littered its streets during that war was gone. The people remained, assimilated into the Empire. Unfortunately, so did the habits of the needless. Cuba had a vast, untapped, unknown countryside, that was ripe for the drug trade. Colombia and Venezuela may have been the hearts of the trade but Cuba was an arm.

Within its jungles were dozens of secret labs and factories, most buried into the terrain. Workers kept constant shifts, packaging, weighing, and refining marijuana, meth, PCP, heroin, cocaine, and a new drug, a wonder drug. The Empire was home to three major cartels, all of which competed with each other. This cartel was beginning to get the upper hand. The Esmeralda Cartel, the Venezuelan contingent and the Meta Cartel, the Colombian contingent, were old players. They had been around for a long time, since the days of the Republic. They had gone through a full war with the Empire and lost but now things had changed, they were resurfacing and they were growing strong. However, when the Ninjan Empire fell, there entered a third player, a player that disregarded the established rules. They went for it all and they were determined. It shocked both the Esmeralda and Meta Cartels and war was looming, an unholy alliance formed against the newcomer. Profits were bad enough to be split between two competing cartels but the addition of a third would make things uneasy.

This third cartel, headed by a man named Juan Fidel Pablo Guillén, was named for its location as well. Both the Meta and Esmeralda Cartels had begun in the areas their names came from but, since then, operations had shifted elsewhere, mainly to hide from the Empire. The first war on drugs hit them so hard they had to join together to survive and they almost failed at that. Now, they were powerful again and no longer needed each other. They could fight their own battles and each other and be fine. The third cartel came into power immediately, threatening the profits of the other two, immediately forming a loose alliance, yet again. How far it would go this time was a big question and whether or not the Empire got to them first was yet another undecided and undetermined factor to add to the puzzle. The Florida Cartel, centered in the state of Cienfuegos, was working, for some time now, on a new drug, a designer drug that had far better effects than ecstasy and far more addictive qualities than crack or heroin put together. The Meta Cartel and their heroin, combined with the cocaine from the Esmeralda Cartel mixed together to net in excess of §2 billion each year. The Florida Cartel hoped to net at least §4 billion with this designer drug, called "Valkyr." The drug worked like LSD, producing powerful halluncinations but at the same time it was a serious stimulant, like crack. In addition, it was as addicting as heroin, if not worse and the more an individual used it, the more they needed to take it. It had a high LD50, meaning that an individual would have to do a lot of it to kill themselves. A typical high could last up to twelve hours or as short as two hours, depending on how much was taken. The Florida Cartel was working on making it in a tablet form, hoping to satisfy the non-needle friendly crowd.

Only hours after the Emperor left Havana, Valkyr claimed its first victim. It was being tested by sixteen individuals, all of whom were of the seeded underbelly of the Cuban crime scene. One individual in particular, Ernesto Fuentes, sat in the living room of his apartment, watching television, smoking a cigarette, having just dropped two tablets of Valkyr. By his side was his ashtray and .45ACP pistol. With the windows closed up and no air conditioning on, the room was hot and sticky, especially for July. The television was on low and a haze filled the room from his cigarette. Paranoia came quickly with Valkyr and when there was a knock at the door he shot from the chair, gun in hand, and approached the door.

"¿Quién es? ¿Qué quiere usted?" He said. "Váyase."

"Ernesto. Soy yo, el Vencedor. Permítame en hombre. Las policías me persiguen. Déje entrarme. Venga en. ¡Apuro!"

"¿Están ellos en usted?"

"No mas hombre. ¡Venga en el apuro arriba!" He slid the door open just a crack to confirm his identity, pistol in hand, safety off, magazine and bullet loaded. "Soy yo a hombre. Ningún chiste."

"Multa. Entre."

"Gracias amigo."

"Yo no oigo sirenas."

"Ellos vienen. Confíeme." He shut the door and both of them returned to the living room. Victor took up a seat across the room in an arm chair, lighting a cigarette of his own. "Hace calor aquí dentro. Venga en. Abra a un hombre de ventana. ¡Es julio!"

"¡Cállese!" Sirens echoed now, only adding to Ernesto's paranoia. "Sirenas."

"Vea yo le dije. Permítame esconder aquí."

"¿Qué haría usted?"

"Trate ido malo."

"¿Qué le hace obtuvo?"

"Yo le descargué hombre. ¡La mierda, yo puedo oír que ellos yendo puerta a la puerta!" The police were knocking on the doors and Ernesto could hear them. He was high now, tripping the Valkyr in full.

"¡Usted me los trajo a mí!"

"¿Qué?

"¡Usted me los trajo a mí! ¡Usted le roba!" With that, Ernesto raised and leveled his gun, slide down the safety, and squeezed off a round. The gunshot echoed throughout the entire building and the bullet tore right through Victor's left temple, sending his body flying over the chair and his brains all over the wall. The police were at his door only moments later. Now he was in deep trouble.

OOC: Would it be easier to have a translation in square brackets beside the native language, like Cot does?

OOC: Would it be easier to have a translation in square brackets beside the native language, like Cot does?

[ooc: I don't know - I can read Spanish well ... I guess Norwegian, yeah... so... yeah... I'll do that for all future posts, but sinnce I'm writing this all in a chronology form so maybe I can make some kind of literature out of it, I might forget it sometimes... and don't worry about today's post - it will be up as soon as I figure out a way to make it work in the end...]

There was an open apartment near the Tiber River, not far from the Forum. Neither Luigi nor Giuseppe liked the city – it was too much of an antiquity. On their temporary passes, they had their names printed in the old Latin manner – CLOWIS and IOSEPHUS. They were somewhat upset, but that’s the way that things were in Rome. It was similar in Doomingsland, but at least they had Family there; here, there were only Romans, not even Italians. The entire Italian sphere had virtually transformed into a historical nightmare, with some citizens willingly abandoning their Italian heritage [or so it seemed to them as an abandonment] to adopt a false and obsolete identity [again, as it seemed].

Yet, this was just a name; they could handle a name for 36 hours while they did their father’s businesses. First order was to meet a Signore Sparetti – Vicenzo Sparetti. He was a new relation to their father, for the past four years at least. No one really knew much about him, and it was probably for that reason that he called Sparetti. But it made finding the man more difficult, and neither of the brothers wanted to waste any time searching the streets of Rome for him, especially without guards and identity protection.

They waited in their apartment, trying to figure out the best method to deal with their search. Don Maggiano refused to concede Sparetti’s cell phone, and without even a picture ID, it seemed pretty impossible to find him.

It was noon and Giuseppe simply wouldn’t stand waiting in the same room. He decided finally that searching in the streets would be much better than sitting idly in a room with no planned method to contact their man. As he walked down the stairs, he convinced himself that it was a stupid idea to wait. It wasn’t likely that he’d meet Sparetti in person, if Don Maggiano was as careful as he was with this person. Of course, it was also stupid that he – the son of the Tutto Capo – was strolling in the streets of Rome looking for a point man of whom he knew nothing.

Luigi watched Giuseppe don his cap as he exited the room, and thought to himself what a convenience it was that he should remain in the room all alone. Let the younger brother take of the business while he takes of himself. He reclined on his bed, somewhat uncomfortable because of the cheap standards in the district. He wasn’t used to the spring bed, but he wasn’t about to complain about it. Thoughts flew in his head as he contemplated what he could do to squander the afternoon until Giuseppe returned.

He thought about buying some girls, but he wasn’t certain if the prostitution rings were still around. He walked over to the phone book to see if anything showed up – by some grace of luck. But of course, there was nothing; it only listed Imperial offices and services, not even a carry-out restaurant guide. That really unnerved him, because he was somewhat hungry and didn’t want to leave the room. He would have called Giuseppe, but he decided against it – he didn’t want to bother him at this point. When it was dark outside and when he was likely to start coming back, he would call him.

But then, he heard the telephone ring. He figured that it was the hotel concierge, but as he picked up the phone, a bullet ran through his hand as he picked up the phone. He fell to the ground and listened to several more bullets rattle through the window and the walls. It was all silent, even as the glass cracked from the numerous shots. After about 16 rounds, Luigi decided to move out of the room, carefully sliding across into the main room, while grabbing at his hand.

Somehow, he had been spotted and was being targeted. By whom? For what reason? No names came to mind, but it was obvious that someone wanted him dead. Once safe in the other room, he could survey the damage caused by the random shots. Although the stage was set professionally, the execution was more amateurish; there was no consistent pattern to the shots and he missed the first shot more importantly. Granted, Luigi’s hand wasn’t in the best condition, but he was still living and could still strike back.

He pulled out his Beretta and took off the safety. He realized that his weapon wasn’t silenced, which wasn’t particularly nice if the shoot-out became more aggressive. He could have called the police, but that would have brought more attention to the scheme, and they didn’t want attention. He could call Giuseppe instead.

He began to dial out on the phone when shots ran through the front door. The job was more professional since it was all over in two seconds – they knocked out the lock, pushed the door, and shot their target dead on. But Luigi still wasn’t dead – no, he was more valuable alive to his captors; after all, the son of a Mafiosi leader was more than sufficient for a bargaining chip. So they feigned the whole set-up: they called the house and brought him into one room where they knew he would be; they threw him out and into another place where he was certain to be; and for the final touch, they stormed the room quickly and quietly, sedating Luigi to render him passive and unable to resist. The question thus stands – who did it, and why?

OOC: Would it be easier to have a translation in square brackets beside the native language, like Cot does?

OOC: Yeah he's right, like I do in my RPs. I got lazy :).

Outskirts of Oslo, Norway, Cotland

The corridor was darkened and smelly, certainly not like the conditions the eight REAF agents were used to in their homes. Still, they proceeded carefully down the corridor, holding their weapons ready. The agent on point had a M55A1 tactical shotgun, really nothing more than a Layartebian-made M76 shotgun, ready while moving forward. Fifty-five… fifty-six… fifty-seven. There it was. The agent raised his left fist, signalling the seven agents behind him to stop. A few hand signals later, the eight black-clad men were in position. One of them checked the door and found it to be locked. As expected. Using a “spywand”, the lead agent looked inside to see if there were any threats.

“Jeg har to mistenkte. En med våpen. Åpne døra, stille.” [I have two suspects. One armed. Open the door, silently.]

The agents nodded while one picked the lock, unlocking the door quietly. The Cots were set. Two agents prepared their M68 flash bangs and waited for the go-ahead from the lead agent. It was received, and the door was kicked open. That very second, the two flash bangs were thrown in the door. They detonated almost instantly, giving the agents the cue to enter. They entered in pairs, keeping their weapons ready. The two suspects were confused and blind, but they did as told when the agents shouted for them to get down and put their hands on their heads. Two agents dealt with the suspects while the rest continued inside the flat, clearing the apartment methodically. The bathroom on the first left door in the corridor was cleared. So was one of the two bedrooms. The third, fourth, and fifth suspects was found in the living room, being ready for the agents. A short fire fight ensued where two of the three were killed and one agent took a few 9mm rounds in his vest. It knocked the air out of him, but that was it. They detained the surviving suspect and proceeded. In the kitchen, they found what they were looking for. Around sixty kilos of heroin, destined for the Cottish market. The REAF agents were pleased with the capture, and brought the three arrested suspects out of the apartment complex.

Outside, some twenty police officers, a paramedic team, a lot of curious civilians and a few journalists stood, hoping to get a peak of the action. The journalists got good pictures of the agents, all of them with black ski masks over their faces and black overalls, and of the detained suspects, who were dragged out, two agents per suspect. It would be one of the top stories in the evening news, accompanied by a live statement from the Minister of Justice who also was present at the operation, watching. The establishment of REAF had been her child, and this action proved that the organisation was working. The ten thousand agents, one thousand scientists and one thousand prosecutors of the only real national police force in Cotland had more powers than the normal police forces and were responsible only to the Director of REAF, who answered to the Minister of Justice instead of the provincial governor like the normal police forces did. Another advantage REAF had was that it consisted of experienced and well-trained agents drawn from the regular police forces. They also had large budgets, allowing them far more leeway than the normal police. All because of the idea that the Minister got when she was a police prosecutor with Hordaland Police District a long time ago. She knew all this, and it showed in her expression as she turned and faced the press after the lead REAF agent told her about the find.

[translated from Cottish]

“Madam Minister, what can you tell us about the operation here today?” a journalist asked, making the Minister smile even broader.

“The operation here today was undertaken by agents from Rikets Etterforskningsenhet for Alvorlige Forbrytelser (the Realms Investigation Unit for Serious Crimes), or REAF for short, after they had received credible information from sources that a large amount of drugs would be present here. The agent in charge of the operation had informed me that they did indeed find around sixty kilos of heroin inside the apartment. This is poison meant for our children, and I am pleased to say that the drugs will never reach their destination.”

“We heard several gunshots. Were there any casualties?” another reporter asked, sticking his microphone up in the Ministers face. The Minister didn’t flinch, but answered in a rather pleased voice.

“I am pleased to say that none of the REAF agents were injured, but two suspected drug dealers were shot dead after they resisted arrest.” The Minister raised her hands to quell any outcries that the journalists had. The police shooting suspects hadn’t happened in Cotland for a few years. “I would like to remind you all that the police are well within their right to use force against anyone resisting arrest. When the suspects resist arrest with the use of lethal weapons, the police are well within their right to open fire. While their deaths are regrettable, so is their choice of profession. All I can say is that they had it coming. There will be no legal action made against the agents responsible for shooting the suspects.”

“So you have no empathy for the families of those killed in today’s operation?”

“Let me make one thing perfectly clear. His Majesty’s Government will not stand by to watch our children be poisoned by the highly illegal drugs that cynical drug barons are trying to export into Cotland. We will continue this offensive against the drug cartels using any means at our disposal, and we urge all other nations in the world to do the same.”

The statement was pretty powerful. In essence, the Minister said that the Cottish Government wouldn’t be afraid of killing people to stop the drug flow into Cotland without actually saying it. It was a clear threat, and a statement telling the world that the Cottish Realm had started a renewed offensive against drugs.

The infirmary had been a site of restless activity for the past three days, as Monsignore Domenicatti had been recovering from his wounds – two stabs in his abdomen and one shot to his chest [missed the heart and lungs by only a short margin]. It was later determined that the blood in the Monsignore’s room was actually the blood of his assailant, Lo Vecchio. Apparently, the old man had uncovered a letter opener and stabbed the man before being dragged to the bell tower to be finished off. Of course, Lo Vecchio missed his shots – both on the priest and on Don Raguso. It didn’t seem that Lo Vecchio was the same man as when he first started; perhaps something within the past two years had changed him from a merciless killer to a pitiable amateur.

Since the priest was unable to fulfill his duties as the keeper of the abbey, the nuns elected that Don Raguso should fill the role until the diocese had chosen a replacement priest. To those ends, Don Raguso opened the infirmary to the community from 0600H to 1600H, so that the community could commiserate with the ailing man. At the rate that he was recovering, the diocese might not need a replacement, but they still convened, just in case. As for Don Raguso, his own shoulder had successfully repaired, as the bullet left no traces and the wound was astoundingly seamless.

But unfortunately, his venture at the abbey was starting to fatigue him, as he personally waited for Monsignore’s full recovery just outside the room. He still wore the same suit from the incident, so the shirt was stained with blood, but otherwise, he looked like himself on any other day. Much of the Cosa Nostra operations were put on hold until further notice, since Matteo didn’t want any distractions to interfere with his vigil. Some of his family decided to join him – his cousins especially. He had no brothers or sisters, principally because his parents were too scared to have another child after Matteo turned out albino. It was extremely rare, a trait that ran down his father’s line, although none of his father’s father’s fathers ever expressed the trait. The last recorded instance of albinism in his family was that of his 13th grandfather’s sister, who inherited it somehow from her grandmother.

He was the only member of his immediate family still alive – his mother had died in a yacht accident when he was three-years-old, and his father had died six years ago. He had been ruling the Raguso family since then, even as a young child and it was then that Monsignore Domenicatti assumed the paternal role and guided him as a child of faith and piety. At times, Raguso was nearly persuaded to quit the Cosa Nostra, but his cousins convinced him to stay on – as a positive influence for the Capi Mafiosi.

“Don Raguso, il Monsignore parlerà a tu – tutto solo.” [Don Raguso, the Monsignor will speak to you - only you.]

Matteo nodded and stood from his seat, removing his sunglasses. With that, he walked over to the main infirmary where the doctor waited. They exchanged light hugs before the doctor left the room and Don Raguso entered it. There were serene candles over the entire room, and the solemn sounds of the final Chorus and Chorale from the Johannespassion. It appeared as if the man had already died, but as it was, Domenicatti was ardently reading a book from a desk by his bed. There was a small pan of blood, drained from the priest for the first two days. There were transfusion bags neatly placed in a makeshift can and several instruments had settled in a pan of alcohol, stained with blood. In all, the room was the result of diligent but messy work.

“E come sta, mio figlio?” [And how are you, my son?] Domenicatti asked, closing the book and slowly turning back to Matteo. He smiled through his old face and thick spectacles.

“Io sono bene, eccetto per questo dolore. E lei?” [I am well, except for this pain. You?] Matteo said, as he sat on a chair, presumably the doctor’s.

“Non mai meglio. Io presumo che la mia casa è bene mantenuta?” [Never any better. I presume that my house is well kept?]

“Si, si. È molto bene mantenuta, e più...” [Yes, yes. It is well kept, and more...]

“È basta. Dio me ha fornito bene in tutta mia vita. Non potrei chiedere qualunque più.” [It suffices. God has granted me all good things in my life. I could not ask for any more.]

“Che dice il dottore?” [What did the doctor say?] Matteo then asked.

“Il me dice che la vita è una cosa magnifica e molto brilliante, che quando la soffre il grande danno, la rimane elastica all'agonia della sua esistenza. Tutta la speranza si riposa nella fede di perseverare sempre.” [He said that life is a great and very beautiful thing, that when suffering grerat pains, it remains strong through the agony of its existence. All hope lies in its endless endurance.]

“E che dice il dittore, realmente?” [And what did he really say?]

“Io non capisco esattamente - lo chiede se tu desidera sapere.” [I don't know exactly - ask him if you want to know.]

“Si. E c'è nient'altro di cui lei desidera me parlare?” [Of course. And what else did you seek to speak to me?]

As Matteo asked that, Domenicatti looked at him and stood up. He leaned heavily on his cane as he walked to Matteo. Matteo would have stood up, but Domenicatti was quick to ease Matteo back to his seat. Then, he removed the cloth from around his neck and placed it on Matteo’s shoulders before sitting next to him.

“Mio padre, me perdona per ho peccato.” Matteo would have stopped Domenicatti from speaking any more, but it seemed that he was overcome with grief, so he obliged to listen to the priest. In any case, he spoke quickly. “Ho alzato un giovane luminoso per essere il suo servitore fedele e lo sono riuscito a fare soltanto la metà di servitore che avevo promesso. Ho cospirato con quelli che pratica il comportamento criminale come una vita normale nell'interesse per conservare mia santità. Ho portato la lesione a un uomo ed a molti altri uomini nel nome di Dio. Me disonora di tutti giorni guardo nello specchio e mie chiamo l'uomo della chiesa. Mio padre, miei peccati sono numerosi - me loro perdona per favore.” [My father, forgive me for I have sinned. I have raised a young boy to be a faithful servant and he becomes only half the man that I had promised. I have conspired with those who accept the criminal's life, all to preserve my own sanctity. I have brought injury to a person and many other persons in the name of God. I have shamed myself with each day I glance at the mirrror and call myself a man of the cloth. My father, my sins are many - please forgive me of these.]

“Perché lei me confida, mio monsignore?” [Why do you tell me these things, my Monsignor?] Matteo then asked, after a brief moment of silence.

“Perché io desidero liberare mia anima prima che dovrei morire.” [Because I want to free my soul before I die.]

With that, Domenicatti rose to his feet and recovered his cloth. He walked back to the desk and sat back down.

“Io ti dono miei benedizioni. Arrivederci, mio figlio.” [I give you my blessings. Good bye, my son.]

“Arrivederci.” [Good bye.]

Somewhat confused, Raguso left the room, satisfied that his vigil was well and done. He rounded some of his guards and left the doctor to continue monitoring the priest as he returned for some very good sleep in a long time. All the while, he pondered Domenicatti’s confessions and what they meant to him, whether or not they should mean anything at all.

Crime scene investigators swarmed over the Havana apartment, trying to piece together the most horrific shooting they had seen in the past few years. They had 3 dead bodies, 2 of them police officers, and a suspect, Ernesto Fuentes, the resident of apartment 6J. He was at large and presumed not only dangerous but armed and under the influence of a new drug, a "designer" drug, of which three vials had been recovered from the apartment. From what investigators gathered, Ernesto had shot and killed an unidentified man inside the apartment, who was on the run from police officers. Police officers in the building looking for him heard the gunshot and responded immediately but upon kicking down the door, they were met with a hail of gunfire and six shots found their marks in the two officers, killing them where they stood. News of the shooting spread around the Empire like a wildfire. Drug-related crimes had been on the rise in the past months but they never resulted in the death of a police officer, let alone two.

"Yet another epidemic." The Emperor continued. He was giving a televised address concerning the results of the Havana Conference on Illegal Drugs Within the Empire. Word of the shooting flashed on the bottom ticker of a television at the other end of his office. "Illegal drugs will not be allowed to continue their rise. Their holds upon our populace will be loosened. Young children will not grow up in a world where marijuana and cocaine are substitutes for peanut butter and jelly and where smoking in the bathroom isn't only cigarettes. I will not sit by and watch idly as this Empire is brought down by an epidemic of illegal drugs. Effective immediately is Project VENOM, my plan for the eradication of illegal drugs. Leaders within the Empire are in agreement that this plague must be eradicated immediately. They stress the importance of worldwide support and worldwide agreement. The Empire can only do so much and without the help of states around the world, illegal drugs will continue to exist within the Empire. Thank you." The television cameras switched off and the news stations went to their commentary immediately. "Look at that. Two police officers, shot dead in drug-related crime in Havana. I was just there!"

"Sir. Project VENOM is already meeting with initial success."

"What do you mean?"

"Sir, the Marauders have already located and destroyed a drug factory."

"When did this happen?"

"Four hours ago sir."

"Excellent. Wherein?"

"Cuba sir."

"Good. This will send a clear message to the cartels. We're going to war!"

Seven Hours Earlier

An Army MH-60M Black Hawk took off from an airbase in Guantanamo Bay, loaded with eight soldiers, all of whom were not regular infantry. They were elite members of the 6th Special Operations Force, codenamed "Marauders." All eight of them were highly trained for secretive missions, primarily of a counter-drug nature. They were all wearing jungle camouflage, something that wasn't unusual for them, since most of their operations were done in the southern portions of the Empire, particularly in or around the Caribbean. Inside the Black Hawk were four other men, two pilots and two gun operators, both manning the M74 Miniguns. Ominously, it lifted off the ground and headed up to 2,000 feet for its 128 mile journey to the suspected drug factory.

Intelligence had established the presence of a significant number of individuals going in and out of the jungle in the Las Tunas Province in the area around 20° 50' north, 76° 51' west. The helicopter was heading there at a speed of 130 miles per hour. They had to make best time to get there and hit it hard. They would try to round up a few people of importance, who could help them in interrogation. They would only have room for 5 in the helicopter so they would have to make due. Aside from their assault rifles and sidearms and grenades, they had enough explosives to blow up a football field. That was the mission, blow up the factory after they seized the 5 people they needed.

The chopper flight in wasn't a long ride but it was a smooth one. As the helicopter came into the AO, the men readied, putting aside their final convictions before it began. "Ground hover." The pilot spoke into the microphone and the Black Hawk abrupted to a halt about 200 feet off the ground and then dropped towards the ground. It maintained its hover no less than 4 feet off the terrain and the eight men were out in a manner of seconds.

http://www.theforsakenoutlaw.com/Graphics/Nation-States/Role-Playing/War%20Against%20Drugs/mh60-01.jpg

"Good luck boys!" The pilot's last words echoed in their ears as the helicopter ascended again. It was almost dawn in Cuba and they would have plenty of time to get to the factory before the sun came up. The egress would be tricky, unless, of course, they were followed. On the ground, themen were all joined into a group.

"Alright we've got two kliks due west from here. Keep it low and fast." Captain Adam Weber was the commander of Team 5 and he and his men were seasoned veterans of this work. They had fought against guerillas and drug lords over the past six years and they were definitely accustomed to these types of scenarios. The sun was coming up in the east but it would be at least another hour before it showed its head on the horizon, giving them more than enough time to get to the factory and blow it up. Quickly, they moved through brush and grass almost as high as they were tall. Pretty soon it would dump into trees and hills, a terrain that was definitely not pleasant or easy to traverse. Two kilometers wasn't a long way and they were there in a little over ten minutes. Finding the entrance, on the other hand, wouldn't be so easy, which was what would take them the most amount of time. They would take up recon positions in two groups, scanning the area for any signs of activity. This basically required them to stay completely silent and still, using their night vision binoculars to watch the forest.

Half an hour later, that activity presented itself. "We've got movement. Three hundred meters. Bearing 0-2-0. Four guys, looks like locals. Armed with AKs and one with a shotgun, possibly 12 gauge."

"Eyes on." Sergeant Sean William, the executive officer and commander of the second group reported, all of them whispering through their commlinks. "Roger that. Yeah looks like four of them. One's got a cigarette."

"Roger. Advise course."

"Let's find out where they go. Squad Two. Move slowly to flank them, I want you boys on their asses."

"Understood sir." The second squad began moving towards their flanking position by maintaining a crouched walk through the thicket. They were well shielded by the vegetation and their camouflage. "Sir, it looks like they are stopping."

"Where?"

"It looks like about four hundred meters from our previous position. Bearing, 0-9-5. Moving closer."

"Roger that. Inbound." The first squad was up and moving as well, approaching the position slowly from the opposite direction as squad two. Both squads were within thirty meters of the group of men quickly and they still had fifteen minutes before sunrise. "Looks like they're going into a tunnel or something?"

"What are they waiting around for?"

"It to open maybe?"

"What are they saying?"

"It's tough to hear." It was tough to hear them. They weren't talking very loudly and their Spanish was thick with their Cuban accent. The men spoke Spanish fluently and knew most of the dialects but Cuban accents would always give them a problem, especially from the low lifes of the society. "Sounds like they're talking about whatever it was that they were doing last night. Sounds dull."

"Probably is." They moved closer and then, everything grew quiet. There was a small disturbance and the men began to descend into something, definitely a trap door.

"Mark position." Captain Weber said as he looked around the jungle for any more. "No contacts."

"Nope. But can we expect some out of the hole?"

"Probably."

"Keep your weapons up." They moved closer and closer to where they were within ten meters of the trap door. Lying in the ground, well under the thicket, they could hear everything as clear as day and they were too cautious to even whisper. They could see each other through their night vision googles and that would give them the ability to give hand signals. They were clear, Captain Webber wanted nobody to move at all. They were right and six men came out of the hole, all brandishing assault rifles. They wouldn't be able to kill them so close to the hole and they had to identify the leader before they could do anything. Using hand signals, Captain Weber made it clear that they were going to stalk the six of them through the jungle but the position was marked on their GPS units.

They kept up with the six of them for at least a hundred meters, before they could identify who the "leader" was amongst them. Then it was time for action. Quickly and quietly, five of them were behind five others and they all hit at once, using their knives. The move went quick and precise. First, they reached around and grabbed their victims' heads, covering their mouths. This was only the first step. The second involved them sliding their knives over the throats of their victims and snapping their necks. Five lifeless bodies fell to the ground in under five seconds and the "leader" was staring down the barrel of an M33A2 Pistol, silencer fitted. "¡Chille y usted muere!" [Scream and you die!]

"¿Quién es usted?" [Who are you?] The man asked, his hands in the air. His rifle was being removed from his hands as he stared down the barrel. It wasn't long after that, maybe ten seconds or so, that he was down, on the ground, a plastic zip-tie around his hands, restraining him. He was searched for weapons and two knives and a pair of magazines were removed from his body.

"¿Qué es el código?" [What's the code?] The man didn't answer so he repeated himself, twice. It was evident and apparent that he wasn't going to give up anything and that was unfortunate, for him. The men didn't have time to waste so they picked him up. He acted liek total dead weight and that wasn't a problem. They dropped him right on top of a dead body, making sure that his face landed right in a puddle of blood. "¿Cómodo?" [Comfortable?]

"Mí recojo. ¡Ahora!" [Pick me up. Now!]

"El código." [Code.] They pushed his faced deeper into the blood and into the gore of his fallen friends. "¡Ahora!" [Now!]

"Rodrigo ha venido a pasar." [Rodrigo has come to pass.] "Good. Put him over there. Squad two, you're on prisoner detail. Let's move."

They got what they wanted and they approached the hole slowly. They had their weapons raised and when they got to the hole, they were definitely in the mood for a blood bath. They kicked it once and quietly said, but still loud enough to be heard. "Rodrigo ha venido a pasar." [Rodrigo has come to pass.] The hole opened less than a quarter of a second later and that was when the fun began. An M58A1 Flashbang landed in the hole only a split second later and went off. The gig was up and everybody was aware that someone was coming after them. They dropped down shortly thereafter and the gunfire that echoed from the factory was definitely loud enough to be heard throughout the entire factory, which wasn't as big as they originally expected. Still, it was bloodshed. Squad One moved through the factory, table to table, turning them over for cover, engaging the retreated Cubans, all of whom seemed to be armed. Lucky for them, they had Land Warrior on their weapons, giving them the ability to fire accurately over the tops of the tables. The Cubans dropped like flies to the technology and skill of the Marauders. Quickly and powerfully, they moved through the factory, without taking any hits. They progressed to the second of four areas. This one was the supply room and it was full of more cocaine and heroin that anybody had ever imagined. Marijuana was plentiful too. They faced resistance still and 10 dead Cubans later, they were into the third area, where the bathrooms were, albeit they were nothing more than holes in the ground. There was more, including cots and a television. Nothing was lavish and a homeless man wouldn't want to live in such a place. Flies were everywhere as was the stench. The barracks area was empty considering the firefight that was erupting everywhere. The last area was the most heavily protected. Factories were run by low level lords, most of whom weren't very important to the cartels except that they ran the factory. Still, they acted as if they were the most important individuals ever. It was apparent in that the "office" was the nicest part of the factory. "Nice huh?" One of them commented to themselves as they pushed into it, hoping to catch everyone they could. The office was empty and that meant only one thing, they had escaped. That was apparent when moments later, the commlink became active.

"Squad One. Report in."

"Roger that. Status?"

"We got some runaways."

"Good. Good. How many?"

"Two captured. Sixteen dead."

"Anybody of importance."

"Some guy wearing a gold chain."

"Yeah. Wait one." They looked around the office to find a picture of a man with a gold chain. He must have been the factory manager. "Does he have a beard?"

"Yes sir."

"Good. You've got the manager there. We're on our way up."

"Roger that. Explosives?"

"Planting."

"Aye sir." Explosives were placed throughout the factory and all tied together on a common radio detonator, a detonator they would trigger when they were a quarter of a mile away. The explosion was so great that it not only shook the terrain but uprooted the entire factory, trees included.

[ooc: looks like the fun starts blowing up :D]

Sparetti didn’t know whom he was seeking – all he knew was that the business was urgent. He didn’t want to disturb Emilia, who was somehow having the time of her life. They had only been together for three months, and already their relationship was amorous as if they had been married for twenty years. Of course, that was preposterous, since Vicenzo was only 25 years-old, and Emilia was three years younger. But they were intensely in love’s passion; nearly every night, they shared the same bed, with the sheets always somehow managing to end on the floor.

But Vicenzo wasn’t always in his mind, thinking about his operations, both illegal and legal. He didn’t worry about them, but he did invest good time to think about what would profit him the best. It was in between these thoughts that he thought of Emilia and he would kiss her serenely on the cheek. And while he thought and kissed, he wondered how they could ever live together, since he would live three lives – a successful businessman, an opulent Mafioso, and a romantic lover. In some way, he was already living the tri-part lifestyle. He had cancelled his luxury vacation in Saint Lazare to make a surprise tour of Rome, a city that Morelli had imagined for the longest time since she was a little girl in Venice. Under the Roman authority, the city glistened as a sanctuary of the past. The Colosseum was the pinnacle of the city, along with the Forum and the Pantheon. The roads were rebuilt in the precise Roman fashion, and it amazed Emilia with every step that she took on the paths. She sincerely admired Rome, but unlike much of the populace, she detested Latin.

“È una vecchia lingua, non?” [It's an old language, is it not?] she said, and Sparetti would willingly confirm her opinion. By “old tongue”, she often meant “useless” but more often, she began to think of Latin as less “romantic” – ironically, considering the Latin and Roman [hence “romantic”] influence on the Italian, of which she thought as a superior and fluid language. It was the language of Dante and the language of the Renaissance. It was the language of Verdi and Garibaldi. It was her language, and regardless of how much the world lost the language, she would continue to speak it as if nothing else mattered.

It was for that reason that she fell into Vicenzo’s watch – because they were both ardent Italians. Of course, Vicenzo was Italian for Family, but Emilia was Italian for herself. Nonetheless, they loved the company, and they found other things to admire – Emilia’s flaxen hair and deep green eyes, Vicenzo’s rouge and azure; Emilia’s sweet smile, Vicenzo’s serenity; Emilia’s caressing hands, and Vicenzo’s suave style. They were nearly a perfect match – if only he were more holy and more uninhibited.

It was a rainy day over the Tiber River, while Vicenzo awaited the confirmation call. Emilia began to notice his anxiety more often than not, and it troubled her, since they were alone as they passed over the bridge. “What’s wrong?” she asked him.

“Me?” Sparetti replied. “It’s business. Never wants to leave me alone, especially when I’m with you.”

“I thought you were on vacation.”

“I am,” he said, laughing a little. “But I suppose I need better subordinates, people who know what to do when I’m not around.”

Emilia smiled in return, hugging him around the chest. “I think they’ll have trouble once they release that we have each other.”

“Indeed,” Vicenzo said. He returned the embrace. It was only a short walk through the gentle rain from there to their hotel room. It wasn’t a penthouse, as it was in Saint Lazare, but it was a comfortable room, with a wonderful view of Rome and a three adjoining rooms, presumably for guests. But they didn’t use them at all – not even Vicenzo offered to share the room with his associates, opting to buy separate rooms [through an underling, of course – business never crossed his hands directly]. While some might have considered it stupid that they walked in the rain without any cover, neither Emilia nor Vicenzo cared to think about it. In any case, it was probably too late; Emilia’s turquoise dress was probably ruined and Vicenzo’s white shirt had plenty of wet stains.

They rode up the elevator with an elderly couple. They had enough restraint to wait until they were alone before they decided to snuggle each other in their arms. Once at their floor, they continued to snuggle and only stopped to make a race down the hall to their room. As he opened the door, he felt something awkward from behind it and immediately the playful behavior. Emilia was already in passions, and didn’t want to stop, but Vicenzo insisted very strongly. Before he could explain, three shots rang out from behind the door. Emilia screamed; two mistresses came out of their rooms to check out what was going on as Vicenzo pulled out his Beretta and shot the lock on the door. Suddenly, a rattle of bullet flew out of the wall. Although the shots were silent, there were visual witnesses who saw what happened, and they all fled, screaming. Vicenzo grabbed Emilia and hid away from the gunfire. Some two hundred bullets riddled the walls, and seeing no end to the barrage, Vicenzo went over to the nearest fire alarm and pulled it down. Emilia was completely confused and already scared – she asked Vicenzo what was going on. He hushed her and told her to go downstairs, to wait for him as he made one last try to get back into the room. The perpetrators had stopped firing, assuming that the authorities were arriving. It would be the best time to drop into the room. He saw that the wall was weak from the gunshots, and with the fire alarm to mask his steps, he covered over the door and braced himself against the wall. He picked up a stray bullet and put it in his pocket, salvaging it for future examination.

At the last moment, Sparetti jumped through the wall and slid down behind the kitchen island. His entry was a shock to all assailants, and they frantically tried to kill him. But his surprise gave him all the advantage. He collected himself from behind the marble island and waited for a calm break. They would eventually have to change magazines, unless they were smart enough to change in between each others’ shots. But of course, they had one critical break, and Sparetti aimed his pistol over his right side, shooting away in one direction to distract them. Immediately, he turned the corner and aimed carefully at one assailant. They were both very young – probably his own age or younger, and they were definitely inexperienced. The one he was aiming at was dressed in black-ops clothing – the extremely cheap kind – and was having a difficulty reloading the magazine into his MP5. He didn’t like the scene, but these two assassins had already angered him enough. He fired a single shot and hit him dead. The other person dropped his weapon and pleaded for mercy. Vicenzo then came out and aimed straight for his head. He kept his hand steady as he shuffled the boy into one of the spare rooms, locking the door.

The assailant-turned captive was excessively submissive; it apparently wasn’t his job to kill people, so he couldn’t really punish the boy. With the gun still level at his head, he ordered the man to undress and change into different clothes. The youth hesitated at first, but after Vicenzo shot the wall, he willingly obliged. Just then, his phone rang – “Si?”

“Don Sparetti, we found our contact man. He wants to speak to you directly.”

“Bring him. And get to the hotel as quickly as you can – I’ve got a problem. Bring a fast car and take care of Emilia while I have some business to attend to.”

“What’s the problem?”

“I’ve got a boy who dropped his gun and is asking for some ice.”

“Ice? That bad? We’ll be right over!”

With that, Vicenzo hung up and continued to aim the gun at the young man’s head. After removing his trousers, he began to cry, which almost made Sparetti want to shoot him to end his own misery. But he needed information – who was he? Who ratted on him? Who wanted him dead? And he would get that information from this one, unless of course, he continued to cry.

“Shut up, you bastard!” Vicenzo then yelled. “Dammit, and change faster; I’d hate to kill someone like you, but if you don’t make me happy, I will simply leave you behind.”

“Don’t kill me!” the man then cried, bawling out his eyes, half-naked. Vicenzo couldn’t believe his ears – in the midst of a blaring fire alarm with three minutes to go at the very most – this man was crying like a baby with a gun aimed at his head. It was a worse nightmare than he could have imagined, especially since Emilia was involved as well. He flipped the man around and pushed him against the wall, pressing the gun directly on his forehead.

“Do you want me to kill you?” he said, calmly and collectedly. The man, unable to give an answer, shook his head. Vicenzo smiled. “Then get out of that stupid special ops uniform and dress into something casual. Goodness, I’ve already stretched my good graces enough – don’t make me regret having to do it later on.”

The man nodded quickly and started to rush through his change. Apparently, the excitement had caused a little leak, but Vicenzo wasn’t in any mood to get any worse. He tossed some of his own clothing at the captive and pulled out a briefcase. He opened it and pulled out some duct tape; and while the man was still putting on the shirt, Vicenzo grabbed his arms and taped them at the wrist behind his back. Having secured the arms, he tore it off and taped around the man’s mouth. All of this time, he had his gun aimed at his head – and just the Roman firefighters were starting to funnel down the hall to investigate the causes, Vicenzo had already shuffled his captive down twenty stories out the back down the fire escape ladder. Below, he had his crew ready to take the captive to a safe house, and another car to take him to meet with the point man.

What a day this was turning out to be…

Don Maggiano received two calls from his yacht, still anchored in Saint Lazare. One came from Don Raguso, explaining what had happened to Monsignore Domenicatti. His shipment of crack was delayed because of Raguso’s legitimate concern for the old man – and Maggiano indeed preferred this. Family always came before business, because otherwise, there would be no business without the Family. What concerned him more was the second call – from his own son in Rome. Luigi had disappeared, and their apartment was flooded with police and crime scene investigators – all Roman authorities. Someone had compromised their position, and he was receiving word that Sparetti had fallen into some ill-will. And he looked to one man who would have been the only one to control it all – Caesarini.

He had every reason to do so – he was a youngster punk who wanted to take care the “non-Italian” folk of Doomingsland, and he often disagreed with the older Capi in terms of business. This man placed business first apparently, so Maggiano could easily consider the ties finished. After all, Caesarini threw the gauntlet first, so it would be to the Family’s honor that Maggiano reply with a harder punch. The question would then be how.

It was three days since the opera premier in Saint Lazare, and despite having little else to do there, he stayed docked in the port, enjoying the atmosphere. He liked a lot of what he saw, especially with the prime business opportunities [both illicit and otherwise]. He did like the loose atmosphere, although he felt that it was perhaps too loose and allowed too much leniency. But people lived as they desired and they died as content beings – it was good place to raise an honest and simple family, something that Maggiano didn’t have.

It was a light afternoon, with some moderate cloud cover. He was reclining out on the deck, with Maria reading a book – something in the order of Machiavelli. She was devout in the matters of a strong family order, and for that, she was portrayed as the more medieval one than Silvestro – and it was perhaps accurate. He was contemplating what he would with Caesarini when he caught him, while la Donna had already made up her mind: dunk him in a sea of shark infested water while he confessed his sins to a father being eaten apart, limb by limb, piece by piece – from his feet to his heart. And then she would deal with Maria Gioiosi – abandon her in the deserts of Algeria and leave her with a package of deadly scorpions, labeled “Acqua”. Yes, she should die the more agonizing death of starvation and tantalization. And if she should want to die sooner, she could open the package and let the scorpions do their worst and force her into a paralysis of the body, so she can think herself to death. In the unlikely event that she made it back to civilization, she wouldn’t take any more chances with the witch and shoot her herself.

Just then, a guard came over and told them that they had a visitor: “Signore Feudantal.”

Both Maria and Silvestro smiled. For the past three days, since the opera, the boy has been their faithful child, as Don Maggiano paid him good money to do with his life as what he wished to do with it, in return for a few favors. The boy was complacent with it all and had given Don Maggiano the information that he wanted each day. And although he didn’t care what the boy did with the money that he had earned, his associates informed him that he saved half of it in a bank and gave the rest to his mother – who sometimes wasted it on the casino and sometimes bought nice things, even a full-course dinner the first night. Gaston was certainly a child who cherished family, perhaps even a valuable addition to the family – although he was a native Monegasque and not Italian.

The boy came up to the deck and Silvestro invited him to a chair not too far from the edge. “Tell me, how is your day?”

“It is going well, Monsieur.”

“That’s good. Very good. I’m glad that you’re doing well.”

“The man who runs these docks is Monsieur Pierre du Chalôns. He runs a private docking company on the International Island as well. In fact, he is the sole owner of all the commercial docks and ports in Saint Lazare. The man is a close friend to the Grand Duke, and he is expected to receive a title very soon.”

“Nobility?”

“There are none so far – except maybe the Marshall, but he’s a military person.”

“Do you know his name off the top of your head?”

“Eh… not really. I do know that his son is a football player for the country – Monsieur Alain de Rocquefort. He’s very good, but I personally like Christian Zakouri…”

“That’s all good. I enjoy hearing about your country – it’s so small yet fascinating.”

Gaston nodded. “What is Sicily like?”

Maria placed her hand on Silvestro’s arm, indicating that she would take this reply. “Sicily is a grand land, the home of many great Italians. The country is beyond the world of Italia, and yet it boasts a richer culture and a more profound nature. We live in the shadow of a fiery monster, in whose wake we prosper. And beyond the monster is a country land of rolling hills, rich forests, and wide plains, growing whatever the land can support. The orange groves are particularly wonderful – you can pass through them and absorb their aroma. They don’t grow very tall, but it doesn’t matter. In fact, it’s better because you pluck the fresh and ripe oranges from the tree and cut them right there. They’re always sweet and tangy, with a luscious flavor of the country. If you go further out to Palermo, the city invites you to a rich fishing culture. You can linger there for hours, next to the fisher’s market, for his grand catch of the day. Of course, the fish never smells good when it’s raw, but just a few blocks down is a famous restaurant. They take that grand catch and chop it into a fine fillet. They dip it in olive oil, hinted with oregano and myrtle; they chop onions and finely ground the garlic with some rosemary. They bake it in the same oven that cooks pizza and bruschetta, so the flavor of ripe tomatoes and parmesan cheese is always fresh on the fish. And they’ll have a glass of Calabrese on the side, with a plate of anchovies dipped in olive oil and some artichokes. It’s all from Sicily so you can enjoy the flavor and the tradition.”

With all that Maria had described, Gaston had begun to water his mouth, and Silvestro noticed almost immediately. Maria smiled upon seeing it and asked him, “I see that you are very hungry for the world. Would you care to stay for dinner tonight?”

“I would, but Maman would be worried about me.”

“Ah, we could take care of that,” Silvestro said. “In fact, if she would like it, we could invite her here.”

“But she has no way to drive here. The bus route takes her to La Condamine…”

“I have a company of men who could bring her here. I insist you stay for dinner.”

Gaston nodded. “Let me call Maman!” He rushed away with some joy in his feet, and Maria rose to a little dance, singing in her head. Silvestro rose likewise and held out his hand to her. “Might I join this dance?” Maria didn’t hesitate to reply: “Si…” And they danced together to this song. Indeed, she was the perfect Mafiosi wife.

"Sir I have the latest report from Project VIPER." The Minister of Intelligence said as he strode into the wide open and ominous doors of the Emperor's office. The ceilings were high and the doors went almost the entire twenty feet. The windows were made of a special glass, which not only was blast and bullet proof but also one way. You could only see out, not the other way around. Burning torches lit the room normally but they could be augmented by an ornate chandelier above, which was also lit by candles. The castle was old, very old, and despite all the modern toys added to it, it was still old. "Here you go."

"Thank you. Let's see here. What have we got? Only sixteen captures so far." He began reading. "Sixteen captures. Three factories destroyed? Not bad for a week and a half. Estimated to be between 150 and 300 cartel casualties. That's hardly a dent. Alright. The Marauders are doing their job, it's evident."

"Sir. If I may interject?"

"Go ahead."

"Sir. The Marauders may be an SOF but they aren't exactly secret. Cartel leaders watch their bases with telephoto lenses. They know half of the movements we make."

"This is true and apparent since we haven't netted anyone major yet."

"Yes sir."

"What do you suggest?"

"At the moment sir, nothing I can think of aside from moving the base of operations."

"A sizable operation if it were."

"Indeed sir. We do need to provide more secrecy to them or else the reports will be very similar."

"How effective are they?"

"Currently? Between fifty-two and sixty-four percent."

"Shamefully low."

"Indeed sir."

"Very well. I will put it to thought. Maintain the status quo."

"Understood sir. I'll leave the report with you."

"Good. Good." The report was of Project VIPER, an extremely classified operation being conducted by a joint force from the Central Justice Agency, Central Intelligence Agency, 6th SOF "Marauders," and anti-drug units within law enforcement groups throughout the Empire. It was need-to-know and very few people needed-to-know. It was a subsidiary of Project VENOM, which was public, very public. VENOM was the "War on Drugs" as it was called throughout the media but on all government reports it was Project VENOM. With VENOM being so public the information gained from captured cartel leaders and members would have to be kept extremely private. Project VIPER was just that, the interrogations of the cartel members and leaders. They were not "kosher" and they were conducted by the most capable interrogators. These were the individuals sent to interrogate terrorists and revolutionaries. They could have anyone talking in a few weeks but days were more common. If the public got wind of what those "interrogation tactics" were they would be unhappy. The public had no love for the cartels and they were well aware that the military widely used torture and obscure tactics during interrogation but there were civil rights and liberties in effect for domestic individuals. Criminals were rarely tortured and, technically, the cartels were just criminals. They weren't revolutionaries, they weren't terrorists, in the traditional sense, and they weren't enemy spies. They were citizens, most of them, who were just engaging in some of the most horrific crimes short of the four capital crimes: murder, rape, crimes against children, and treason.

They were a quasi-mafia and instead of dealing with gambling and tax evasion, they sold poison to children, teenagers, and adults. They had no care for what effects their drugs caused and as long as they were making money they would keep making and selling them. It wasn't their business to know what happened. They were terrorists, in a way, but not in any definition that would be acceptible by the populace, even if the populace thrived on law, order, and respect for the laws of the Empire. They would get no support from the general populace but neither would they lose points. The interrogation methods that were going to be used by the task force, which was codenamed the "VENGEANCE Force" and their operatives were called "VANQUISHERS."

Project VIPER had begun the day that the first factory was blown up and five cartel members captured. They yielded only low-level information and it was barely a start. Two more strikes netted another eleven cartel members, including the son of a high-ranking cartel figure. He had been tough to break, at first, and only the previous day had he been broken. Interrogators had worked on him day and night, using the best tactics that they had. The boy was strong but stupid. He had the will to fight the interrogators but he was too unsure of himself in these situations to be very stable over time. This report revealed just what he had said in the previous sixteen hours. He was a member of the Florida Cartel and he was personally heading up the development of Valkyr, the designer drug that would put the Florida Cartel on the market. Vials recovered from the Havana apartment shooting were all present in the main operations HQ for the project, located in southern Florida, just south of Tampa. Valkyr was still only really effective as an injectable drug. In a tablet form it's effects were less than half and they took up to twenty minutes to take effect. This wouldn't do. The plan for Valkyr was to spread it around the Empire for §20 a hit, on the street, but it would cost them well under §0.50 to make each tablet. The more they made, the cheaper it was. Valkyr was going to put the Florida Cartel well above their Colombian and Venezuelan rivals, which could ignite a war within the three clans but, at the same time, they were prepared. The Florida Cartel was large and encompassed the entire island of Cuba whereas the Meta and Esmeralda Cartels may have had influence throughout their states but they didn't have as vast a production area. They were much more isolated, meaning that they were much easier to take out, once discovered.

OOC: Hirgy, actually Valkyr hasn't been sold yet. The test cases were all cartel members. Sorry.

OOC: Bugger. Will it ever get to the selling phase, or are you planning to eradicate it before then?

Caesarini looked about his desk, strewn with papers from his agency – a latifundia organization, with plantations around Latium and Umbria. Some associates had just arrived, waiting for him to permit their entrance. He knew that they were standing there, but he’d rather finish his letter report to the Roman taxing agency, hoping to avoid any complications with his profits returns. They waited about five minutes and only entered after a servant had taken the letter to be sent directly to the tax offices.

“What’s the word?” he asked them.

“The Japs took the coke bait and our point man says that they’re still thinking over it.”

“They take too long,” Caesarini replied, standing up and lighting a small cigar. “What has it been? Four days? Five? It’s almost a week. They’re taking too long.”

“Mio Capo, they want to make sure that they’re making a good investment.”

“Heh, then they shouldn’t do it then. I’ll tell you; if you’re spending 5 days – 5 fotte days – you’re thinking too much about it, and you shouldn’t even worry about it. That’s the problem with these Japs, you know; I can’t even imagine why I thought about conscripting those freaks!” He paused as his associates watched on. “You know? I didn’t tell anyone what they’re supposed to be doing. And they spend 5 fotte days thinking about it. What could they be thinking about?”

He tossed away his cigar, not even half-done. He took a slip of paper and wrote furiously over it. “You tell Orfeo to get those people to get that point man in Nippon and get those Japs to decide now! I’m not waiting another fotte week! This is a waste of my time, not theirs. They might have the luxury but I don’t.”

“Si.” With that, they all rushed out with the note and left Niccolo alone. Maria, following their exit, came to his room and settled on his chair, while he paced about, smoking the cigar that he had tossed earlier. She was wearing her typical dress, and likewise smoking on a long cigarette, so the room soon filled with smoke. For the while, they said nothing, as Maria watched Niccolo anxious pace across the floor.

“You know, Don Maggiano won’t tolerate you much longer. I say strike now while they’re not expecting it.”

“Lo fotte!” Caesarini replied, glancing only once at Maria. “I’ve spent too much time on this project. I’m not going to let Family get in the way of it all.”

“This project is what Silvestro will want to destroy. He’s already got his suspicions about you; you know that. Why wait to destroy him before he can do any harm to you?”

“I don’t need the Family. And Rome does a good job enough; I don’t need to involve them.”

“Don Caesarini,” Maria then said, turning more sensitive. She rose from the chair and walked over to his pacing path and stopped him. She forced him to sit down and relax, while she whispered thoughts into his ears.

“Maggiano is already coming, and I can smell the problems of his interference. You know how innovative he is – he will try to stop you and stop this project of yours. Hell, he might even want to replace you with someone more compliant – more servile. This project might never even materialize when Don Maggiano realizes how far this has gone, because a war with Doomingsland is the last thing on his mind. He is a Doomani citizen, after all…”

As she spoke, something clicked in his mind. He stood up and turned around. “You’re right.” He inhaled his joint one last time before tossing it out the window and away from his tarnished floor. He wrote a quick note and gave it to Maria. She smiled. “I don’t want Family interfering – do whatever it takes to get him out of my way.”

“Absolutely.” With the note, she left and Niccolo immediately began to feel more at ease with the way things were going.

OOC: Bugger. Will it ever get to the selling phase, or are you planning to eradicate it before then?

OOC: It'll be in the selling phase very soon, I just have some minor details to go over with it first and then it'll be widely available through the cartels on the streets of many places for like §15 - §20 per hit on the street.

Smoke rose on the horizon about one hundred and forty miles away from the villa in Esmeralda. "¿Usted ve eso? ¿Qué es eso?" [You see that? What is that?]

"El golpe militar otra vez. Eso es nuestra fábrica de café" [The military hit again. That's our coffee factory.]

"Nosotros no podemos tener esto. Ellos obtienen cierra también." [We can't have this. They are getting too close.]

"Sé. Tengo que ya en los trabajo. Los Merodeadores, ellos se son infiltrados." [I know. I have that already in the works. The Marauders, they are infiltrated.]

"¿Cómo?" [How?]

"Tengo a un hombre por dentro." [I have a man on the inside.]

"¿Cuán bueno es él?" [How good is he?]

"Él es mi mejor. Yo lo confío con mi vida." [He's my best. I trust him with my life.]

"Bueno." [Good.]

***********************

The Marauders were working hand-in-hand with locals now. They had made contact with no fewer than twenty individuals, all of whom hated the cartels and wanted them out. They were feeding information to the Marauders, in fear of their lives and that would be repaid, somehow, if they survived. Several people tried to feed them misinformation but they were found out eventually. They had just been fed information on a cocaine processing factory inside of a coffee factory, which definitely wasn't uncommon. The factory was located approximately one hundred and fifty-five miles to the west of Esmeralda, the home of the head of the Esmeralda Cartel, a city that a division of paratroopers would have to take if they wanted to take it effectively. The city was home to countless cartel members and the local population was sympathetic to them except for a pair of informers, who had already warned the Marauders of the danger they would face if they were to seige the city. They heeded the advice wisely.

The two eight man teams of Marauders came in hard in a Bulldog V/STOVL transport and fast roped onto the roof of the factory, the Minigun on the port side of the Bulldog engaging a pair of gunmen only forty meters from the landing point. They stormed the factory hard and it was loaded with gunmen, over a hundred of them, most of whom were armed with assault rifles and Uzis. The final nail in the coffin came when the Marauders set off over twenty pounds of plastic explosives and primer chord, turning the factory into a pile of rubble. The only coffee that they found were in cups and pots, being brewed. It was nothing less than a cocaine factory and they netted another six captures, which would serve Project VIPER very well, especially since one was a high member.

It wouldn't be long before the cartels were running dangerously low on gunmen. They would need guns-for-hire and that meant one thing, mercenaries, and lots of them. Things were definitely taking a turn for the worse...

Location: Unknown; presumably Eastern Somalia
Time: 2400

The bar was restless and dim. The absence of sunlight made little difference as the heat was still blistering, filling the room with a deep haze. Dust and dirt hung heavy as lumbering feet stepped and trampled thee ground. It wasn’t a very big bar or nice for that matter. It was located in a dark alley in a bad town in an even worse city, it was perfect. The bar itself didn’t actually ever close, usually just going through lulls. The low lives that made up its regulars would pass out only to wake, find themselves in a bar, and continue drinking as if they hadn’t missed a beat. Bar fights usually ended in death as law was distant and powerless in what seemed like a hidden corner of the country. The constant commotion proved as any movie would have it, the perfect place for a meeting you didn’t want anyone getting the wiser to.

The informant moved with a hesitant grace that would usually give himself away had there been anyone of any importance or skill to intercept. He crept forward settling himself on the opposite side of his superior who sat perfectly fit into an everlasting shadow.

The informant spoke softly and deliberately, “They took the bait…with some skill I must admit. Not one person survived, god damn not one! You were right, they knew which ship they only took one of the manifests, let the other for the cops.”

The shadowed figure began, “Of course I was right it wouldn’t be much of a trap if I didn’t eh?” The question was obviously a rhetorical one and thus was answered with no response. He continued, “You mentioned the cops…what is their business now?

“Ha! Cops, they have no idea what is going on. They have 14 bodies in the morgue with no real answers, by the time they figure out it wasn’t about them it’ll be too late.”

“Indeed, what about you, what do you know?” This wasn’t a rhetorical question and the informant responded.

“I’m fine and don’t worry I have my eye on the two. If I may be so bold, what are you going to do? They know what ship it’s on, will you change it?”

“By all means no, they would know if we changed it and than they would know that we know who they are! As long as we have it we will always know where they will be.”

With that the informant could take a cue and got up to leave. He walked out the bar into the hot humid African night and blinked hard. The air shocked him, being cooped up in that small room full of stale and rotten air had dulled him slightly. He slid his hands into his pockets placing them only a short distance from his 9mm. A few moments later a police telephone connection in Mozambique erupted into noise. The line itself was highly secure, only for top priority emergencies known within federal agencies. Yet the voice said only one word in a scruffy distorted voice, “Sindina”.

OOC: My country just moved to a new Island so everything as far as cities will be different. So bare with me here.

9:45 pm, Ouvea Island, St. Joseph, Warehouse.

The sky was dark with only a few stares in the sky. A very fog has come over the warehouse district. Jammorn Falconsflight pulls up to pear warehouse in his Aston Martin DB7 Vantage.

http://library.thinkquest.org/C0127523/media/db7-vantage_volante.jpg

He pulled up to the warehouse. He opened the door, and stuck his head out to make sure the coast was clear. He stepped out and locked his car. The car made a beeping noise as he engaged the car alarm. He walked into the dark warehouse. The building was quiet, nothing stirred not even a mouse. "Alright I'm here now were's my money?" Still nothing made a sound. Jammorn looked around. He began to shack with anger. All the sudden the dark figure he had met in the bar appeared. "So ware’s my money?" Clang Clang two shell casing hit the floor as Jammron sunk down dead with two bullet wounds to the chest. The dark figure unscrewed the silencer to his H&K USP handgun. "Indeed my friend.... Indeed" the dark figure walked out of the warehouse and pulled out his keys to his car. He unlocked his Pontiac Firebird.

http://www.marshu.com/images-website/cars-concepts-future-supercars/pontiac-firebid-concept-car-bird-of-prey-2000-t-top-trans-am.jpg

He stepped in and turned the car on. He opened his glove box and stowed his handgun. He pulled away from the warehouse leaving skid marks and smoke. His road down the dark road heading for town. He reached for the radio and flipped through the channels until he found a song he liked. He stopped on a channel that had one of his favorite songs playing. With you, by Linkin park. he continued down the road. This was his 232 kill as a neon sun hit man. He grew up in a town outside of St. Joseph. His father and mother were murdered by the Government for treason, when he was 17. Since then he's been working for the Neon Sun. His latest mission was to silence the silencer. The Neon sun didn’t want it to leak out that they were controlling the drug trade in Dweladelfia Prime. He was returning to meet with his Boss,
Aidan O'Reilly head of the Neon sun in St. Joseph. The Neon Sun was the Irish Mafia in the Imperium. They controlled arms sales, drug sales and all around organized crime in the Imperium. People in Dweladelfia Prime feared the name Neon Sun. Anyone who got in the way of the Mafia was never seen again.....

Sparetti did indeed manage to meet Giuseppe, and he learned of the extent of the damage caused. He also learned that Giuseppe was Maggiano’s son, which made the scenario more interesting – why would the Capo send his own son to do his business? Couldn’t he have spared some of his soldati to do the bidding? It must have been truly important, or otherwise, he would have sent someone less important to him personally. Of course, now that Giuseppe had lost his own brother in a police raid, the situation in Rome was becoming more hostile, and Sparetti had to resist becoming hostile. He’s already had to send Maria back home to Venice, against his true desires and wishes. He would have rather spent a whole day in bed with her, but right now, he’s got problems with the Family and the Business, and he wouldn’t tolerate it any bit.

His company was heading to a safe place in the hills of Rome, somewhere away from complete Roman surveillance. There was supposedly an old mine, dating back to the Emperor Nero, which was completely abandoned. It was there that they held their captive assassin, who has been undergoing dehumanizing techniques. He was suspended in the air with a harness that went around his chest and under his shoulders. His hands were free to move, but his body was anchored into place as his feet were secured to old chain and balls. When Vicenzo had arrived, it was the first time that the prisoner had seen light in two days. And while Vicenzo was normally hostile to his prisoners, he felt that this man was an innocent bystander caught in the drift of some plot to assassinate him. He ordered his men to stand away so he could interrogate the man more privately and perhaps with more success. After all, his ignorance might be a ploy to resist Sparetti’s brutal nature.

“And so, we meet again, mio amico.”

The man hung there, uncertain if he should reply. Sparetti nodded and continued to talk. “I do not know who you are, and I doubt that you know me. So, I think that it would be in your interest if you start to tell me who are you and what you were doing interrupting my vacation.”

“I… I… I…”

“Stop sputtering. That’s not going to make me very happy. In fact, I would do well to warn you that I have a bad temper. If you make me angry, I will shoot you from you are hanging. I don’t care what you do, I will shoot. And just to prove it, here’s my gun. The safety is off.” He took a quick aim and fired into the distance. “It works perfectly fine, as you can see. I cannot guarantee that I will miss you, since you are standing there just two meters away, and my aim is very well-placed. So it will do you well to make me happy. If you do everything right, I’ll let you down and we can call this a day. Capisce?”

“Si.”

“Good,” Sparetti said, somewhat relaxing himself. “Because we’re all alone here, and my men won’t know if I do kill you, because they won’t be coming back here at all. So speak now. What is your name?”

“Luciano…”

“Luciano. That’s a good name. Why were you trying to kill me?”

“I was hired…”

“I know that. Assassins rarely assassinate their targets – they hire people to do it for them. Who hired you?”

“I don’t know.”

With that reply, Vicenzo fired a bullet at Luciano’s hand, causing it to bleed profusely. “Mio! I said I don’t know! They never gave me a name!”

Vicenzo wasn’t happy with that reply either, so he shoot Luciano’s foot. “DIO! Why don’t you believe me?”

That only made Vicenzo more upset, so he fired another shot, at Luciano’s leg. “I DON’T KNOW!”

“You know something; stop lying!” Sparetti replied, hitting Luciano’s other hand.

“HE WORE A BLACK COAT!”

Vicenzo held his finger on the trigger, waiting for more. Luciano, sighing and panting heavily, felt some sense of joy. “He wore a black coat. His face was covered… by a black scarf… no, it wasn’t a man – it was a woman. She carried a folder with the room key to the hotel room and told me to go kill the first person that enters that room.” He paused. “I asked her how, and she gave me an MP5.”

"MP5?” Sparetti then said. “Was she working for the government?”

“No,” Luciano replied. “She had a necklace with a cross, and it said ‘VIVA ITALIA’ on it. She also mentioned that I should avoid the authorities, and I asked her if she worked with the government. She said it was for her family.”

“Family?”

“Si.”

Sparetti pondered at that. Only a few people mentioned anything about family. Don Maggiano was one of them – he was another. It seemed obvious to him that Don Maggiano might have been trying to set up him. But then why his own sons?

“Were you supposed to kill anyone else?”

“No.”

“Do you anything about Luigi Maggiano?”

“Who?”

“There was an attack on an apartment in the lower district in Rome earlier. Do you know anything about it?”

“Not really. The woman said that I could go after two men in an apartment, but I said that I didn’t want to do that.”

“Tell me exactly what she said.”

Luciano swallowed some his pain, although the adrenaline and anxiety was pretty much driving him at this point. He then replied, “I don’t remember it all, but she told me that if I didn’t kill someone, they would kill me. I asked her why. She said that someone had paid me a favor, so I owed them a favor back. I asked her whom, and she replied that she would have to kill me if I didn’t comply, so I agreed. She gave me a folder a week ago that had a picture of two men in the private docks by the Civitavecchia, and told me that I had to kill them. I said that I would not kill the both of them, since I only needed to kill one man. So she pulled out a picture of you and said that I will kill him or she would kill me. I didn’t want to kill anyone, I swear, but because she told me to, I agreed.”

Luciano fell silent. Vicenzo absorbed this information slowly but surely. It sounded more and more like Maggiano. But it didn’t make sense that Maggiano would to kill his own children. By this point, it was certain that someone in the family was doing this – only because he knew the extortion tactics and the methodology of Cosa Nostra businesses. Perhaps it was someone who didn’t like Maggiano. As he thought that, it began to make sense – Maggiano liked him, and he would certainly love his own sons. Someone wanted to ruin the man.

“Tell me, who do you know has helped you in the past?”

“No one.”

“That’s a lie, because this woman would not hunt you if you owed nothing. Did anyone help you get a job? Did anyone pay for your rent? Did anyone do you a favor? Anyone have favors on you? Money? Jobs? Rent?”

“Well… I met an associate who worked with Signore Caesarini – he’s one of the most prominent members of Rome’s latifundia corporate owners, although he’s not the biggest. But still, he’s extremely wealthy, and this man offered me a job to manage a plot over in Umbria. I’ve been working there ever since then.”

“How long ago was this? And why did he offer you the job?”

“I … It was two year ago. I was fired from my government post in Milan, and this man offers me this job. It paid very well and I spent practically nothing to do it. I accepted the offer and it’s been a pretty high life for me. Until now.”

“Hmm. You’ve got very good friends. Do you remember the name of this associate?”

“His name was Mercutio Valens… I think.”

Standing up, Vicenzo aimed his gun for Luciano’s restraints and shot him down from the ceiling. He landed with a thump on the ground and felt everything fall loose. He nearly screamed in agony, since his foot and leg were shot through. After the initial contact on the ground, Luciano held himself together and huddled to protect himself as Vicenzo put away his Beretta. With one final word, he told Luciano: “There’s only one way out of here, and it’s the way that I will be going. If you are wise, you will follow me. If not, my men will hunt you out of this mine and shoot you wild before burying you in this mine. You had no business to try to kill me, but since you’ve been cooperative and you’ve been a pansy, I think I can forgive you.”

“So… I’m free to go?”

“Not quite yet,” Vicenzo said, walking away. He turned back one last time and yelled back, “Because I’m letting you live, you now owe me a favor.”

"It's about time," Inquisitor Caius Cassius Quintus had said aloud when Herius had handed him this new assignment. This was the sort of thing he had been waiting for: decisive action against these barbarians. Not only were they incessent sinners, they had refused to become civilized. They continued to speak that warped form of his beloved tounge. They considered themselves 'Italians', not Doomani. He often woundered why these fools were granted the priveledge of citizenship.

It was absolutely disgusting that La Cosa Nostra had been allowed to exist for so long under the Imperial yoke; this was the very reason for whatever anger there was towards the Imperium's government in Italia. This was the source of all discontent. Purge them and you purge the primary source of heresy in this land.

Herius had chosen Quintus for one simple reason: he absolutely hated these people. He would kill whole families if he thought it would further harm the organization. He was young and over zealous. Precisely what would be required. Quintus was a man focused on one single task, and this single mindedness would blind him to Herius' overall goal.

Herius, unlike Quintus, did not want to exterminate the families. Cosa Nostra had existed for a very long time and annihilating it would probably be counter-productive. What Herius wanted was to cleanse those who would oppose the Wll of the Imperium, and those particular individuals did not appear to make up the majority of the organization. Those individuals where precisely what he had sworn to destroy with a holy vengeance. A brutal one, at that.

Hence his choice of Quintus for his agent in this destruction. He would not only kill the man he wanted dead: he would make sure every single individual even remotely connected to Caesarini's operation would be sent to the stake. Such thoroughness was Quintus' calling card.

Even though he was young, he was already forming a reputation as a man that went beyond the call of duty in his assignments, following up on raids in unimaginable ways. When he worked somewhere and left, there was no organized crime left to speak of. He was completely and utterly devoted to the Inquisition and Imperium, but still young and naive. He was perfect for the mission.

Arrangements had already been made for the task force. Air transport had been secured from the army along with a motorized century of Imperial Guard troops. They even managed to snag a stray tank section. The key section of the task force would be his eight-man Special Urban Assault Team, the Imperial Guard-equivelent of a SWAT team. These men would be the ones used on the actual raids, with the other hundred plus men providing backup in the event these mafiosi turned out to be as well armed as Quintus suspected.

He was, in essense, using his own personal conventional army to hunt down criminals. This was going to be very interesting.

He had met with the Imperial Guard commander, Centurion Sirus Decimus, a mere half hour before. He seemed to be a competent commander. He had been hand-picked by Herius, so his skill was almost assured. Loyalty was never an issue; however, soldiers generally detested Inquisitors. They were regarded as a pain in the ass. Hopefully there would be no problems in working together here.

Right now, Quintus found himself in the back seat compartment of a Velite armored utility vehicle riding with the rest of the detachment in the dead of night across the countryside. This would be his command vehicle. The rear compartment had been outfitted, at his request, with the proper communications gear and he had his laptop plugged in. With the exception of the two Guardsmen in the front seat compartment operating the vehicle, he was alone. He prefered to work this way.

The two men up front talked amongst themselves while the man in the passenger seat occasionaly glanced to his LCD monitor which gave him a view from the perspective of his remotely operated 15.7mm machinegun mounted to the roof of the vehicle. For all they knew the barbarians could be planning an ambush. All of this was probably overkill, but then again, that was one of the hallmarks of the Imperium.

REAF Headquarters, Møllergata 19, Oslo, Norway
The investigation of the drug bust a few nights ago had proven to be a very tricky one. The two suspects the REAF agents had arrested still refused to say anything, as was their constitutional right, but still. Two days in a normal police interrogation room was enough to break even the hardest criminal. Two days in a dark, moist cellar without any windows and a 60 watt lightbulb directly in your eyes while two or more agents asked relentless questions about everything and nothing with the occational threat to both the suspect and his family and friends ought to have cracked at least one of the suspect a long time ago. This had lead the investigators to suspect that there was more than just the normal organized crime hierarchy in play there. Now they suspected something like the mafia or yakuza, someone with a bad enough reputation to do ill against those who broke the silence. They would keep at it, but soon the suspects would have the right to have a barrister present. According to Cottish law, the police could only detain suspects for up to 48 hours before they either had to present them and the evidences against them before a judge, or release the suspect. Clearly, the latter wasn't an option. That left only for REAF to press charges against the suspects for drug crimes, something which meant that the suspects' status would change from suspect to accused, which meant that they had the right to have a barrister present during all court apperances and police interrogations.

The decision to press charges against the two suspects was taken by the leader for the REAF Prosecution Department, and the formal documents were written and prepared shortly thereafter. It was short and sweet, stating that the investigation unit for serious crimes had decided to press criminal charges against the two suspects on charges of violating § 162 a.) through f.) in the Law for Criminal Justice of 1982, which were all punishable by death by hanging. A prosecutor took the two pieces of paper from the printer, placed them in a folder and exited his office in the fifth floor, making for the elevator down to the first floor. Once there, he walked down a short corridor, glancing at the lobby on the other side of the bulletproof windows and looked at the people making their inquiries there. Before long, he had reached a checkpoint consisting of a set of tinted glass doors in the middle of a solid concrete wall where a uniformed guard sat behind a small desk, watching those who passed. The prosecutor gave the guard a friendly nod as he placed his ID card into the slot in the wall. The card checked out and the glass doors slid open, allowing the prosecutor to pass from the comfortable, friendly zone above and into the holding area below. He entered another elevator, this time to go down to the second basement where the interrogation cells were. He had to use his card once again along with a 4-letter PIN code to make the elevator move downwards. When the doors opened in the second basement, a dark, cold place consisting of concrete walls and floors, illuminated only by a few lights embedded in the ceiling. It was a very eerie and grim aura about the whole building here. The prosecutor shrugged unconciously as he passed a few corridors sealed off by barred doors, containing holding cells inside. Finally, after a sixty-meter walk down the corridors, the door to the interrogation cell was opened, interrupting the two agents sitting on the opposite end of the table. There wasn't much light thrown into the room, but sufficient to show the suspect sitting shackled to the chair on the other side of the table an outline of the two agents and another three standing in the dark, listening, observing. He had no idea they were that many here. Little did he know that there was another two behind him, also listening and observing. The prosecutor entered, closed the door, opened the folder and pulled out one of the documents and placed it on the table so the suspect could read it.

"Du er herved tiltalt for narkotikaforbrytelser mot Riket i henhold til Straffelovens paragraf 162. Du har nå rett til en advokat. Du har og fortsatt rett til å tie, men jeg vil gjerne minne deg på at dersom du ikke hjelper oss så kan ikke vi hjelpe deg..." [You are hereby charged for drug-related crimes against the Realm in accordance with article 162 of the Law of Criminal Justice. You now have the right for a barrister. You have the continued right to remain silent, but I would like to remind you that if you don't help us, we can't help you...]

"Hvordan tror dere at dere kan hjelpe meg da?" [And how do you think you can help me?] the man asked mockingly but not defiantly, the first he had spoken since he was arrested two days and two nights ago. The two days of ongoing interrogation had taken its toll.

"Vel, dersom du ikke hjelper oss med å finne ut hvor narkotikaet kom fra, så kan ikke vi hjelpe deg med å unngå renneløkken som venter deg når du blir dømt. Vi har alle bevisene vi trenger for å forsikre at det skjer." [Well, if you don't help us figure out where the drugs came from, we can't help you avoid the hangmans noose which awaits you when you're convicted. We have all the evidences we need to ensure that.] The prosecutor stated matter-of-factly. There wasn't if he was convicted. It was when he was convicted. The evidences were pretty strong, but a good lawyer could argue that he was at the wrong place at the wrong time, and that he hadn't said anything because he was afraid the police wouldn't believe him. However, there was nothing but silence, lasting thirty seconds before the prosecutor spoke again.

"Dette er din siste sjanse." [This is your final chance.]

Silence.

"Ikke?" [No?]

Continued silence.

"Vel, da blir det vel bøddelen neste da." [Well, next stop will be the hangman then.]

"Vent! Ikke gå!" [Wait! Don't go!]

The prosecutor looked at the accused, waiting for what he had to say.

"Dersom jeg snakker... da blir jeg ikke hengt?" [If I speak... I won't hang?]

"Dersom informasjonen du gir oss er god så skal vi gjøre vårt beste for å unngå dødsstraffen. Vi skal fortelle dommerne at du hjalp oss, og bønnfalle for ditt liv." [If the information you give us is good, we'll do our utmost to avoid the death penalty. We'll tell the judges that you helped us, and plead for your life.]

"Greit. Jeg skal snakke, men bare dersom du lover å berge livet mitt!" [Fine. I'll talk, but only if you promise to spare my life!]

"Dersom informasjonen er god så har du mitt æresord." [If the information is good, you have my word of honor.]

Giuseppe was sitting on the airplane to Florence. Sparetti was sitting in front of him. He had arranged to get Giuseppe out of Rome, as fast as he could afford to get them to safety. After interrogating a witness that he had had, it seemed that Rome wasn’t safe anymore. Of course, learning that Luigi was dead didn’t sit too well with him, having to leave Rome. He would have rather stayed in Rome and avenged his brother’s death – but Sparetti had convinced him to return to Tuscany, where the community was friendlier to him.

It was a short flight, and it didn’t permit him much time to sleep. Once they landed at the airport, Sparetti escorted Giuseppe to a black car while other men helped load an abnormally large crate into the back of a van. Giuseppe noticed that they had put the box with the “THIS SIDE UP” facing into the van. It was obvious that the box was too large to fit, but nonetheless they did that. Sparetti reassure Maggiano: “They’re doing their job.”

Giuseppe entered first, but Sparetti hesitated to follow. He wanted to make certain that they fitted the van properly. Seeing the thumps up from his crew, he entered the car and the driver went on his way to Giuseppe’s operations in the Tuscan country. He was a wine maker, and it was supposed a fine trade for a Mafioso, although it seemed awfully difficult to do Family business through it. It was a five hour drive through the country, on some back roads to reach the complex. “Why didn’t we take the road?” Giuseppe asked, upon seeing a perfectly furnished highway leading some distance to the house. Sparetti smiled and replied, “I try not to use the front door.”

Not too long after Sparetti and Maggiano made their way to the building, the van pulled up and popped out a chained captive – Luciano. Giuseppe was somewhat shocked to find out that Sparetti actually smuggled a human in a box that was supposedly full of wine bottles. Nonetheless, it was impressive to see it, but Sparetti didn’t wait to watch the whole story. He brought Giuseppe into his office – a comfortable room with an off-set blue color on the walls, files of neatly organized cabinets, a coat rack, a wide-screen television in the middle of several other smaller sets, and three couches arranged around a flat table made from olive wood. It was the table’s odor that made the room so aromatic, and while pleasing at times, it shared an equally pungent hint.

In all, Giuseppe was pleased to find himself in comfortable quarters. Sparetti settled himself behind his desk, removing his vest and tie and hanging it on the rack. Underneath his vest was his gun harness, bearing his beloved PX4, a standard for most in the Cosa Nostra. Giuseppe had left his in the apartment that had been raided, so he was without a sidearm.

After sitting at his desk, he waved a sign to his guards, who then brought in Luciano. They removed his handcuffs and settled him on the couch opposite Giuseppe. With that settled, they left to wait outside the office. Giuseppe desperately tried to find an ashtray, but he couldn’t find anything, so he dared to ask, “Do you smoke?”

Vicenzo pulled out a bottle of his own wine and poured it into three glasses. “I’m sorry. It’s something that I never particularly liked. You know, if you’re going to die anyway, why not take a less visible poison?”

Luciano chuckled a little bit. Giuseppe glanced over at the guest and saw the various cuts and bruises all over him, and the bandages over his hands, legs and feet. It seemed awkward that Vicenzo would invite something so battered into his own private quarters. Nonetheless, he did, and they were all gathered in the same place.

“Tell me, Luciano. Is this one of the men that you saw in the picture?” Vicenzo asked.

“I think so. He was wearing glasses in the picture, but his hair is definitely the same color.”

“What picture?” Giuseppe asked.

Vicenzo then handed a glass to Giuseppe and pointed to Luciano. “That man was conscripted to kill me. He also tells me that he was conscripted to kill you as well.” With that, Vicenzo handed Luciano a glass. Giuseppe thought a little while, and suddenly lashed out at Luciano. “You sick bastard! Why did you kill my brother?”

Vicenzo stopped Giuseppe just as he was reached to grab Luciano, who was scurrying away and ran into Vicenzo’s coat rack. He tried to grab it before it knocked over the bottle of wine, but instead, Vicenzo caught it and set it down softly on the table while still restraining Giuseppe. He whispered to Giuseppe: “Killing him will not bring back your brother.” And then he let go of him and set him back on his couch. Luciano was still back by Vicenzo’s coat rack, until Vicenzo pulled out so he could sit at his desk.

“You came to me, Giuseppe, because your father claimed that he has some business that he wanted me to do. As far as I know, there is no business. And Luciano, you tried to kill me because a lady told you to fulfill an obligation to repay your debts. In my mind, it’s pointing to your father, Giuseppe. He wants to kill me, but I ask why. We’ve been very amiable for these past years, and I’ve liked him very much. Like a father to me. So now I have a dilemma, because the same man who I think is trying to me is also trying to kill you. Why?”

“I don’t know,” Giuseppe said. “He wanted me to go to Rome to meet with you. Hell, I didn’t know your name, and he only told me to go to you.”

“What was the business?”

“I don’t know. I presume that he wanted me to check on Don Caesarini, because they has some quarrel at the meeting some time ago.”

“A quarrel with Don Caesarini?” Vicenzo said, recalling that Luciano worked a man named Caesarini. He turned to him and asked, “Who is your employer?”

Luciano shrugged. “I can’t imagine that it would be the same Caesarini. He’s a latifundia operator.”

“What’s his name?” Giuseppe asked.

“I don’t know the name exactly. It began with an ‘M’ or ‘N’ I think, but the man who connected me to my job was Signore Mercutio Valens?”

“Valens is not the man we’re after,” Vicenzo then said. “It’s Caesarini.” At this point, it seemed all too obvious. They had a quarrel, so Maggiano wants to make sure that things are still well with their relationship. But of course, Caesarini thinks that he’s being taken out, so he over-reacts. He kills Maggiano’s son and a man that he knew. But then, how would Caesarini know who he was? Only Maggiano knew of Vicenzo, at least in the family.

“It seems to me that Caesarini is revolting, but even now, part of the picture doesn’t fit. Caesarini doesn’t know me. At least he couldn’t have known me.” He again turned to Luciano, who stuttered at the sudden gesture. “That folder the woman gave you; did it have my name on it?”

“Not that I remember. All I saw was ‘Maggiano’ written on of them.”

“Maggiano?” Giuseppe asked. “As in ‘Giuseppe Maggiano’?”

“Yes.”

Giuseppe then stood up, and Luciano immediately recoiled. Rather than react harshly, Giuseppe decided to leave the room, saying, “I need some rest.” Vicenzo signaled to his guards: “Please take Signore Maggiano to his quarters. He needs rest.”

Two of the guards helped Giuseppe to his room, which was on the other side of the complex. Luciano looked at Giuseppe leave and looked back at Vicenzo. “That was Signore Maggiano?”

“Si. He was one of your targets, the one that you refused.”

Luciano brushed his hands through his hair, thinking about all of the ills that he had done. Vicenzo could see that the plague of desperation was all over him, just as it had once over him, until after Monsignore Ferrari died. He calmly finished his wine as Luciano began to cry.

“Mio amico, you cry too easily.”

“I could have killed him. I could have killed you. God, I should have never done anything!”

“Eh, I’ve already decided that I’m going to Hell,” Vicenzo replied. “I don’t cry about it. I’d imagine passing through those gates of Inferno, and reading Dante’s inscription: ‘Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate.’ Non?” [Abandon all hope, ye who enter]

Luciano continued to cry. Vicenzo pulled out his gun and let it hit the table, indicating that he was becoming upset. Luciano tried to stop his crying, but it still continued.

“You are too sentimental to be a professional killer; that is for certain. Whoever did hire you failed to check your background.”

“I’m not a killer,” Luciano replied, almost sternly.

“I know. Tell me, what do you do for a living besides watching farmers?”

“I write poetry.”

“How fitting,” Vicenzo remarked, pouring himself another glass of wine.

“Seriously,” Luciano continued, wiping his tears. “I translate poetry from Italian into Latin and from Latin into Italian. I’ve tried selling some books, but I’ve failed on nearly endeavor.”

“And you used to work for the government?”

“Well, I didn’t like the job. Actually, I hated it. I spent my hours in an office writing reports and documents on case studies of really bad criminals. I felt chained in a box.”

“Don’t we all?”

“I was about to quit, when one of superiors noted an absolutely horrible performance on one of my documents, because I wrote it in Italian. So I was fired for failing to conform to SOP guidelines. I think it was good ending to a bad job. I hope whoever replaced me likes the job.”

“Indeed.”

Vicenzo looked at his watch, and saw that it was time to sleep. He recovered his Beretta and covered his wine back in his desk. He then stood up with his glass and snapped his fingers. Extending a hand to Luciano, he said, “I hope to find you of good use to me. Otherwise, it’s to the gallows for you.” The guards standing around awaited Vicenzo’s instructions.

“Please take Signore Luciano to our special quarters and leave the door unlocked for him. But keep watch on it. I want to know if and when he wants to leave the room, but otherwise, he is free to stroll in the company of my men on this compound only. Anywhere beyond will be considered a breach of our agreement to his residency on my property, in which case, any guard witnessing the act will fire and if he so desires kill him. He is our special guest, and should not be denied basic needs, as such of food, water, company, and shelter. He is to be at dinner in my dining room at 1800 unless I am not here, in which case, he is free to eat dinner at his pleasure. Signore Giuseppe is not permitted to visit Signore Luciano except under my watch. Tutti capiscono?”

Everyone nodded their heads, and Vicenzo then lightly patted Luciano’s head, just as the guards took him away. “Make yourself useful and write your poetry.”

The keys on the keyboard came violently to life. Fingers tapped incessantly creating an almost harmonious hum aided only by the soft glow of the monitor. Windows illuminated themselves controlled by the cold click of the mouse. The man in front of the screen was no one of true importance, in fact he was simply a technical guy doing as he was told. Sweat, even know the room he was in was coolly controlled, began to trickle down the side of this face causing him to push his glasses harder against his face as they began to slip. His eyes lit up resulting in a hand being placed on his rather moist shoulder. “Ah! I’ve got it, it was a little tricky though,” he said in a triumphal voice.

“Well, what’s the deal?” The question came from FNA (Federal Narcotics Agent) Otieno Henning. Henning was a natural born African; however he was brought up in a very German background. At age 31 he was considered an old man amongst other FNA yet that provided him the highest rank; Captain. He was strong, cunning, and intelligent; a highly skilled opponent to anyone. As a captain he controlled a team of anywhere from 5 to 15 men which were also highly trained. The catch with his outfit was the fact that they were highly dangerous meaning they would be called in only to deal with situations which could and usually would get highly volatile. With the recent spike in criminal activity around the world most notably within the category of narcotics he was called to look into a mysterious phone call. He was further convinced that with the recent homicide of high end mafia syndicate leaders this phone call wasn’t a joke or prank.

“Sindina is a cargo ship…well a cargo ship part of a whole bunch slated to dock within and including the next 2 weeks.”

Henning replayed, “Well what was so hard about bringing that up seems easy enough?”

“Ah the tricky part. It was part of a two page manifest, one of which seemed to have disappeared not only in paper form but from the database as well.”

“That’s illegal?”

“Yes... just a little bit,” was the reply with a touch of sarcasm. The computer operator was slowly putting his situation together remembering on the news the slaying of the mob bosses. “You got the hint there might be something “illegal” on board?”

Henning now seemed annoyed as he was almost completely in the dark about this. “Well what’s the purpose of the ship or the ships docking?”

“I’ve already checked they all have perfectly good alibis though…could be fronts. You think the Sindina is carrying drugs?” The questions began to annoy Henning who was putting different scenarios together.

“What’s the hold of that ship…er…the capacity?”

“Large enough to hold anything you might have in mind and than some.”

“Alright thank you, that’s going to be it for now but stay frosty I might be coming back.” With that he walked away leaving the operator hungering for more information more questions. As for himself he too was starved for questions. He needed more information before he could do anything. With that in mind he would be heading to the department of Narcotics located in Windhoek. Meanwhile he would need to organize his team but that would only take one phone call to his most trusted lieutenant Kibwe Masozi. Masozi would take care of the assembly. As he was making his way via private jet to the capitol of USB Masozi would be organizing the team Mozambique.

His arrival in Windhoek was quiet and unnoticed by the locals. An entourage of officials and logistics greeted him with a Hummer and silence. From his expressions it was quite easy to make out he was no happy African. He could have easily fallen into some sort of trap. Why would somebody give him little to no information as if the whole thing was last minute, with little care placed on it? His anger was going to be displayed with much vigor when he arrived at the office. The office building itself was quite impressive. It was home to a number of agencies operating for the government thus creating a much active sky rising rising just short of some of the tallest buildings in Windhoek. This, however, didn’t impress him very much as he simply stormed into the building without care to security clearances or any of that. After much commotion he was able to make his way into the main office which housed head of the Federal Narcotics Agency Nicolaas Rudolf. Rudolf seemed readily aware of his intentions and thus spoke first.

“We have a man on the inside. You are upset by your lack of intelligence I know. We’ve been waiting for something like this for a long time; this is a major import of drugs on that boat not to mention high ranking officials within the underground mafia network. If we can capture these men we can blew the entire network open.”

“You’ve known about this?”

“Yes”

“You’ve known about the fronts, they have been bringing in drugs for how long and you knew about it.?” His voice was growing angry and for good reason. With the knowledge they had it was easy to figure out that they had been watching those cargo ships roll in for years. How many people have lost their entire life to these drugs, how many people have suffered?

“You are mistaken. We have nothing on these “fronts”, no real proof and without it we can’t go spelunking no matter how bad we try. Plus you have to figure they’ve done a few…hm, favors. The murder of syndicate leaders has given us enough information to make a bust and it fits perfectly into this shipment.”

“What about the deaths, what information do you have about them, who were the men involved?”

“No idea who they are, my agent is working on it. Whoever they are, they’re good! The only thing we can make out of that operation is what they took and where they’ll be. There was a manifest for a shipment which included the Sindina. They took the manifest and nothing else, no money, drugs, nothing. So th…”

He was cut off by Henning, “they’ll be at the docks too.”

“Right.”

“Looking for what…who are they working for?”

“As of right now I know about as much as you. You’ve got your orders; I expect nothing less than perfection.”

With a nod Henning turned and walked out even more puzzled than when he had walked in. He felt the need to go back, ask who the agent was but he knew the name wouldn’t be revealed and even if it was it would do little if anything. One question loomed in his mind…if it’s such a large bust what are those other men hunting for if it isn’t drugs? Nevertheless he knew that first and foremost was prepping his team which was located somewhere in Mozambique, he didn’t even know. Regardless he was on his way and about to dive into something he never saw coming.

Death Valley Queen

The alley way was damp as it had just been through a heavy rain. The asphalt glimmered against the pale moon struggling to shine through the dense thicket of clouds. The streets lights buzzed off and on fighting the ever changing censor caused by the lightning flashes still glowing in the distance. The footsteps of the cloaked man crunched and spat against the wet pavement. They echoed off the cold stone walls making it seem as if he was stomping his feet. He was on his way to a meeting, this time in a different atmosphere…the boss’s mansion. The alley seemed to get much darker as he walked and the cool night air forced him to keep close to his overcoat. A few quick sounds found the boss struggling with the man who was being forced against a wall by surprise. The end result was the drawing of pistols; the man with the barrel to the head of the boss and the boss with the barrel to the stomach of the man. With a grin the man cocked the hammer back.

“Its empty,” he whispered with a grimace on his face. The boss looked back in confusion slightly fidgeting and feeling his clip fall to the ground with a loud thud. His eyes again met the man and this time it was him who had the smile on his face.

“There is still one in the chamber.”

“It’ll take more than one there to kill me where you’ve got it, it’ll only take one from my standpoint,” was his reply.

Both men eased their weapons down and un-cocked them finally holstering them. The boss finally stepped into the light of a close by street light. His name was Romeo Amerigo; he was the man whom the cloaked fellow met at the bar. Romeo was large, bald, and brilliant yet rather gritty around the edges. His strength had caught the man by surprise as did the lack of a solid plan. Romeo was part of a deep Italian mafia in the midst of a battle for his future against Doomingsland. Most of his brethren were entangled in a mess in Italy and the rest of Europe but to secure a future they had to look at not only their homeland but the world wide market. He had taken the role of South African Syndicate Leader but later moved to Madagascar and now Somalia. His territory was running out and when information regarding a certain package had fallen into his hands he instantly went about claiming it. In a rather awkward silence the men walked into the nearby mansion that stuck out like a sore thumb in the Somalian slums. Amerigo motioned for him to sit in a lavish and extremely comfortable seat as he took the other which sat directly opposite his direction. A servant walked into the room carrying a tray gin which was distributed to both of the men.

“The police are on to this operation.” Romeo spoke softly as if retelling old news.

“You think I tipped them off!?”

“Who else knew, you must understand hiring people like yourself is a risk…well in itself. I however have my hands tied when it comes to this matter. I tell you we will not be moving the item and the police get involved forcing me to move it…exposing it. What am I to believe?”

“Trust is often a dangerous thing. Understand this I could have killed you many times but I didn’t why? Because I am a businessman above all else and why would I kill the man paying me so lavishly?” I can tell you this; it was those two renegades that made the call that tipped them off. That ship is now lost you will in fact be forced to move it. That is going to expose it you already know. Listen as long as the police are monitoring that ship they won’t do anything…they can’t.”

“You are saying leave it on a ship I know will be forcibly taken over?”

“You have two options: Let the cops have the ship, the package is concealed they won’t know they have it or transport it meaning those two renegades will have a crack at it.”

“And the police would be easier to take it from?"

“Not easier to take back, easier to keep track off, if those two get it they will disappear.”

The man’s steadfastness was utterly convincing as he was able to manipulate Romeo to his every will...or so he thought.

This is a news article taken from the Layartebian Times.

'Valkyr' - The New Death Drug
By Thomas Brown and Lucy Wright

Months ago, the War on Drugs was declared by the Emperor and by no small means has it been passed over. Cartels are on the run, on the fringe, and fighting for their lives against an enemy that has superior firepower, superior intelligence, superior training, and access to their financial records. Assets have been frozen, scores of cartel members captured, and dozens of factories and laboratories destroyed.

However, the cartels still have surprises up their sleeves. The newest surprise is 'Valkyr,' a designer drug that has all the potential to become the worst drug on the market. 'Valkyr' is a designer drug, constructed by the most able scientists in the Florida Cartel. Exclusive to the Cuban cartel, 'Valkyr' is said to have the hallucinatory effects of LSD, the simulative effects of crack-cocaine, and as addicting as heroin. Drug enforcement personnel have reported that it has a high LD50, making overdose that much more difficult, making it far safer than heroin. Typical highs can last from 2 to 12 hours, depending on the level of resistance in the user and drug enforcement personnel expect that it has a very quick dependency rate. Only a few uses could create addictions far beyond that of any other drug on the market.

Combating 'Valkyr' is difficult. Agents within the government have already speculated that 'Valkyr' is on the market in no less that fourteen different countries, made exclusively in Cuba and sold for as little as §15 per hit, for a pill, on the streets, and some §85 per gram for injectionable or snortable substance. The latter two of these three methods are the most potent.

One government official, Jackson White commented that "'Valkyr' is a major weapon for the cartels in our War on Drugs. They're going to be using it to subvert our morals and our values. Their goal is to give it to little kids in exchange for their allowance money and create a generation of burn outs and useless wastes. They won't succeed."

Somewhere off Barbados
”Kontakt, peiling to-null-null, avstand fjorten nautiske mil. Fart tjue knop.” [Contact, bearing two-zero-zero, fourteen nautical miles. Speed, twenty knots.]

”Mottatt. Endre kurs, anmod om luftstøtte.” [Copy. Alter course, request helicopter support.]

The Devil-III class fast patrol boat with the registered pennant number 'P 252' altered course and speeded up from its leisurely fifteen knots to fourty knots, near the maximum sustainable speed that the newer version of the venerable Devil class was able to achieve. This was done mostly thanks to the new gas turbine engines instead of the diesel engines in the old Devil-Is and the waterjets underneath the waterline. Quickly, the Devil started moving southwest towards the contact, which was moving towards them without knowing it. The Devil was underneath the horizon for the contact it had detected, and thus hopefully unknown to the contact, which had entered Cottish territorial waters… there. Now the Cots had a justifiable reason to inspect the contact, which was now twenty-four nautical miles southeast of the city of Bridgetown on Barbados. The estimated time to contact was now in about ten minutes. Deciding to take no chances, the commanding officer of the nearly fourty-two meter long vessel called the 23-strong crew to action stations. The reaction was immediate. Six sailors threw on flak jackets and helmets before manning the two fourty-millimetre cannons on the forecastle and stern while another six manned the six machine guns and automatic grenade launcher around the ship. Two men manned the quad Wizard launcher, the vessel’s only dedicated air defense weaponry, while the rest manned the electronics, engines and other stations. The chief of the boat handed out small-arms to the sailors and shotguns and other weapons for the four-man boarding party while the commanding officer manouvered the ship closer.

They could now see the contact. It was a white luxury yacht sailing without any flags or identifying markings, with no one on deck. That was unusual. Most rich people who were out sailing on a nice, warm, sunny day like this usually stayed outside, enjoying the sun. Now, they saw nothing. Weird. The commanding officer decided that it was time to let their presence be known. Picking up the radio, he spoke into it on all civilian frequencies.

“Unidentified yacht, this is the Cottish warship Papa two-five-two on your starboard bow. It is my intention to inspect your vessel. Heave too and prepare to be boarded.”

The message was repeated three times. There was no reply, but a door opened and a person appeared briefly. He apparently must have spotted the bluish grey painted patrol boat, because he popped back right back inside. A few seconds later, the yacht started manouvering and increased to twenty-eight knots. That was enough to confirm the suspicions of the commanding officer, who pursued the yacht, pressing his own ship up to fourty-five knots. The engines were in the danger of overheating, but he had to get his ship alongside the yacht quickly before it could escape back into international waters. At that same moment, the helicopter support requested arrived in the shape of a single H-23A Merlin ASW helicopter with two Mark 50 Mod 2 torpedoes underneath the fuselage and two menacing L23A1 light machine guns in the doors, each having some 800 7.62x51mm rounds available. After a brief conversation over the radio with the helicopter pilot, the commanding officer called the yacht back up again. They could read the name of the yacht now. It was the yacht 'Prevail', registered in Havana, Cuba.

“Prevail, this is Papa two-five-two. Heave too immediately or we will open fire.”

The captain waited ten seconds before ordering the fore 40mm cannon to give the yacht a shot over the bow. The cannon crew loaded their weapon and aimed it carefully before firing a salvo of three 40mm high-explosive projectiles, sending them over the bow, splashing up a water spray that the people on the yacht had to be blind not to see.

“Prevail, this is your last warning. Heave too or our next salvo will hit.”

The Devil-III was now alongside the yacht and slowed to twenty-eight knots, matching the speed of the yacht and reliving the pressed gas turbine engines. The two 40mm cannons turned and aimed at the yacht while the machine guns on the starboard side were trained on the side of the yacht. The Merlin manouvered itself so that it flew sideways directly in front of the yacht, no more than ten meters over the sea, giving the nineteen year old matros manning the L23 in the doorway little trouble in aiming his weapon at the yacht.

The people on the yacht apparently understood that the game was lost and killed the engines on the yacht. The Devil also slowed and maintained its position alongside the yacht while the helicopter circled around the yacht, providing overhead cover for the patrol boat.

“Step outside with your hands up, immediately, or we will open fire.”

The people inside the yacht did as ordered and walked out on the deck, holding their hands up. It was a total of three men and one woman aboard, all of which held their hands up. A zodiac was deployed from the Devil-III and manned by the four man boarding party and two sailors from the machine guns on the side of the Devil that didn’t face the yacht. Within minutes, the four-man party climbed aboard and started securing the yacht. They were armed with two L15A2 6.8x43mm carbines and two L55A1 12-gauge tactical shotguns, weapons which were trained on the four people aboard. They were all Hispanic, but of varying ages. Two of the men were in their late twenties or early thirties while the third man was in his fifties. The woman was in her late teens, if even that. The majority of the Cots were in their early twenties with the exception of the chief of the boat who was leading the boarding party, who was in his mid-fourties. The Cots operated fast, checking the prisoners for weapons, drugs and anything else of interest before placing zip-ties over their hands and placing them on their bellies on the deck. The CoB left two men to guard the prisoners while taking the third sailor inside to search the yacht.

The insides were nothing out of the ordinary. Teak interior, expensive carpeting, fresh flowers on the small coffee tables, modern navigation console. It was when the Cots moved into the bowels of the yacht that they found something out of the ordinary. In the master bedroom, three large suitcases caught their attention. They lay on the circular bed, open and with some pieces of clothing placed over them. However, the prisoners had to have been in the process of packing because several white patches weren’t covered by clothes. The Cots removed the clothes carefully to find what they had been looking for. The CoB checked the contents and found something he had been briefed about just the day prior, something about a new “wonder drug” called Valkyr. From what he saw here, there was about six kilos of what he assumed to be heroin, cocaine or Valkyr, obviously destined for the Cottish islands of Barbados and Saint Lucia. After a quick test with the portable drug test kit he had, heroin and cocaine was ruled out.

The patrol vessel was informed and the prisoners confronted with the discovery. They were informed that since they were caught inside Cottish territorial waters, Cottish law would apply, and that Cottish law dictated that anyone smuggling in drugs to the Realm were eligible to be executed from crimes against the Realm. They were also informed that if they cooperated, the Crown might consider giving them life imprisonment in a category HARSH prison complex instead. Something for the prisoners to ponder while Caribbean Command ordered a Nådeløs class frigate to rendezvous with the Devil-III and yacht to take aboard the prisoners and tow the yacht back to port. The frigate arrived within two hours and took over the prisoners and responsibility for the yacht, relieving the patrol boat which returned to Bridgetown for fuel and a 72-hour shore leave.

The prisoners were blindfolded, gagged and placed aboard the frigate’s Merlin helicopter and flown in to Bridgetown along with a videotape of the evidences for the Crown prosecutors to present to the judge in the morning when the four would stand before the court and hopefully be imprisoned until the trial came up in a month’s time. For tonight, however, they would be facing long and intense interrogations in the Central Law Enforcement Center in downtown Bridgetown, answering questions from both REAF agents and military officials all through the night about the drug, why it was there, where they got it from, et cetra. Having been aboard a boat which had been reported stolen by the authorities in Havana didn’t help either. They naturally asked for lawyers, but according to Cottish law, the police weren’t required to call a lawyer until they had officially charged the person with a crime. For now, they were just suspects…

[ooc: fyi, this is hopefully the last time I log as ALM, or else I'm figuring out why Jolt won't let Saint Lazare log in...]
Donna Maria Gioiosi was sitting idly in her chambers, reading a magazine for Roman women. It was an interesting article about how the supremacy of men made the condition for women unbearable and unrighteous. But Maria didn’t know what they were talking about – it’s even better for women than men in Rome, because women only need to pluck strings to get their will done; men needed to pull the strings.

One of her associated entered the room and waited patiently as La Donna carefully finished her reading [ooc: yes, carefully]. She turned around and nodded.

“Mia donna, Senator Portio Mencius has received our message. He has sent one of his staff to the estate, and he requests an audience with Signore Caesarini.”

Maria immediately rose to her feet, with her silky dress falling down to her feet. “I will greet him – there is no point to bother him while he’s busy contemplating war and games.”

With that, the associate brought the worker – Claudius Mediolanus – to the guest room. It was actually an old library, but Maria preferred it to the study, which was cramped with books and papers, even the occasional black note. The library was bigger, the books were more orderly and displayed a more mature mind, and it boasted a small bar, where she often slipped her potent secrets. But for this day, there was no need for secrets – there was a need for war, and a different one than Caesarini was anticipating. Cosa Nostra would indeed rock its foundations with this meeting.

“My lady, I was expecting Nicolaus Caesarinius.”

“He’s busy,” she replied. “I can speak to you.”

“I don’t have time to waste – I will only speak to the man of this house.”

“The man of this house has given me authority to speak to you – in effect, I am the man of this house.”

Mediolanus surveyed La Donna quickly, shuttering in hiss thoughts. “I thought with as prevalent and renowned a man as Caesar, he would do a better job in maintaining his household.”

“My dear, you waste your time. Besides, those remarks are somewhat un-Roman, aren’t they?”

Mediolanus wouldn’t say another thing. Instead, he pulled out a folder from his briefcase and settled it on the table before them. Maria’s associate quickly brought up two glasses of brandy. Mediolanus felt uneasy as Maria started to play with herself, trying to evoke sensual thoughts in Mediolanus. He thought of her as a perverse woman who needed to be locked up in an asylum, but his business was too urgent to permit anything else. After all, the Senator was expecting a big break [so he called it].

“Nicolaus stated that he had a problem in one of his plots.”

“Yes, he did,” Maria replied. Her associate pulled out a blue folder and laid it on the table, next to Mediolanus’s folder. Inside were photographs of five people. Mediolanus recognized a few of the faces from the Roman press, but they were certainly different. Maria stood up and paced around with her glass between her hands. “Nicolaus had a problem with one of his managers in Umbria. He suspected that the manager was pulling a drug trade threw it, and sent one of our own to investigate. He managed to pull these photos, as you see. This man here – Lucius Caralis – was the manager; he met with this man here, reputed to be a wine maker in Etruscia. He was joined by two Doomani citizens, known drug smugglers from Sicily. The last photo you see is our man, Malachus Varius. He was killed in a hotel earlier this week, after his cover was spoiled, probably to the conviving wits of this drug lord. We also found this in his plot.”

Maria loaded a kilo’s worth of fresh coke on the table. Mediolanus shook at hearing the thud and carefully examined it before Maria slammed a long stick on the bag. “I wouldn’t tamper with evidence, would I?”

Mediolanus retracted his arm, somewhat unnerved by Maria’s suspicious behavior. It felt like she was trying to hook on him or something, but he was a happily married man, and there was no reason to have a freaking old lady trying to seduce him. But for Maria, her psychology was working perfectly.

“Well, we’ve uncovered this plot and it seems to us that this problem might be running a little bit farther than we had anticipated. The two Doomanis are apparently members in an underground society that deals in drugs around the world – mostly in Italy. Ever since the Roman Imperium and the Doomani government began cracking on these fringe groups and their trade, we haven’t noticed it too much. But nonetheless, there is still a prevalent threat, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I am a servant of Rome,” Mediolanus replied. “Drugs are not a problem of the state.”

“Indeed, but let us consider. These elements cause problems for the Roman household. If a father should acquire this and perhaps sell his entire fortune to satisfy his cravings, you know where your precious denarii fly? They go straight to the Doomani criminals who horde it all to strengthen the Doomani armed forces.”

“Rome has had no problems with Doomingsland.”

“You say that, but you know otherwise,” Maria replied, pacing up behind Mediolanus. He quickly turned around and kept his eye fixed upon her, uncertain to her intentions. “I do not like what you are doing, my lady.”

“My name is Maria Felices – I am no mere lady.”

“Pardon me, Maria. But anyway, what do you want me to do about this?”

“It has been hurting our business,” Maria replied. “This drug trade has been using our land to funnel drugs into Rome, probably from Doomingsland, true?”

“I’m not saying much about that, my lady…”

“Maria.”

“…Maria. I am a servant of Rome, and I do what Rome needs done. Right now, I am visiting you because Senator Mencius decided that Caesar’s request was worthy enough to consider sending one of his most esteemed colleagues to discuss things with him. Instead, I am talking to a woman who apparently can’t keep her place right.”

At that, Maria slapped the stick on the table. “I know my place, Tribunal. Do you know yours? After all, Senator Mencius owes much of his supporting contributions to Nicolaus – he organizes many of his campaign literature, he buys votes, he even promotes the good will of the Senator to the People of Rome. Senator Mencius owes Nicolaus a debt, and while this is not in any way a desire to make a slave out of the man, the least that your good Senator could proffer is to start some investigations into these criminals. For certain, they are still around, and our associates are well aware of the incidents surrounding the hotel clash last week. We have the necessary information, and it is well within our grasp to end this trouble of illicit proliferations.”

Mediolanus was silent for a moment. “If you put things into that perspective, I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t say anything at all,” Maria replied. “But rather, take this pack to your authorities, confirm that it is coke. You will see that it was made from somewhere in America, and it was refined in Doomingsland, probably the Sicilian portion.”

“How do you know this?”

“We did our own tests to confirm this.”

“You have more samples?”

“I thought that drugs weren’t a problem of the state?”

Mediolanus shrugged his shoulders. “You have been most uncooperative, my lady. But since you do make a noble effort to promote the welfare of Roman citizens, I will inform Senator Mencius about this revelation on Caesarinius’s property. It would do you well to learn how and when to speak to men.”

Maria nodded and he left the room with the pack in his suitcase. She immediately turned a sour face once he had left the room. The associate quickly returned once he had been escorted off the property. She stood attentive as Maria contemplated over her glass of brandy. He finally turned up and spoke resolutely: “Make it certain that some misfortune befalls Signore Mediolanus once Senator Mencius is informed.”

“Misfortune?”

“Yes. If the person gets caught, we’ll blame the Mafiosi. That will only help to persuade the Senators to crack on Maggiano’s empire.”

“I will see that it is done, mia Donna.”

[ooc: the puppet is there - Jolt just won't let me on...]

Maggiano had received a call – surprisingly, in fact – from Sparetti. They had moved to Tuscany, where the atmosphere was supposedly calmer. But as he continued his discussion, Maggiano could easily see that Sparetti wasn’t too happy.

“Why did you send us?”

“I want you to check on an associate.”

“Caesarini – I already know.”

“Was he complacent?”

“To say the least, your son is dead.”

Maggiano paused. He knew better. “No, he isn’t; Caesarini would not dare to kill my child.”

“Well, you guessed wrong, because I have Giuseppe here, and I have a fellow who tried to kill me. Caesarini does not like you, and he’s pretty peculiar about whom he eliminates.”

“Caesarini has killed my son? Where is his body? Has it been recovered?”

“It will be a matter of time before the Romans catch the body and this thing becomes a wide open dispute.”

“Really? I still doubt that Caesarini would kill him.”

“Why do you doubt it? He hates you, apparently.”

“Caesarini knows Luigi is better left alive than dead. He will bargain, and he will do what he feels is necessary to promote himself – he’s not a family man; he’s a businessman.”

“Well, that’s makes my job easier now, doesn’t it?”

“I’m sorry to have brought you into this mess,” Maggiano then said, as Maria was approaching to their sunning spot on the deck. “I will leave it up to you, if you can do me a favor.”

“Favors kill people, Don Maggiano,” Sparetti replied, somewhat sarcastically.

“Yes… I want you to kill Caesarini before he gets any ideas concerning my boy. And bring Luigi home. Do that for me, and I will give you something very valuable.”

“Might I ask what ‘valuable’ is?”

“Something you cherish greatly, though you do not know of it yet.”

And that was the conversation, as Maggiano reclined on his chair. Gaston was closely following Maria, while she gave him a tour of the ship. He didn’t mind the show much, but he had been thinking about what to do with Gaston. He felt like making him a son in the family, but of course, he was French – only Italians belonged in the family. But he was a good boy – he understood the value of family and the value of the “daily bread.” He would make a good Mafioso, were he Italian.

He decided anyway. “Maria, portarlo.” With that, Maria brought Gaston to Silvestro side and they both looked on, wondering what he could want now. “I have been thinking about showing you Sicily. I could offer your mother a trip too, but I don’t know if she’d accept.” He knew very well what happened at dinner that night. She ran drunk with all of the wine, and collapsed on the floor. It was a bad omen for someone like that. “So I figure that we could bring you on a short trip – one week in Sicily. Maria could take you to Palermo, to Corleone, to Trapani, to Marsala, to Ribera, to Agrigento, to Siracusa, to Catania, to Messina… wherever you wish.”

“I would love to go! But Maman would never let me go.”

“I can pay for your trip and offer your mother a dowry for you to come visit our home. Money is of little importance, and I feel that you need a breath to take on the world. Who knows? Maybe after Sicily, you will go to France, and to Morocco; to Japan and China; Africa, and America! All good places to visit, and I have been there. What do you say?”

It didn’t take much to persuade him. It was the next day and they were on their way to Sicily. Instead of taking the route by Rome, they decided to go south to Corsica and Sardinia, resting in Doomani Cagliari. And they were on their way to Sicily, where Silvestro could win the faith of this man, and the Family would be forever changed.

The Empire had been rocked by the startling discovery of Valkyr. The designer drug had already found its way onto the streets and into the nightclubs. It was something that the cops had never expected to face. They had faced cocaine and heroin before and they were tough to fight. Ecstasy was a major problem amongst the teenage and young adult crowds. There were overdose reports almost every week and now with Valkyr, things had drastically changed. People were taking both Ecstasy and Valkyr and, as a combination, they were deadly almost 40% of the time. Valkyr by itself wasn't so bad but combined with the potent and deadly chemicals inside Ecstasy, Valkyr turned into a death drug. Most people snorted it but some decided to take it in pill form. Those in the clubs snorting it were in a world of their own.

When police officers tossed nightclubs looking for underage drinking, namely from 16 year olds and 17 year olds, they often found significant amounts of Valkyr. It had flooded the streets and it had flooded them hard. Internationally, the drug was a success and the money rolled into the Florida Cartel. They had unnamed back accounts throughout the world, hundreds of them, all of them hidden from public view.

Task Force VENGEANCE had identified only about 5% of these accounts for the Florida Cartel whereas against the Esmeralda and Meta Cartels, they had identified somewhere around 45% of their bank accounts. They had yet to begin seizing them because they wanted to find the rest of them. They had hoped that they could track wire transfers between accounts and try to identify the rest of them. When they found them all, they would seize them and put a major damper on their business. Then they would jump in and attack in full force.

They were preparing to attack in a way that was more traditional. Communications intercepts discovered that at least forty members of the Meta and thirty-six members of the Esmeralda Cartels were meeting at a villa in eastern Colombia to discuss a possible alliance against the Florida Cartel, which had almost buried them overnight with their Valkyr drug. The Marauders acted accordingly and were on the ground 2,300 meters away from the villa, lying prone, spread out on a mountainside. From there, they could overlook the villa and could watch it accordingly. They were counting who was there and who wasn't, using high powered optical equipment and cameras. They had already taken hundreds of pictures and they were shooting video of the villa. En route to their position was their master plan, a big, beasty, and powerful fighter-bomber. They had called in an F-31B Tornado GAV from a nearby airbase to drop a single bomb on the target. Loaded was a pair of GBU-55A Special Purpose Guided Bombs. They would only need one and they were planning on dropping only one, unless of course they missed. The bombs were guided by GPS and were made of a special material, a kevlar-reinforced, cellulose case. The bombs would leave no fragments as they exploded.

Currently, the fighter-bomber was 100 miles away, moving at a speed of 450 miles per hour, at an altitude way up, around 35,000 feet. They would leave absolutely no indication on the ground that they were up there. They left no contrails, they had no lights on, and they were so small that they could barely be seen. With thirteen minutes until their TOT, the Marauder unit was putting the final GPS coordinates into their reciever and transmitting the information to the fighter-bomber. Swept wings and soaring quietly, the Tornado's two pilots were comfortable in their cockpit, looking out at the blue oblivion of the sky. It was a clear day up high. There was intermittent clouds around 6,000 to 14,000 feet. They could release the bomb about 10 miles from the villa and hit with resounding accuracy and that was the plan. The last few "guests" had arrived and the Marauders were ready. "Devil 11. GPS transmission. Over."

"Roger that. Lion 7. Recieving. Recieved. We are green. Over."

"Devil 11. The pot is full. Boil over. Over."

"Understood. We're 50 miles out. Over."

"Roger that. Out." The eight men of the Marauder unit kept filming and kept taking pictures. They had tons of footage already and tons of space left on their various memory cards to take even more. The Tornado banked inbound and their IP had been reached.

"Lion 7. Devil 11. IP. Over."

"Devil 11. Report ETA. Over."

"3 minutes. Weapons hot. Over."

"Roger that. Over." The radio was quiet for a little bit, until the Tornado had reached its bombing point.

"Lion 7. Devil 11. Pickle is hot. Coming down!"

"Roger that. Devil 11. Over." The bomb fell towards the villa, picking up speed as it spiraled towards the villa. It passed through the sky with silence, staying underneath the speed of sound, meaning that there would be no sonic boom. The bomb was meant to fall slowly enough that it wouldn't make any noise but fast enough that, if aimed at a moving vehicle, that it would still hit. The twisting SPGB entered the clouds and exited them as it fell underneath 6,000 feet. Then, as the Marauders looked up towards the sky, the villa exploded. The explosion was massive, large enough to be seen miles away. From 35,000 feet, the explosion made no sound but they could see the rising fireball. The Marauders felt each and every bit of the explosion, sound and fire. They were far enough away that they wouldn't get flash burns but they could definitely feel the explosion, as it shook the ground. The SPGB was loaded with a 445 pound high explosive warhead. "Devil 11. That's a shack. Out." The F-31 banked hard to the left and exited the area, weapons cold. The cartels would feel the heat from the bombing soon enough, possibly even blame it on the Florida Cartel.

Caesarini received the call early – it was from an associate in Africa.

“Si?”

“Mio Capo, the Africans are proving more reluctant than exacted. Our point man said that Don Amerigo was under some pressure, but he didn’t know what it was.”

Caesarini wiped his eyes, rising from bed. “That’s enough with this shit. First the Japs don’t call back, now these negros can’t get their act together?”

“Eh, they’re actually…”

“I don’t care. Tell the point man to get the stupid Africans to do their job. I pay good money, and half of my drug shipment from America is being wasted on this. You know?”

“Si.”

Caesarini then put on earphones and started to wash his face as his man continued to talk.

“I don’t know much about this operation right now. Yakuza isn’t going to us, you know. So if they don’t help us, we’ll have to find someone else to get the package back. More than likely, it’s going to cost more than recruiting the Japs, because they’ve already got an extensive shipping network worldwide. We might have to hijack a ship…”

“Dammit, no hijacks. I don’t want any attention going to points in Africa, because that’ll compromise the package. Just tell the Africans to ship it.”

“They said they wouldn’t. It’s too much for them to handle.”

“Evidently – they can’t get the package on a ship out to safe territory.”

“Well, they got the package.”

“Duh,” Caesarini snapped back. “If they didn’t, I’d be furious at this point.”

“You know, if they need help, I can send in some socialist guerillas to divert their attention…”

“We don’t make deals with commies, Uomano,” Caesarini said as he prepared to dress for the day. It was another business day, so he’d have to get stuck in a stinking suit while the temperature rose over 40°C again. “Unless you could guarantee me that they’d all die before they ever get paid.”

“Heh, you don’t have to pay them,” the man replied, chuckling. “I have very convincing friends who will do it for free. All I need is your approval.”

“Well, Uomano – you seem to know what you’re doing. If I don’t pay for it, go ahead – it’s not my money or my men. And quite frankly, I could go for a nice kill sometime.”

“Absolutely. But that still means we have to get the package out of Africa and into Europe, past strict guards through the Gibraltar.”

“Eh, the Japs would use the Suez Canal in the Cottish territories. It’s a lot easier than in most other places to pass, and their investigative methods are somewhat behind.”

“Didn’t they crack on some drug cartel in the Caribbean?”

“That was the Caribbean, mio amico,” Caesarini replied. “This is Europe – they don’t problems with drugs in Europe.”

“There’re rumors spilling out that Cottish police have begun organizing a task force to eliminate their drug problems. I don’t think Suez is any better than Gibraltar, mio Capo.”

“Well, it’s not our problem really. The Japs will do it, because it’s their general interest. They want a war, and they’ll get a war.”

“I thought you wanted the war…”

“Shut up and do your job.”

With that, Caesarini closed the call and headed to his offices, ready to manage another day’s worth of plantations and agriculture. He’d swear that once everything was settled, he’d just go straight into the black market – farming was just too damned boring.

Sparetti had suddenly called for him, after having rested for four days, at least. Giuseppe was uncertain why he would call him at this moment, but he didn’t like hiding from anyone, especially from government authorities. No one knew that they were in Tuscany, let alone in the Roman Imperium. Why couldn’t he just leave?

They met outside in the vineyards, where Sparetti was plucking the ripe grapes off the vine with many of his laborers. He was an obvious stand-out, with a white coat and a funny wide-brimmed white hat, along with his standard pair of sunglasses. He obviously didn’t mind making too many trips to the laundromats, since Giuseppe nearly always saw him wearing white suits. Personally, he preferred brown, but while he was away, he wanted to avoid wearing a restrictive suit. Instead, he opted for an open buttoned shirt and a pair of khakis. He didn’t have his sunglasses, or else he would have worn his own pair as well.

“So, you called?” he asked.

“Si. Have some grapes. They’re pretty good.” Sparetti handed him a small basket of fresh grapes, washed in a clean solution of light soap and some salt. Giuseppe took the basket, but he didn’t eat anything; he wasn’t yet in the mood. On the other hand, Sparetti had a large basket and was coolly eating his grapes. “I think that it’s time that we talked more about Caesarini.”

“What do you want to know about him?”

“Is he smart?”

“Not really.”

“Is that your opinion of him, or is he really not smart?”

“Well… it’s my opinion, but my father tends to agree with me about him. He’s rash and uncalculated. He’s also somewhat emotional at times, and he rarely shows restraint when he needs to. He also makes too many weird plots to be smart.”

“That sounds like an opinion.” Sparetti then pulled out a newspaper from under his basket and handed it to Maggiano. He continued to walk through his vines, plucking ripe grapes as Giuseppe read the headlines from the Roman press: “THREE MURDERERS AT HOTEL LEAVE DRUG TRAIL!” He read further. Sparetti continued to talk.

“You know, they say that if you want to be Mafiosi, you have to own a meatshack. If you want to retire, you grow a vineyard. I haven’t quite figured it out yet, but I think the meatshack is obvious, because you need the place to hold dead bodies. We kill for a living, and then deal drugs, prostitutes, extortions, and whatever else is criminal. Heck, I’ve been an assassin for nearly ten years, more so in my past five years. I’ve never owned a meat shack, because I hate keeping dead bodies. I’d rather bury them or burn them. But burying them means there’s evidence of a murder, and burning them leaves a trail. So you know? I drive a boat thirty miles off the coast, and drop the ashes into the sea – in that way, I bury and burn them at the same time. If I’m lucky, I’ll have a live person, and we’ll catch sharks instead. You know? But meat shacks – hell, I’d hate to be butcher, with all of that cow and pork. I can’t stand the smell of a dead body, frozen for two months and then cut up into pieces before being sold to people on the street. You know, I’d bet you could find a nice market for human meat, but I’m not a cannibal, and I’d personally use that sort of person for bait anyways; they deserve it.”

Giuseppe then interrupted him: “They think we’re criminals! They think we’re criminals!”

He nearly stomped his way out of the field, but Sparetti held him back. Sparetti smiled. “They do – and we are. The problem is that Caesarini ratted us. He’s got powerful friends in the Senate apparently, and he’s pulling that leg to catch us. He’s even turned a sorry eye to Signore Luciano, because he’s at the forefront of this ring. You know what the good news is – you and I are nameless. You know what the problem is?” With that, he flipped the pages over and showed the three wanted pictures. “They have our faces.”

Giuseppe fell back shocked at the news. Sparetti quickly helped him back up before he seriously damaged any of the grape vines, and they continued to walk. “I want to know if Caesarini has ever known me. And if he has, how so.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Giuseppe replied. “I didn’t even know, so I wouldn’t know if he knew. My guess is he doesn’t.”

“How did he get my picture then?”

“I don’t know.”

“You know, I hate it when people tell me lies.”

“I seriously don’t know.”

“Well, tell me who would.”

“As far as I know, only my father knew of you from within the organization. Caesarini doesn’t care much for my father’s work.”

“Anyone who does?”

“I… I’d have to think.”

“Okay. Think. Who within Caesarini’s organization would know either my face or how to get it?”

“Let me see.”

He stood a while, thinking. He reread the paper as he thought, hoping to find a clue to his memory. It wasn’t long before he found the evidence he needed. “My father mentioned stuff about the witch – Donna Maria-Annetta Gioiosi. She was the wife of the former Capo Crimini Don Giovanni Gioiosi. He died without a son, but instead of calling his brothers, he put up Caesarini. La Donna is still around, but I wouldn’t imagine how she could know you.”

“Is she smart?”

“My father hates her – but he respects her a lot. She’s conviving. I’ll bet she ratted us, because Sparetti wouldn’t conceive of an idea like this so easily and so flawlessly.”

Sparetti smiled again and patted Giuseppe’s head. “I like it when people tell me the truth. You see; you knew something.” They both walked back to the main complex, finishing their little chat. As the pieces began to come together, Sparetti had ideas about how to counter these attacks – and none of them were very pretty.


THE ROMAN PRESS ARTICLE

THREE MURDERERS AT HOTEL LEAVE DRUG TRAIL

ROMA – Just one week ago, in the aftermath of the vicious firefight in a downtown hotel in Rome, Roman authorities have drawn up a list of three suspects, also believed to be connected to a scandalous drug market in northern Umbria.
The leading senator calling for investigations into this allegated drug trail is Senator Mencius, who recently lost a colleague in a random shooting spree, believed to be also connected to the drug trails. “Proof of the prevalence of this problem is perfectly in view,” Mencius remarked in an address to the Senate. “We have but to investigate the matter further and clamp down on these violent criminals.”
Authorities received a tip-off from leading plantation manager Nicolaus Caesarinius, whose mistress reported suspicious activity by a local manager in the Umbrian land plots – named Lucius Caralis. While managing a latifundia plot, Caralis also organized an illicit trade of drugs coming from Doomani territory.
Last week, an informant for Caesarinius’s company was shot and killed by a Doomani criminal, Caralis, and another Roman criminal. Authorities have not located Caralis or his accomplices, but they report that “once found, they shall be tried as is the case for all criminals dealing with drugs and committing murder.” Officials have yet to remark on the connection with Doomingsland.

A cell phone rang in a vineyard somewhere in Italy. It wasn’t in a pocket however and it vibrated on a glass table causing a loud noise which would have caused a normal man to jump yet Sparetti held firm. Somewhat annoyed that his sleep was somehow always ruined he blinked hard getting his eyes to adjust. With a sigh he reached over to the phone and picked it up hearing a similar voice on the other side, it was Romeo Amerigo.

“Sorry for the rather rude interruption but Africa is actually quite unforgiving,” he paused there understanding a reply was forthcoming.

“Si Amerigo and why is that. Why my dear friend have my reports been unfriendly to say the least. Why have I been fretting over your phone calls? You know I do not like to fret…don’t you?” The reply was unnerving but Amerigo held strong to his resolve as was evident by the “matter of fact” tone of voice.

“This much I know but I have everything under control that much I know. Still, there might be a slight delay on the arrival time. I have a firm belief that my man on the inside is playing for more than one team and as such I have prepared according.”

Sparetti was neither too convinced nor happy with his explanation. Yet any more attention to this operation would cause unwanted eyes and this he didn’t want so he was stuck with this man, a man he hardly remembered, with the package.


Mogadishu Docks
0100

“Jesus, right under our noses,” Henning muttered to himself as he peered over the harbor with his binoculars. It was horribly obvious that the Sindina wasn’t a very friendly ship. Breaking what had previously been a good cover, for some reason this vessels was manned by armed guards. Although they were mainly concealed from bystanders anyone who took a double take could make out the automatic weapons handled by the patrols on the boat. “I guess that gives us reason enough” he thought to himself.

It was time to make the largest drug bust ever in the United States of Brink and with a simply motion of his hand three teams were off to the races.

The first team didn’t move yet held its position in an apartment complex three hundred yards from the boat. Consisting of three men and more importantly two PSG-1’s and a Barret 50.Cal the first team was going to provide sniper cover and exterior recon. They marked their targets using a combination of Infrared and Night Vision breathing steady and adjusting their sights according to the wind and distance.

The second team was on its way via small hovercraft. With a stealthy approach they slipped underneath the radar metaphorically speaking. Consisting of 4 men each outfitted with MP-5’s with mounted scopes and silencers they began to scale the hull. With and unmatched expertise they managed to make it eye level with the deck scoping out what they could.

The third team would be much less silent and much more last. With a wide array of spec op weaponry they were to make a dash up the middle clearing the dock of any enemy resistance. A simple solid plan was all you needed, that is when you’re dealing with a simple problem.

A hefty wind picked up and with an alarming suddenness the heavens began to open up creating hail of rain and thunder. To make things that much better lightning began its graceful dance across the sky thus eliminating the snipers advantage of NV as well as actual assault forces. Nevertheless the plan was still in effect and the thunder would add a nice sound advantage. The first two clicks were from the PSG’s resulting in two dead. However, as is always the case, the plan didn’t survive contact with the enemy as one of the dead slipped underneath a guard rail gaining the attention of a man located in the bridge. Before he could hit the alarm a 50 Cal bullet tore through his skull. The shot was loud but masked by thunder, an expertly trained shot. The second 50 cal shot disabled any electronics on the bridge or if that didn’t the next two did. The PSG’s began to bark to like with a more intense rate. The second team quickly hopped onto the deck their silenced MP’s chirping with muzzle flashes.

With all the commotion the guards finally began to catch on and the loud sound of automatic fire began to retaliate. The flashes from muzzles combined with the intense storm now raging gave birth to another night in Mogadishu. A enemy unit was able to mount an M-240, very heavy firepower, and open up. This was more than enough to send in the heavy hitting 3rd unit commanded by Henning himself. With his SAW blazing away his men charged through the dock area around the boat. The kick of the gun was beginning to take its toll as the trigger hardly ceased, yet with the amount of adrenaline there would be little feeling done that night. The 50 Cal man made quick dealings of the 240 gunner as a bullet made contact with the very top of his skull blasting through his helmet. As the gunfight on the deck raged the 2nd unit was busy hurrying through the interior unusually devoid of personal hopping to catch the high ranking officials on board. Every corner proved a mystery yet ended with a shot or two down the hall of which ended a few lives.

In order to cover more ground the leader of the second team, Masozi, directed the team to split up, two to a team. At this point the enemy was running to cover and this meant inside the ship. Team B of the second team seemed to fall into the right place as they simply knocked out the enemy as they ran down the steel steps. After a few clips the B team made its way back to the search finally coming to a rather messy room after hearing a short gunfight. The room was rather blood soaked. A table stood at its middle with two bodies sprawled across it. The rest, about 4 more, were on the ground tore up from shrapnel and bullet wounds. At the end of the room stood Masozi holding his teammate who was clearly dead from the gaping hole in his head.

“What the fuck happened!?”

“Bastards were waiting for us! He had the NV on because of the lights; we recognized the name of the room and realized it was here that they’d be. We slid open the door tossed in a flash bang and headed it only the room was lit like a fucking Christmas tree. Floodlights, flashlights, you name it. They took him down easy; I sprayed the shit out of the place before I could get the goggles off. God damn!” He was obviously grief stricken.

“Team Zulu come back.”

Masozi answered, “Team Zulu”

“It’s clear up here what’s your status,” the voice was that of Henning’s.

“Clear, one dead, no survivors.”

There was a slight paused, “Well the whole god damn city heard and is over here asking questions. Check out the cargo hold, this better have been worth it.”
Henning shook his head in disappointment. Something had gone wrong in this, obviously. It was deeper though, they were ready to a degree. It shouldn’t have been that intense. He glanced over his shoulder and saw his 50.cal sniper. “Hey, I thought it was outlawed to use that against personal?” The comment was obviously a joke but provoked a modest reply.

“Personal? I shot the helmet…that’s equipment. Let’s see what this shithole has, eh?”

Sparetti

[ooc: I never mentioned it, so I'll mention it now - the guy is CAESARINI; Sparetti is trying to stop him...

and another note, Amerigo would not call Caesarini - he would call someone else who serves as the point man between another point man who relays the info back to Caesarini. At this point, Amerigo shouldn't even know for whom he is working. Try Polino as a name.]

It was a lovely day, as Maggiano surveyed his manifests for his ships leaving Messina. Maria was showing Gaston all of Sicily, so she wouldn’t return home until later that week. He was in fact reviewing the manifest for LA GLORIA – a 50000 ton freighter heading for Layarteb ports in the Caribbean, where likely another shipment of his drugs would arrive. It wasn’t often that drug patrols caught his ships – principally because his operatives used any ship in region, so it made no distinct suspects out of any freighter company. The honest truth was that he didn’t know anything of his drug trade, until the Capi met once a month at a pre-designated area.

But then, one of his soldati brought a report and dropped the load on his desk. Maggiano was somewhat upset at the sudden and discourteous drop, but he took a quick glance at it and nearly threw a tantrum. He rushed inside his office and called his dear friend in Tuscany.

“Did you blow this over?”

“It was Caesarini. Hang up the phone.”

Maggiano willingly obliged, as Sparetti’s reply was calmed and almost expected. Caesarini was playing a hard hand – a harder hand. He was going to have to call up some old friends.

Maggiano quickly relayed a call to one of his subordinates who called a random number in Capua, hoping that someone important would call. He got an answering machine, and the man couldn’t know what to say. So Maggiano wrote on a tabbed paper a proper message.

“ME OPPORTVNVS AD TARANTIVM – 1600 PER NAWALE.”

[ooc: last resort - emailed Jolt AND NS to see if they'll fix it for me...]

Caesarini looked at the press reports, confirming the union of Rome and Doomingsland.

“Fotte! These bastards are really starting to… to… fotte!”

Donna Gioiosi nodded along, as she filed her nails. Caesarini was pacing around, wondering what to do next, while she calmly traced his steps. “You worry too much, Niko,” she said. “What’s your worry?”

“I’ve got a big package that’s supposedly coming from Africa, and the Japs aren’t there to pick it up, and now this! This plan is all going to ruins!”

“Well, you’ve been aiming too high, si?” Maria picked up a phone and dialed a number, turning on the loudspeaker. Caesarini wondered what she was doing – he suddenly felt a great distrust for her, but Maria reassured him – “Keep your gun still. I’ve not raised you to become a stupid freak. Now pay attention.”

After a minute or two, one of Caesarini associates in Africa answered the line. “Si, mio capo?”

Maria answered for him. “This is La Donna.”

“Si, mia donna?”

“Tell me Grigio – is Don Caesarini’s operation in Africa going well?”

“Mia Donna, I haven’t been to Africa in a while, but Don Amerigo mentioned that he had some squealer working for him – but he said everything was under control – a delay maybe, but that’s all.”

“Grazie. And how is the package?”

“They’ve got it safe and sound. I don’t even know where it is.”

“Good. Let us hope it means something more than that.”

With that, Maria hung up the phone. Caesarini was utterly shocked that Maria knew everything – or at least evidently knew – about his plan. But she hadn’t spoken a word about it. And neither had he. How could she have known?

“You seemed scared, Niko. Have a seat, and let me verse you a little on my little secret.” Caesarini sat down for the first time and listened to what Gioiosi had to say. “I’ve known you for more years than you’ve known me. Don Gioiosi loved you like a child, and I love you like a child. I’ve sworn many times that I would protect you and I’ve done my job of such protections. I’ve guarded you against malicious Roman police, earned your support in the Roman Senate, and I’ve practically placated the Mafiosi. You can’t be sending for “special packages” especially for ones you can’t get a guarantee for it. Let us suppose someone else gets the package – where will it go? Into the hands of an enemy? Let us hope not.”

“You’ve been watching me all of this time?”

“Watching? Hardly. You seem to forget that you inherited this organization from my husband, and I know it more than you could ever imagine. I know where to look and what to do. And the greatest thing about being a woman is that the Romans don’t think I’m involved at all – which made Giovanni’s death a little easier to bear. But I digress – Maggiano didn’t like him, so he calls up some random punk from Cagliari to kill him. He loves the Doomanis, but he hates the Romans; now that it’s all one big family, he’ll have to tolerate it a little bit more.”

“So you know about my project?”

Maria then laughed. "I’ve known that you’ve been thinking it – you leave careless trails.”

“I suppose it’s better you than the Romans.”

“Si – and I’ve already adjusted your plan so that the war doesn’t come to Italy. Because quite honestly, the Romans and the Doomanis aren’t that much off – and with this… Che Inferno! Well, the package is going somewhere new and somewhere safer.”

“Where’s safer?”

“I will tell you when the time comes. In the meantime, I suggest packing your bags for a trip to India – they say the atmosphere is most … enlightening.”

OOC: Alif, whereabouts are you working in Africa?

OOC: Madagascar / Somalia

OOC: I have put my info in the Forsaken Outlaw site, so can I post or not.

[ooc: I never mentioned it, so I'll mention it now - the guy is CAESARINI; Sparetti is trying to stop him...

and another note, Amerigo would not call Caesarini - he would call someone else who serves as the point man between another point man who relays the info back to Caesarini. At this point, Amerigo shouldn't even know for whom he is working. Try Polino as a name.]

[ooc: bumping this comment for Brink]

Read and understood. I must say i feel somewhat foolish and apologize for the mix up.

Expect a post sometime tonight.

Yellow “Do Not Cross” tape kept the reporters at bay for the moment. Blue and red lights flashed silently against the dark drab of the buildings silhouetted by the night. Reporters chimed in rambling off questions after questions to anyone wearing a badge and adding to the light as camera’s flashed here and there with rapid intensity. Henning stood on the bridge talking with Rudolf, going over various reports when Kibwe walked up. He waited for a moment as Henning and Rudolf finished their briefing. Kibwe than preceded to hand Henning a crude piece of paper with a list scribbled on it. As Henning read it silently he realized it was the ships true inventory citing various drugs such as cocaine, meth, and ecstasy. Those words weren’t actually written down but rather their street names in hopes of confusing the average, or below average person. All the names were common place to Henning except one: Death Valley Queen.

He glanced over to Kibwe who was standing a few feet away muttering orders into his com link. “Have you ever heard of this,” he said as he motioned to the words on the paper.

Kibwe shook his head, “no, never.”

“Look around for it, looks like we have a new drug to catalog. What’s the report for the rest of this stuff by the way?”

“It’s pretty potent stuff, they [the drug cartels] are getting better at what they do that’s for sure. Most likely came from South America through the South Pacific. I’ll keep the men looking for that new drug; I’ll bet it’s that new stuff they found in Layarteb…Valkrie or something.”

Henning turned back to Rudolf and began talking again. However, even as he talked his mind was elsewhere. Why go to so much trouble to defend this ship? Why post guards on this ship and not the rest? Did they know, was there something more important on this craft? The latter of which was most urgent on his mind. He couldn’t think of anything else that would make sense taking its place. What the hell made this ship so different? He had to figure, and he did, that this Death Valley Queen had something to do with it. With that in mind he ended his conversation with Rudolf and began making his way to the cargo holds of the vessel but first letting everyone know he was coming down via com link.

Meanwhile Kibwe and the men fanned out searching for this new drug or so they thought. Kibwe was in a remote corner of the vessel sitting at a desk looking over papers when a member of the team came rushing into the room with sweat dripping from his face.

His voice was quivering but nonetheless he spoke, “Sir I think I’ve found the Death Valley Queen…”

“Calm down trooper, lets go have a look than.” They both walked side by side to a dark corner of the cargo hold. There were no other team members in sight. The soldier bent down and lifted up a secret cargo hold revealing a silver suitcase. Upon lifting the hinges of the suitcase Kibwe stood in awe as he instantly new what it was. Various buttons, lights, and timers indicated at once his worst nightmares. This was no ordinary bomb. He looked at the soldier who was obviously uncomfortable standing next to it. Kibwe thought to himself ‘catchy name and appropriate as well’.

“Have you told anyone about this?”

“No sir?”

After he said this a silenced 9mm bullet tore through his abdomen catching him completely off guard. He glanced around looking at Kibwe who was standing with his gun already holstered with a deep sadness. Kibwe than closed the case and slid it into a bag of cocaine and resealed it, hiding it to the naked eye. He than pulled the pin from a grenade and stuck it into the equipment of the stricken soldier.

Henning was making his way down the final flights of stairs leading into the cargo hold when he heard the explosion. He ducked with instinct than dashed to his feet making way towards the sound of the explosion. He was nervous and scared but nevertheless eager to find the cause. With his G-36K shouldered he rounded the corner to find Kibwe on kneeling over the grotesquely mangled body of one of his team members. Obviously in vain Kibwe tried to bandage up the body but it was clearly too late. Kibwe looked up at Henning with tears down his face, “They booby trapped the place…”

Don Raguso surveyed the world news of the day, scanning the Internet while managing his businesses - fish, crabs, shrimp, salt, fresh water, and even the occasional request for an anchor drop . He had nearly completely healed from his encounter with Lo Vecchio, but the thoughts still lingered.

How had that man survived for two years without anyone knowing of it? What compelled him to attack a holy man? What compelled Monsignore Domenicatti to confess to him? Many others still lingered as well, but those three bothered him the most. If someone like Lo Vecchio could survive two years in Doomingsland with anyone knowing, he feared worse people could be hiding right in front of him. Of course, he was also pragmatic – Lo Vecchio was probably lucky to have survived and took advantage of the insecurity in the aftermath to disappear. When things had settled, he came back out to take revenge. But then, where was he all this time? Two years is a long time to fast, and he would need to have lived somewhere to ensure his own security and health.

[I]“Don Raguso, il Monsignore parlerà a tu.” [Don Raguso, the Monsignor will talk to you.]

“Portarlo, per favore.” [Bring him in, please.]

Paolo himself had recovered from his injuries, and seeing no other inhibitions, he returned to work at the abbey to a gracious and welcome congregation. But his sermons since the attack have been darker and filled the room sometimes with despair. The only light came from his revelations of his personal satisfaction and sacrifice for Christe. Otherwise, he would decline into looming thoughts and left his congregation wondering if dying had changed their beloved father.

“Mio Padre! How are you?” Raguso immediately stood up and hugged Paolo who willingly replied with a light grasp.

“I am well, my child. I mean nothing by interrupting your business.”

“A man of God can always interrupt my work. Please, have a seat. What do you wish to speak to me about?”

“Ah, well…” For a moment, Domenicatti feel silent as Raguso, expecting an answer, sat back down behind his desk. His gaze seemed too distant, and his breathing became hoarser. “I have not much longer to live in this existence. I have tried for many years to heal you – to cleave your heart from this business. I know very well what Cosa Nostra does around the world, and it is a sin what they do. I hate to see such a bright and young man fall decrepit to this foul business, but God has shown me that – just as the dying thief on the cross – criminals can serve their purpose.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Gospel of Saint Luke: RESPONDENS AUTEM ALTER INCREPABAT ILLUM DICENS NEQUE TU TIMES DEUM QUOD IN EADEM DAMNATIONE ES ET NOS QUIDEM IUSTE NAM DIGNA FACTIS RECIPIMUS HIC VERO NIHIL MALI GESSIT ET DICEBAT AD IESUM, DOMINE MEMENTO MEI CUM VENERIS IN REGNUM TUUM ET DIXIT ILLI IESUS AMEN DICO TIBI HODIE MECUM ERIS IN PARADISO.”

“Yes?”

“Two years ago, I met a beggar off the street and invited him into my home. I nursed him to health and taught him the things of God. He was very obedient and trusty – he cleaned and graced the walls of the abbey during his stay. He nearly always stayed in the catacombs, however, and it disturbed me at times to see such a man with spirit to lurk in the places of the dead. But as he was a faithful servant, I never questioned him. It was only after I began to find pentagrams over your name in the visitor’s registrars that I asked him about his ventures in the catacombs. And I asked him more specifically about the pentagrams."

Domenicatti paused, with the end of this story more evident to Raguso as he realized about what he was talking about. “He told me that Don Raguso was a sly and evil follower of Satan, one whose heart did not belong in any place of God. I asked him to prove it so. He said he would. I waited for his proof, but it never came. When I finally beckoned the question to him again, he pulled out gun and tried to shoot me, but I immediately rebuked him for bringing a weapon into my office. He fell back and I reached for my letter opener – I stabbed his hand, so that he would not use it to harm anyone. But he took the other hand and knocked me on the head. He took me to the bell tower and laid me against a sacred chest, reserved for the burial of saints and relics. I asked him if he was going to kill me. He told me he was going to prove who was more evil. He then shot at me, and left me lying there as he waited for you to arrive. I was shocked to see you so soon, even though it was by custom that you came into my house.

“And you know the rest of the story. He shoots you, you shoot him, and the day becomes a even worse mess for the bellboy. But… before he passed on, he told me that the man who died this day was one who did any good. I thought he meant me, but I didn’t understand what he meant in saying that. After you killed him, I realized his point. But you know, despite what he said, I believe that Christe forgives my ignorance, for failing to see what that man was truly. I believe this, but I find my faith breaking at times.”

He paused again. Raguso also felt at ease, knowing how someone like Lo Vecchio survives for so long. “I feel that I have been hiding my secret for too long, and it comes now to front. This man, a condemned man, has shown me that even the most kind of men can harbor such spite. And I only fear for you now – a blessed child for the longest time and one who demonstrates much faith. I can only wonder how much I have sugar-coated an evil creation – if such a thing could exist.”

Raguso said nothing in reply. He himself couldn’t really answer what Domenicatti said – how corrupt was his soul? He knew himself to be a kind and gentle person, not rash and brutal, as some of the other Capi were. But there were times when his anger boiled to an extent even Maggiano himself refused to tolerate – was this the impulse of his darker nature, or was it simply circumstance?

Having nothing much to offer in consolation, Raguso nodded slightly and said to Paolo, “I would suggest that we leave it peace.”

“Si.”

Kingston Int'l Airport, Kingston, Jamaica
The crowd of young, slightly sunburned, glad and vital fifteen and sixteen year olds stood in the rather long waiting que in the terminal building, waiting to go through one of the many security checkpoints on the airport. The group of twenty youths were last-year students at Kjøkkelvik secondary school, on their way home after a class trip to Layarteb along with their teacher. They all had their passports and travel visas ready to show the customs people so it would go as quickly as possible, just like the voice on the speakers in the terminal requested.

Over the past two weeks, they had travelled first from Bergen to Oslo, where they had boarded a Boeing 747-400 ER to Layarteb City, where they had spent a few days, visiting a Layartebian school and gotten to know students their own age, getting done with the curricular part of the trip. The final week, they had spent at Jamaica, having a school-sponsored vacation. They had pretty much relaxed on the beaches and been on excusions, but a few of the students had been up to something else as well, something which most certainly wasn't sponsored by the school. The five students had known of Jamaica's reputation for being very liberal-minded, and had hoped to score some weed during their trip. What they had gotten hold of was far better. The dealers called it 'Valkyr', and promised that it would be far better than weed. Cheaper too.

The five, two girls and three boys, all almost sixteen years old, weren't very interested in school work. Instead, they preferred to party, ditch school, fool around in classes, just about anything than actually paying attention in school. They had all had run-ins with the law in the past in Cotland, something they didn't really care about since they were popular at school. This had made them somewhat arrogant, something which showed. The leader of the five, Jonas Klausen, had been so impressed with the effects of this 'Valkyr' thingy that he had stocked up. Since he was the leader, he had also managed to convince the others that they should too. Personally, he carried a kilo in his backpack and another five in his luggage, while his girlfriend, Line, had half a kilo in her purse and six in her luggage. The others, Nina, Tim and Mikkel, had somewhere between three and ten (!) kilos themselves. They weren't among the smartest people in the group, or the school for that matter, but they had relatively wealthy and influential parents. They figured that if anything happened, their parents would get them out. They had managed to do so in the past.

The que moved forward again, and apparently the student group was next to go through. The five were first in the line, wanting to get to the tax-free stores quickly so they could spend as much time there as possible before taking flight CA025 from Kingston to Barbados in about an hour and a half.

"Next. Please step forward." Jonas moved forward to the guard and put his bag down on the screener machine. "Enjoy your stay? Good. Are you carrying any bottles of alcohol, illegal drugs, explosives, firearms, weapons, any of the sort?"

"No." Jonas replied sternly. "That would be dumb."

"It would be. Please place your luggage on the scanner belt." The others nervously moved around, something that the screener noticed. He looked back at Jonas and looked around again. The boy was nervous, he could tell and the four with him were all nervous as well. This wasn't a good sign and so he paused for a moment. "Damn machine is stuck. Hold on one second." He briefly turned around to the monitorer behind him and gave a look with his eyes. "Machine is jammed again?"

"Yeah. Give me a second. I think it's a piece of thread or a shoelace or something." The monitorer was already looking at the machine, hidden from sight, calling, on his radio, for backup. "Alright. Fixed." He emerged with his shoelace. "Another shoelace."

"When are they going to fix these things! Alright. Place your luggage here please."

"We ain't carrying."

"Precautions. Now do it quickly so we can get this line moving." He was trying to make Jonas more nervous. He already has his passport in his hands and he was watching three more guards coming from behind them. They were all at least twenty feet away still but close enough to make a snatch. Jonas, reluctantly, put his bags on the conveyor belt. Slowly, they pushed into the machine and the monitorer watched the television window. He could switch between several modes: X-Ray, Thermal, Radiological, Chemical, etc. It was a very important and expensive system that could detect almost anything, including drugs. The three guards stopped, one having a German Shepherd dog with him. This was a dog that was trained for sniffing drugs and bombs and it was here for a purpose. "Mack. John. How are ya." He stopped the machine, purposely trying to aggravate the kids and it was working.

"We got a flight to catch." Jonas said to the guard, his voice rather raised.

"Calm down there. You'll catch your flight." He kept a close eye on one of the girls in the group, Nina. She was more nervous than the rest and looked more like a crack addict, unable to stand still at all. "You alright?" He asked as he saw the sweat drip down her face. "Do you need a doctor?"

"I okay."

"Are you sure? Here. Move up. You're next, we'll speed this up."

"I fine."

"It's not a problem miss."

"No. I." Then she bolted, running back towards the doors as hard as she could. She barely got forty feet before one of the three guards tackled her to the ground, throwing the handcuffs on her. The other four, back at the machine, were all in serious mode. Two had their weapons drawn, a pair of M77B4 Tactical Assault Pistols, loaded with 10 .45ACP rounds each. The other two had their weapons holstered but the straps undone. Michael, the screener and the one who had been talking the whole time looked back at John who had wrestled the cuffs on the young girl.

"You five got something to hide you might want to tell me now?" They said nothing only realizing how much trouble they were in. "Fine. You are all being detained under the suspicion of contraband. This dog will do a preliminary examination of your luggage. If he finds anything you will be further detained and your luggage hand inspected. If it turns up to be a false alarm you will all be released. If it turns out that you were lying to me then you're going to be in deep trouble. Understood?" Nobody responded again. "If you wish. Mack, let the dog out."

"You got it." The dog started barking immediately and did so at every bag. "We've got something here."

"Alright. Unit 1-4. Unit 1-4. We've got five here with suspicion of drugs or explosives. Request relief for detainment." Static flooded the radio a second.

"Unit 1-4. Affirmed. Unit 3-2 on location in two minutes."

"Roger that." It was a long two minutes for the five Cottish students, all of whom were restrained with either handcuffs or plastic zip-ties, which held better and were harder to get out of and extremely cheap to replace. "Alright gentlemen. Enjoy the day, we're going to go have some fun." They brought the five of them towards the detainment area, their luggage being pushed behind them. All five of them would be placed in five separate rooms, empty except for a pair of chairs, a table, a microphone, a video camera, a ceiling light, and a one-way window. In another room, their luggage was placed, cameras and microphones hanging from the ceiling to watch the process. All of them worked slowly on each bag, individually, going through them, pulling out clothes and then, a kilo of something and another kilo of something. By the time they went through all of their possessions, they had a total of 19 and a half kilos of narcotics, which would be identified as 'Valkyr,' the newest designer drug from the cartels. Interrogators observing the process, as well as an attorney and the five guards all smiled at each other. They had scored big here and they were going to be pushing hard. With that much drugs, they kids were all looking at life in jail without parole. They were young, no older than sixteen and whilst the death penalty was applicable, they were all foreign nationals and it looked like they were smuggling it out of the country rather than into the country. Life without parole in a harsh and unfriendly prison in Layarteb was no piece of cake. The interrogators wanted more though, they wanted the dealer or dealers. They all entered the rooms with smiles on their faces, putting down a few pictures and reports. Sitting in a room for forty-five minutes was harrowing in itself and now it was about to get worse. They all spoke English though heavily accented. That would be a plus but, just in case, three of the interrogators spoke Cottish.

The teacher and the other students were quite shocked over the treatment of the five kids, of the revelation that they were carrying illegal drugs, and that they were detained and brought away. The teacher wasn't quite sure what to do, but the airport security told them to keep moving through the que. The other kids and the teacher checked out and assembled beyond the checkpoint, discussing what had just happened and what to do next. The teacher, a fourty-six year old named Frank Burre tried to keep his head cool though. Pulling out his cellphone, he turned it on and checked his ticket for the number to the airline customer service. Dialling the number quickly, he took a deep breath before they picked up.

"Cotland Air, how may I be of assistance?" a friendly, female voice said in the other end.

"Yes, good day. Do you speak Cottish?"

"Ja, det gjør jeg. Hvordan kan jeg hjelpe deg?" [Yes I do. How may I be of assistance?]

"Mitt navn er Frank Burre, og jeg er en skolelærer på vei fra Jamaica til Barbados med en skoleklasse. Fem av mine elever har blitt pågrepet av sikkerhetsvaktene på flyplassen, og jeg aner ikke hva jeg skal gjøre!" [My name is Frank Burre, and I'm a schoolteacher on my way from Jamaica to Barbados with my school class. Five of my students have been arrested by the airport security, and I have no idea what to do!]

The woman paused for a moment, calling over her supervisor while thinking out what to do. Writing frantically on a piece of paper, she explained what had happened to her supervisor.

"OK, slapp av. Vi skal prøve å hjelpe dere. Vent litt." [OK, relax. We're going to try to help you. Hold on for a moment.]

The supervisor in the Layarteb City-based callcenter had finally found the number he was looking for. He wrote the numbers down quickly before handing the note to the woman.

"OK, her er hva dere skal gjøre. Først må du kontakte ambassaden og forklare problemet. Vi holder på å kontakte representantene på flyplassen. De kommer til å finne dere. Hvor på flyplassen er dere?" [OK, here's what you'll do. First, you have to contact the Cottish embassy and explain the problem to them. We're contacting the airport rep's. They'll find you. Where on the airport are you?]

"Vi står rett ved siden av sikkerhetssluse to, på innsiden." [We're right next to the second security checkpoint, on the inside.]

"OK, vi skal vente på dem her. Hva er nummeret til ambassaden?" [OK, we'll wait for them here. What's the number to the embassy?]

"Herregud, det hadde jeg nesten glemt. 001 212 555 39252. 001 212 555 39252. Det er til resepsjonen. Presenter deg også tar de over resten." [Oh my God, I almost forgot. 001 212 555 39252. 001 212 555 39252. That's for the front desk. Introduce yourself and they'll take care of the rest.]

"OK, takk skal du ha." [OK, thank you.]

Burre hung up and dialled the number he had been given. After a few rings, they picked up.

"Embassy of the Realm of Cotland, how may I be of assistance?" a male voice half asked, half stated.

"Do you speak Cottish?"

"Yes."

"Godt. Mitt navn er Frank Burre, og jeg er en Cottisk statsborger. Jeg er og en skolelærer som for øyeblikket står på flyplassen i Kingston på Jamaica og lurer på hva jeg skal gjøre når fem av mine elever har blitt pågrepet av sikkerhetsvaktene på flyplassen." [Good. My name is Frank Burre, and I'm a Cottish citizen. I'm also a school teacher who is currently standing at Kingston international airport in Jamaica, wondering what I'm supposed to do when five of my students have been arrested by airport security.]

"Jeg forstår. Vent litt så skal du få snakke med den juridiske attacheen." [I see. Please hold for the legal attaché.]

Before Burre could do anything else, there was some waiting music before it picked up again. This time, Christine Dahl, the legal attache answered. Burre once again explained the problem, getting more and more frustrated. The Cotland Air rep's showed up and after a bit of chaos, they finally got to know what was happening. The identity of the five students were reported to the embassy, who promised to inquire into the case. The teacher and students were advised to board the flight and to report to the authorities in Bridgeport when they landed. Bridgeport was Cottish territory, so Cottish police officers would have to take statements.

Meanwhile, the embassy contacted the Layartebian Ministry of State and asked just what the hell they were doing in diplomateese.

********************

In the interrogation room in the airport, the five teens weren't feeling so good. Nina was in need of her next fix of Valkyr, and it showed on her. The normally beautiful blonde fifteen-year old girl was very pale, sweating and shaking, having a very hard time. Being in the interrogation room didn't really help either. Tim, the youngest of them, was very nervous. In fact, so nervous that he couldn't controll his bladder, with the results therein. The others weren't doing very well either. However, Jonas was sufficiently aware to think coherently.

"Jeg vil ha en advokat." [I want a solicitor.] he said. First quietly, then louder and louder. Finally, he realized that it wasn't Cottish police who held him, so he switched language. "I want lawyer. I want fucking lawyer!" he shouted.

The interrogator smiled. "You're a bright boy. Unfortunately, for you, you aren't bright enough. Let's see. You and your friends are trying to smuggle nineteen and a half kilos of 'Valkyr' out of the country. You know what that means? That means several things. It means you are screwed and it means that you don't get a lawyer, yet. You see, in the Empire here, we are allowed to detain individuals for seventy-two hours before we are required to charge them. That means no laywers, no charges, no nothing. You've got sixty-eight and a half hours to go. You can choose to be quiet the whole time and make this a very boring and very uncomfortable sixty-eight and a half hours. You can choose to spill everything and cooperate, which will only help you in the long run. Either way, you will be charged, you will be placed under arrest, and you will stand trial. Is that understood? Now. Shall we dispense with the bull and continue?" Similar conversations were had in the other four rooms and the teacher of the group, who was on the phone with the Cottish embassy was definitely unhappy about the matter but what else could he do, it was out of his hands.

Meanwhile, over a thousand of miles away, in Layarteb City, in the Foreign Ministry was buzzing. News of the capture had flooded into the legal department and they were sure that the Cottish embassy would be calling shortly. They had little time to do what they needed to do and this meant only one thing, full attention. Two departments within were tasked with the case and they worked phenomenally fast. The situation was clear and simple though, very cut and dry. Customs agents seized nineteen and a half kilograms of 'Valkyr' in the luggage of five youths, aged fifteen to sixteen, trying to smuggle the illegal drugs out of the country. They were detained four hours earlier and the police still had up to sixty-eight hours before they were required to either charge them or let them go. This time would be taken, in full, if necessary. It was evident what the outcome would be though. They were could to be charged and they were going to stand trail. They had broken a very serious law in the Empire and at a time when there was heightened awareness to the drug problem, it was all the more serious.

They were looking at life without parole if they were convicted and if they cooperated, maybe, perhaps, by a slight chance, they might eventually be eligible for parole. That was up to the judge to decide and up to the five of them to decide. If they cooperated and yielded their contact and gave up the dealer, they might get something in return, some sort of reward. When the phones rang, they knew what was happening. The Cottish embassy had called and called quickly. Now it was up to the Minister of Foreign Affairs to handle the matter whereas the Minister of Justice was going to be needed. He would be conferenced in, if necessary.

Taranto - 1600, at the docks.

Maggiano had arranged the whole affair over the phone. Opposite his crew was likely to be the Inquisition crew. His point man, versed in what he was to say, went up past three piers before the Inquisition sent their man and the two met in the middle, a safe and secure distance. All of the while, Maggiano had snipers patroling the roofs, making sure that the Doomani officials didn't send in the army. More than likely, the Inquisition crew had the same deal working, so the whole feeling was mutual.

The two met and began a small chat. Maggiano could hear everything that was spoken between the two, as much as it was likely that his counterpart was doing. His point man's Latin was scratchy and unauthentic, and it almost embarrassed him to send somone like that. But business was business; he had to get this done as soon as possible.

The discussion was mostly mumbles, uncharacterized chatter that led nowhere. "How was your day?" "It was fine; we ran into problems at the airport though." "Oh what a pity? Is your father well?" "He's well as ever." "Good. I've heard that he's got a serious drinking problem." "No. He quit two months ago. But his liver is bad." "Heh." Maggiano wasn't much in the interest to take chitchats for no reason. Suddenly, he felt a tap on his shoulder. One of his associates spotted another man approaching the two men on the pier. They all kept their weapons ready, pondering what this meant. Maggiano, on his end, could clearly hear his voice.

"Don Maggiano, viene per favore." [Don Maggiano, please come here.]

It was Italian, and a very good accent at that. Maggiano looked through the binoculars and saw that the man was dressed in a long cloak, something of the sort that only the ecclesiastic officials wore. This was obviously someone very high up in the Inquisition ranks, making an unusual appearance in the business of criminals. Even though he didn't know if he could trust this man, he felt compelled to meet him. He prepared himself to meet the man, while he continued to hear reports from his snipers. The other man was going away, leaving the Inquisitor alone with Maggiano's point man. It seemed that this was going to be a private meeting between the two of them.

He strolled across the docks with PX4 pistol ready at any moment, although it was pretty much futile in the open. He would have to hope that his snipers could take care of the job if it became messy. As he neared, he gestured to his point man to leave them alone, and soon it was the Inquisitor with Maggiano.

"Ah, I am so happy that could meet again."

"Mio amico, we have never met."

"Not in person."

"Si. Who are you? And what business do you bring?"

"I am Master Inquisitor Gaius Varus Herius. I have made the trip from Capua to meet you again, and I had hoped that you would come and share the mutual feeling. As you probably know, we have our own support ready to turn this place into a massacre in seconds, and I don't believe that it is in your interest to create such a scene. So let us begin. You have a troublesome person again?"

"Him." Maggiano pulled out a photo of Caesarini. Herius looked at the photo and nodded. "We've been tracking him as well. But it's been difficult, since he is a Roman citizen. And the two Dominions have only begun to reconcile with each other."

"That's good news perhaps. I've had trouble with him." Maggiano pulled out the newspaper clipping from the Roman Times. "Those are my boys, liisted as criminals, and while they are heavily involved in my business, they have never touched or dealt with any illicit activities. And now, this bastard calls out on them as drug traffickers and the lot."

"Irony, isn't it? You are the one who should be on this picture. No?"

Maggiano kept silent. Herius chuckled a little, a jovial chuckle it was. Maggiano couldn't imagine what kept this man so happy. But Herius became a little more serious and looked out into the harbor. "For much of my life, I've been trying to fight this scourge of coke and heroin, things that corrupt the soul with intoxicating thoughts and visions. I've been locked in a room aiming to stop this peril and this... menace of drugs. Of course, I've also been tracking murders and rapists, those men who corrupt themselves with the lust of the blood of their kin. But yours - yours are the more interesting and delicate of those cases that I dealt in.

"You know, it's funny. I rarely smile, and you're probably wondering how I can a smile so long. Because, I have a proposition that will benefit us both. And I hope that you will accept it, because that would make me even happier. I also hope that you are sincere in your business dealing, because it would not only make me upset, it would release such a wrath upon your house that neither I nor you would like to witness such an end."

"What is it?" Maggiano asked.

Herius paused, allowing the suspense to sink in a little deeper. "We will take care of Caesarini, and I will see what we can do for your children. I cannot guarantee that it will be fast or quick, but the Inquisition is interested in the welfare of all its citizens."

"And what do you need of me?"

"You run perhaps the largest drug cartel in the world, operated and affiliated to the same man. It would be our greatest pleasure if your operations suddenly ceased."

"Ceased."

"Yes. Not only ceased, but irreversibly destroyed and abandoned. After all, we are helping your family, so you could at least help ours."

"What would benefit us if we ceased? Besides the return of my two boys?"

Herius again paused. "Since the Inquisition has yet to link Costra Nostra directly and inexcusably certainly to any drug incident in Italy or worldwide in the Doomanum, it wouldn't be far from our good graces to grant amnesty to you and to all in your organization and corporate conglomerate. You know? Besides, I've heard that your family earns more profit from non-illicit activities anyway. What could you lose other than a small profit margin?"

Maggiano took his turn to pause and ponder the options. Herius's proposal was inndeed generous - and more than likely, if anyone else knew of it, it might have been considered treason. He was making enough of a gamble to meet Maggiano in person - it was another thing to make deals with him. Clearly, Herius was offering more than he could probably procure at the moment, but his reasoning was somewhat infallible. Cosa Nostra had nothing to lose from it. Besides, they made more net money from assassinations than they did from all of their drug trades, because it costs so much to pay the middle men to get the job done.

"I need some time to think about it. I'm not saying it's a bad thing, but... I don't know what to say."

"Then neither do I."

"You know, I'll stop this business of whatever you want to stop for the moment, and if I like what I see, I'll consider making a new contract. Capisce?"

"Of course. I'm glad that you're willing to consider the options. But don't think you can play me for a fool, because I will know if you've ceased your operations."

"And I will know if you're seeking my sons. Let us consider the feeling mutual then?"

"Of course. It was a pleasure to meet you, Don Maggiano."

"And it was a pleasure to meet you, Signore."

And the two parted ways, without even touching the other. It felt unorthodox to both of them, but it was better this way. Herius couldn't afford to show good graces with a Mafiosi, even though he had already risked much in this meeting. And Maggiano couldn't turn into a suck-up completely. After all, they both ran different businesses.

Interrogation room, Kingston Int'l Airport
Jonas was starting to realize the seriousness of the situation, but he had been in kind of similar situations earlier. However, then he had been below the age of criminal liability before, so his father, a wealthy businessman with friends in Stortinget had managed to throw his weight around and keeping his son from the usual reprecussions of Children's Services and what not. However, what the Layartebian had said kept repeating itself inside his head.

'You see, in the Empire here, we are allowed to detain individuals for seventy-two hours before we are required to charge them. That means no laywers, no charges, no nothing.'

"Faen..." [Damn...]

Finally getting his act together, he swallowed and spoke in English.

"I'm a Cottish citizen. I want to speak with people from the Cottish embassy." He stuttered out in moderately accented English, struggling to find the words with the correct meaning. "Please." He added in the end, hoping it would have some effect.

Cottish embassy, Layarteb City
The legal attaché was on the phone now, talking to the Layartebian Foreign Ministry about the situation. It was a serious crime they had been charged with. Smuggling illegal drugs out of the country. Still, they were talking about kids, no more than fifteen years old, kids who didn't know what they were doing. Hopefully, she could get them handed over to Cotland.

"Sir, I fully appreciate the seriousness of the situation, but I wish to remind you that the people in question are children, far below the age in which they can legally smoke, drink, or drive. They are also citizens of Cotland, and holders of Cottish passports... I understand that they committed a crime sir, but look at it from my point of view. If you were to hand over the children, we will prosecute them ourselves. No, not for illegally exporting illegal drugs, but for attempting to illegally introduce drugs to the Realm. What do you say sir? Is there a possibility for handing them over? Please consider the possible ramifications this incident can have for the relations between our two nations before giving your answer."

While the attaché was busy talking with the ministry, one of her aides had called Oslo and informed them about what was about to become an international incident.

Grantley Adams Int'l Airport, Barbados
Cotland Air flight 025 landed at the airport in Barbados five minutes ahead of schedule, mostly thanks to favorable wind conditions. Once the teacher and the remaining students exited the Boeing 737, they found not only two police officers waiting for them, but also a bunch of reporters who had been tipped off by the parents of one of the students who had seen the incident in the Jamaican airport. They were trying to gather first-hand information before they could quickly type up an article and get it published on the web. A few of the students managed to tell the reporters what they knew before being dragged away by the teacher and the police and ushered into a pair of chartered minivans for the thirty minute drive to the central police station in Bridgeport where they would give their statements. By the time they entered the police stations, the first articles started appearing on the webpages of the largest newspapers. VG was first.

Five Cottish students detained in Layartebian airport
Bridgeport (VG) - Four hours ago, Layartebian officials stopped and brutally arrested five Cottish students, apparently without reason. The five students, all attending Kjøkkelvik secondary school in Bergen, Norway were detained and taken away under armed guard, eye witness and fellow student Kine Ensti says to VG.

"They were, like, stopped and questioned, and without warning, they were, like, thrown down on the ground and brutalized," she explained. This explanation was backed by other witnesses to the incident before they were escorted away by the police.

Both the Foreign Ministry and the Layartebian embassy in Oslo has refused to comment this story at this time.

Published 14:04, 14. june 2006
VG (C) 2006

We will return with more on this story as it evolves

The sudden explosion had sent the press crazy, they knew a story was afoot and they wanted some of the action. What would they tell them? It was a raid gone bad, they had been tricked, outsmarted, what? Had they been tricked, that was the question on Henning’s mind. They had in fact captured the biggest drug bust in USB history. Surely the names, the ship, something would point them in the right direction. Henning stood on the bridge looking down at the wharfs below, watching the press near kill themselves trying to get an edge. Kibwe appeared next to him, his eyes reddened.

Henning spoke softly slightly turning his head to Kibwe, “What do you think?”

“Sir?”

“Rudolf will give a speech tomorrow. He’ll tell the world how this was a great day in the war against drugs. He’ll say that brave men gave their lives for the betterment of the world, and the people will eat it up…they’ll eat it up without even realizing what it means.”

“What does it mean sir,” Kibwe was somewhat puzzled.

“Nothing, it doesn’t mean a damn thing,” his voice was growing louder, “something isn’t right here. There are too many lose ends, too many unanswered questions.” A great sigh echoed from his mouth. “I would like to keep searching the ship, check the drugs…something!”

“Sir, we could search this ship all night and not get any closer to something we don’t have an idea about. I just talked to Weston, the names of the men in the room turned up complete shit. We have nothing expect they’re Italian and unless Doomingsland graciously allows us into their computer mainframe we have nothing. Hell we don’t even know where the ships came from. Manifest says Italy but I highly doubt they could get this through the rather thorough Doomingsland security forces. Its better if we take this stuff to the labs, let the professionals have a look at it, see where it comes from and let us do our jobs.”

Henning glanced around aimlessly for a second apparently in deep thought. It was more like sadness however; he had lost men, and turned up nothing. Others would obviously disagree but something was deeper than meets the eye on this ship and he hadn’t a clue to what it was. “Get some sleep Kibwe.”

When he got home he wanted to stay up, to try and figure something out but the exhaustion was too great for him to handle. He collapsed on his bed in utter fatigue. His eyes felt heavy and soon he was sound asleep, his mind and body finally resting as it should. For the brief period when your dreams take over he was relaxed, weightless. It was quite contrary to the actual situation as millions of lives could depend on his action once he arose. He was the only one, or at least the only “good” one who had any idea of what the next day would bring. The next day’s events were already set in motion regardless of his presence. The drugs were being sent by rail to a port in Southern Somalia than to Madagascar where a plane would carry them the remainder of the way to South Africa. Meanwhile Kibwe and his two partners were gearing up for their assault on the convoy. At the same time Amerigo had already realized he had been played furthered by the fact that Kibwe had not contacted him and in fact avoided it completely. All Kibwe needed was assurance on the bomb’s location and with Amerigo knew it was no longer in his hands. Losing this package would be a grave mistake and could not happen. For this reason he was planning an assault of his own. Finally Henning would awake and begin an investigation of his own. He’d search online and declassified information he had picked up during the investigation. He’d find out just what the Death Valley Queen was and he wouldn’t believe it. And once he found out what that was, he’d realize what was at stake…he would realize just how important that convoy was and how he would have to protect it.


As bad as it seemed, the shit hadn’t even hit the fan yet.

From Nepalese territory, Maria was guiding the rest of Caesarini's almost foiled operations, while hoping to evade public attention for too long. If need be, they could always head to Roman Sri Lanka, but again, Maria didn't want the attention. Officially, they were on vacation, but Maria didn't seem like the vacation-type of person, always scheming to get to the top of the ladders and kicking it out from under her. She had gotten the Romans to do her bidding, searching from Maggiano's other son and some other mysterious fellow, whom she had only seen casually while Giovanni was still alive. She had done her research on him - a friendly associate to Don Silvestro. Names always evaded her, but the one that stuck on her mind was "Lo Vecchio" - but he was in Romagna taking care of Don Raguso, and Don Silvestro loved Don Raguso, almost like a child. Besides that, she hired Lo Vecchio - it couldn't be him.

Regardless, Maggiano was no longer a worry for her - this "package" was going to be more than a headache for whomever the hot potato landed on. She was somewhat upset that Amerigo wasn't making any progress, but it was Caesarini's mishap to hire the trusty fool in the first place. She would fix that mistake in time. Until then, it was his responsibility to get the package safely out of Africa and onto a ship on its way to America. She wasn't certain on the destination yet, because she wasn't certain which country most frustrated her.

She wanted to check up on the situation and called her point man.

"Mia Donna?"

"Tell me; has Amerigo fixed his little situation problem?"

"Not quite. He says that someone's trying to steal it from him, and he knows who."

"That's good... a development. But tell him he's got 24 hours to get the package out and into the water or else he finds his name on an obituary in Windhoek. And get the package onto another ship. I can't believe that you fools would put a special package on an Italian ship - we don't hurt the Family, you hear?"

"I thought that that's what this was for..."

"Things have changed. Priorities shifted... Just relay the information and don't screw it up or you're all going to find your names in the obituary."

"We will see what we can do, Mia Donna."

With the call ended, she confronted two of her guards, who had crashed into her room with an assailant on the ground. She tsked at them and asked, "Who's the man?"

"A guest with a nasty attitude."

"Let's see..."

At her bidding, the two guards struggled to bring the man carefully and have Maria survey the man. He was Italian, a Romanized Doomani apparently. In one hand was a machine gun strap with the machine gun dangling in the other room. In the other was a large knife wound, probably from her guards. She tsked again and sat on a velvet chair.

"Let's have a talk."

The guards then placed the man on the ground, with his arms and legs firmly in their grasp, while they held knives to his throat. More guards started to arrive, but Maria held them back out of the room. She didn't need more attention than was already given.

"I'm surprised that you have such a weapon and didn't even fire a shot. You're reckless, and you thought you could achieve something. Who sent you? Because I have to congratulate them for raising a stupid idiot."

The assailant tried to lunge out, but his captors held him in place, sticking their knives shallowly into the man's throat. A little red trail began to flow as Maria gestured to her other guards. Two more ame over and searched the man's pockets - empty, except for one magazine cartridge. She nodded and the two walked back into the other room. Standing up, Maria pulled out a silenced PPK from under her clothes and shot the assailant in the groin. Screams erupted and were quickly silenced as one of his captors put a hand over his mouth. Maria waited several minutes before she decided to talk to him again. Where the man sat was a pool of blood - all the more evidence for a murder scene.

"I'm only going to ask once more, because for you - mio amico - there is no third chance. Who sent you?"

"DAMN YOU BITCH!"

With that, Maria shot the man in the head and the two guards let him fall. They were covered in blood, and while they wondered what to do, Maria snapped and pointed at the machine gun. Immediately, a guard picked it up and held it ready. Maria came over and surveyed the scene. "Spray the area." The two guards looked over at her with shock and awe, just moments before being wasted by several bullets. Maria patted the other guard's shoulder, signaling a stop. She again surveyed the area and gave her instructions again. "You know the drill. Machine gun in the bad guy's hand, PPK inn our guys hands, and leave the scene nice and clean. And pack up - we're leaving."

"What does all of this mean?" one of her guards asked.

Maria looked back at him and sensually replied, "We're being followed, aren't we?"

Paradise Now Night Club, Dakar, Senegal

It was 1.30am and the club was already in full swing, with the masses jumping and swaying to bass laden music and bright strobe lights. People in their element drank sweet drinks and glowed in the colourful darkness, not a care in the world.

Looking out over the heaving and swaying mass of bodies, Jose Rico watched with careful eyes, his open collared 800NCN suit looking every inch the part in the club. He was standing on the edge of some stairs leading to the dance-floor. Across the room,his partner, Mac Kerello, was also watching. In their ears a team on the roof of the building reported comings and goings. Every now and then the two Vice Detectives would flip open their phones and would look at a real-time video link of a private room on the upper floor of the club. It was empty.

Outside the club sat numerous bright and dark coloured cars, nearly every one with shiny chrome wheels and blacked out windows. The VIP’s cars were parked on the curb right outside the club itself, most were exotic imports or incredibly expensive domestic sports cars. From the top of the street two gleaming pearl white INDIAN Chief XL’s cruised down toward the club doors and parked perfectly parallel with the queues and the doors. A couple of well dressed heavies exited the first Chief and held the doors wide for an Hispanic man in an immaculate Linen shirt and expensive slacks with sunglasses, behind him a pale white man in a white suit and blue shirt got out, staring around, sweat on his forehead. From the second car another heavy got out, followed by a couple of scantily clad Greek women and an immaculately dressed African in a sharp black suit. He was followed out of the car by two more women, both African. The whole entourage entered the club without a word to the bouncers who simply opened the doors and didn’t even have the guts to stare at the giggling women.

Jose and Mac were notified of their arrival and what the players were wearing. They were spotted entering the club close to Jose who stood on a raised platform with tables that ran around the edges of the club. The girls were dancing and shouting, the African in the black suit laughing and squeezing their particulars. The Hispanic and the white man looked less amused, following the women, a heavy behind them. They walked around the edge of the club and stopped about 20 ft from Mac, out of eyeshot of Jose. The stopped at double doors which was the entrance to the VIP rooms. The African kissed and squeezed the women before they jumped down to the dancefloor giggling and starting to dance. A heavy was left by the nearby bar, the other two and the three men all went up through the double doors. Jose was on his way around to Mac.

Both men had their phones out and were close to each other, within eyeshot. The three men eventually entered the small but luxurious room. The camera was mounted in a pebble strewn vase that sat at one end of the self-service bar. The camera looked out at the seats in the room. One heavy walked in, the other presumably outside. Mac and Jose put the phones to their ears, the ones without the comm pieces and listened at the grainy audio. The bouncer was fiddling behind the bar, while the three men settled into their seats.

The African had turned from playboy to businessman in the time it took to get to the room, the Hispanic had taken off his glasses and the white man was looking even more nervous. The African spoke first, a deep and languorous accent which Mac decided was native of the Sudanese. He explained he wanted to do business with a cartel in Miami, but also wanted to use Cottish ships to transport the goods, while supplying the Cot’s with Opium as part of their payment. One word kept popping up into the sentence, ’Valkir’. Mac and Jose had heard a few things about the new drug threat, from Miami and South American cartels, and they had a new drug, this strange Valkir stuff. So far it hadn’t landed on the African West Coast, but this smart playboy obviously wanted to introduce it.

The heavy obscured the camera view for a minute while he set down the men’s drinks. Then he disappeared behind the bar again. The three men resumed talking. The Hispanic agreed to begin shipments as soon as the white man, obviously a Cot, could arrange it. The African agreed a transfer of funds through a number of banks, and the Cot, with a heavy and shaky accent, agreed to have the first ship ready in two days, saying it was already bound for Miami.

Then the men turned to a discussion about Valkir. Mac put the phone away and just nodded to Jose who got up, as Mac moved off toward the bar and the African’s heavy watching the girls. Mac simply walked up behind him, kicked him at the knee joint and punched him in the side of the head. They both left him sprawling on the ground, an undercover Vice cop appearing from the crowd to deal with him.

Jose and Mac made it over to the VIP area door and went in, and up the stairs. Jose simply nodded at the club bouncer at the top of the stairs and they went up. Standing at the end of the hallway, outside the last door was the second of the African’s heavies. He stood square and huge in the hallway. As they approached he held out his hand for them to stop and said in a thick, monotone voice, ’Can I help you gentlemen?’ Jose didn’t skip a beat, he growled ’No.’ and quickly kicked the huge bouncer in the groin, shocking the iliac artery in the leg and causing the giant to simply slouch to the ground unconscious. A few seconds later three undercover Vice cops appeared in the hallway, their black Kimber Custom Duty .45ACP guns drawn. Jose and Mac drew their own guns, Jose a black Desert Eagle .40 Action Express and Mac a silver Coonan .357 Magnum.

The five cops readied themselves, the sounds of the nightclub dull and thumping in the background. Then Mac booted the door open and the five burst into the room screaming "DAKAR VICE, EVERYBODY DOWN.” The heavy behind the bar went for a gun, but before he’d even drawn it a huge .357 round blew a tennis ball sized hole in his chest. The three men on the chairs were jumping to the ground, fumbling for their weapons. But the five cops were on them within seconds of kicking the door in. They were kicked and punched until they were lying flat on the floor. Mac, Jose and another cop yanked their arms behind their backs and hooped flex-cuffs onto their wrists, pulling them tight to cause the most discomfort.

The mens guns were still holstered as they were removed. A knife was also found on the African. The white man had spilt his drink on his suit and had a bloody nose, he had his head back and was groaning every so often. Mac was doing the rounds, taking names. The African didn't offer any hostility, he said he was called Kirk Magodo, Mac only nodded. Magodo was a well known name, he’d been tried once for shady business dealings just after the The Ninjan Government collapsed, but a fire had destroyed his man offices, erasing the evidence. Magodo obviously thought he would get away again.

The Hispanic wouldn’t talk, he was defiant. But he had some ID on him, a well faked Dakar State driving license. Jose then took the man’s arms behind him and pulled as Mac held his head. The cartilage in his shoulders began to pop and move, he screamed and the pressure was released. He spoke with saliva running out of his mouth. He said his name was Esteban Montoya from Miami in the EOL. Jose simply shook his head. It was common enough to find people from the eastern states of America, tourists from the EOL, visiting the sunny and picturesque African coast. But to find a drug dealer, this was a catch. The Layartebians would probably disown him.

Finally they came to the white Cottish man. He was visibly shaken, and if it was possible, he had gotten even paler. His eyes were darting to and fro. When Mac asked him who he was, he spoke with a stammer and a heavy accent, "I’m…m…m Strig Bossen, from Trondheim.” Mac laughed, "Well you’re a long way from home my friend…a long way from home.”



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OOC: I just saw Miami Vice and thought I must write something like that for the Drugs RP, I also thought that adding some other nationalities into the mix in Africa would excite things. Must dash now, NASCAR Busch Series repeat is on- GO HARVICK!

COMMUNICATION

COMMONWEALTH OF HIRGIZSTAN

DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE

MESSAGE TO: Empire of Layarteb, Ministry of Foreign Affairs


As you may be aware from news reports in the COH, a Dakar Vice raid in a nightclub on Tuesday morning netted one known Hirgizstanian drug trafficker/dealer. He was caught with two foreign nationals, one of which is an Hispanic man who claims he is from Miami. His name is Esteban Montoya.

At the moment Dakar Police Department's Vice Squad is holding him in custody. As per COH law he can be held without charge or outside contact for up to five days. It is likely he will be charged with intent to sell and traffic drugs. This will result in a lifetime sentence at a maximum security prison. However, since he is a foreign national we wish to have the Empire's input on this individual. Naturally we will extradite him if it will help bring more information to light about drug trafficking between Dakar and Miami. We would however, in the end, want the criminal to serve his sentence in the COH.



COH



COMMUNICATION

COMMONWEALTH OF HIRGIZSTAN

DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE

MESSAGE TO: The Realm of Cotland, Minisitry of Foreign Affairs

As you may be aware from news reports in the COH, a Dakar Vice raid in a nightclub on Tuesday morning netted one known Hirgizstanian drug trafficker/dealer. He was caught with two foreign nationals, one of which is a Cottish man named Strig Bossen, from Trondheim.

At the moment Dakar Police Department's Vice Squad is holding him in custody. As per COH law he can be held without charge or outside contact for up to five days. It is likely he will be charged with intent to sell and traffic drugs. This will result in a lifetime sentence at a maximum security prison. However, since he is a foreign national we wish to have the Realm's input on this individual. Naturally we will extradite him if it will help bring more information to light about the use of Cottish vessels to traffic drugs across the Atlantic. We would however, in the end, want the criminal to serve his sentence in the COH.


COH

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Dakar Police Department Building, 5th Floor, Vice Squad Holding Cells and Interrogation Rooms- Wednesday.

Jose and Mac hadn't left the building since Tuesday morning when the three men had been brought to the holding cells, along with two of the heavies. They were the only three in the cells. Apart from the Hispanic man they had went quietly. The Hispanic had to be subdued with a brutal kick to his essentials. After that he'd offered no resistance.

The two heavies were the first to be interrogated. They cracked pretty easily, with offers of limited jail time if they talked. Naturally they didn't know much and were kept at arms length. But they did say that the Hispanic man had brought a pair of heavy steel cases with him to the African's mansion, and the Cot had arrived a day later on his own. The heavies were sent with a PD agent to be charged, that left three cells occupied.

The African was the first to be taken out of his cell. The cells had only a raised concrete slab with a small mattress to sleep on, with a small steel toilet and washbowl at one end. Naturally the African was looking less than sharp in his now dishevelled suit.

He didn't speak at first, just looked at the stainless steel table in the interrogation room. The only noise was from the electric whirring of the camera in the corner. Jose spoke first, "Anything you want to say for yourself- after all Kirk, your mansion is being watched, nobody leaves. I bet we'll find some interesting stuff in there. Anything at all you want to say?" The African just sighed and continued to look at the table. Mac then got up and dragged him back to his cell.

The next man to be interrogated was the Hispanic. He didn't offer any resistance until he was in the interrogation room where he spat on Mac and kicked his chair over, screaming his lungs out. Jose then moved in, as did Mac, and tackled him. They stood him up and outstretched his hand-cuffed arms. Jose put one of his own arms under the Hispanic's right forearm, the other above it, and clasped them on the other side. His breathing was heavy and erratic as Mac kept a hold of him by the neck. Jose looked at him, their faces only a foot apart- "You gonna calm down?" Instead of trying to answer he just struggled and tried to roar, but the roar was cut short as Jose applied a quick burst of pressure down and up on the Hispanic's forearm. The roar turned into a whimper as there was a dull crack. The Hispanic basically went limp. Jose removed the hold, the Hispanic's forearm cocked at a strange angle, a bulge of broken bone below the surface. "Are you gonna behave or do you want something else broken?" The Hispanic nodded and as Mac released him he slumped to the floor, examining his arm, pain in his eyes. A few minutes later a PD medic came in with a team and took him away to his cell where they'd set his arm.

Finally the Cot was brought into the interrogation room. His white suit was soiled with spilled drink and sweat, and it was crumpled and creased all over. The Cot was pale and looked pannicked. He was sat down and right off the bat he said, "I want a phone-call, and a lawyer...please." Mac paused for a minute and then sat down next to Jose. They said nothing. The Cot repeated himself. They still said nothing. Again he repeated himself, more desperate and pleading this time. Mac spoke up, "Your in the COH now Strig, not Trondheim. We can hold you without charge or outside contact for five days, thats until Sunday, if we decide not to charge you." Mac stopped talking and let it sink in with the Cot. Then he blurted out, "I want someone from the embassy here. I won't tell anything. Get me someone from the embassy." Jose leaned forward. "Oh, I'm sure someone from the Cottish consul, which is what we have here in Dakar, will be right along. I'm sure he'll be pleased to talk to a countryman who had disgraced Cotland. And don't kid yourself Strig, you will talk when we want you to." The Cot's eyes bulged at this, and he flinched as Mac stood up and dragged him back to his cell.

Foreign Ministry, Oslo, Norway, Cotland
The communique from the CoH came through in the middle of the current situation in Layarteb, but it fell under the African Section and not the North American Section, meaning that the beurocrats and diplomats had time to review it instantly. The Hirgizstanians were willing to extradite him, so that was a plus. Both the embassy in Cape Verde and the consulate in Dakar were informed, but the consulate would have the primary responsibility in this case.

After an hour, the people in the African Section had pulled up all available information concerning one Strig Bossen. Born 17.4.1969 in Trondheim, Norway, raised there by his parents, who had died in a mysterious fire in December 1982. Did his compulsary service in the Army as an infantryman in 1988/89. Had clashes with the law early on, with the first registered offense being shoplifting in August 1980. From there, he rose from shoplifting through theft and assault to more serious crimes such as suspected murders and other drug-related crimes. There was an outstanding warrant for his arrest on the grounds of suspicion of distributing drugs, a capital offense in Cotland. This was sufficient for the Cots to want their "black sheep" back to Cotland for due process. A communique was drafted up and approved by the Vice Foreign Minister before being sent to CoH.

Encrypted Communique

Dear sir,

The Realm of Cotland hereby formally requests that our citizen, Strig Bossen, will be extradited to Cotland on the grounds of outstanding warrants for his arrest on suspicion of related crimes. We believe that with the Cottish punishment for such crimes, we can obtain information from the citizen more effectively. Naturally, we will share whatever information is retrieved which has relevance for the CoH. Your legal attaché at your embassy is free to observe any interviews and case documents during the course of the investigation.

As for the possible serving of the punishment in the CoH, it will have to be discussed further.

We await your reply.

[signed]
Royal Ministry of Foreign Affairs
The Realm of Cotland

Ground floor lobby, Dakar Police Department Building
The legal attaché to the Cottish consulate in Dakar, a foreign posting housing only a handful of Cottish diplomats, security personnel and aides, stepped into the lobby of the police building. All over the place, people were buzzling, minding their own business. Switching the silver aluminium briefcase with the necessary documents and his laptop over from the right hand to the left, the attaché walked up to the information desk and smiled as he presented his diplomatic ID papers to the young black woman behind the counter. He spoke very good English with only a hint of an accent.

"Simen Larsen from the Cottish consulate. I'm here to see the Cot your vice squad arrested yesterday."

COMMUNICATION

COMMONWEALTH OF HIRGIZSTAN

DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE

MESSAGE TO: The Realm of Cotland, Minisitry of Foreign Affairs


Naturally we will hand him over, as he will surely be interrogated more effectively in his home country. However, we wish to send a Vice Squad Officer with him, as Dakar Vice were the arresting department. Naturally people from the embassy in Oslo will be most pleased if they can also have access to all information the prisoner may volunteer while in Cottish custody.

Once he has arrived back in Oslo and the Cottish authorities have decided on his senctence, then we will naturally begin discussions about where he should serve his jail sentence.

At the moment, if you have not already, we suggest sending in a representative from the consulate in Dakar to speak with the prisoner. The Dakar Vice Squad will likely be finished with him in a couple of days, and will charge him, before releasing him up for extradition.

COH


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Dakar Police Department Building- Wednesday Afternoon.

The young officer at the front desk smiled politely and pointed the smartly dressed Cottish man to the elevators and told him to get out on the 5th Floor, where he would be met by a Vice Squad Officer. She photographed him and filled in his details on a computer and within 60 seconds he was wearing a visitors badge that showed his picture, his name and the department looking after him.
The man nodded his thanks and headed over to the opening elevator and stepped inside, flanked by a couple of men and women heading to different floors.

Mac was waiting outside the reception area on the 5th floor, facing the elevator. He was standing directly under one of the giant air-conditioners in the roof. It was blowing out icy cold air, and it damm well needed to be. It was close to 32 degreese celsius and the Vice Squad floor had huge windows that faced the sun in the afternoon. Mac couldn't wait to head back around to the holding cells and interrogation rooms were there were no windows, just cold concrete.

After a minute or two the lift gave an electric ping before the doors opened. A smartly dressed white man, a 'VISTOR' badged pinned to his suit pocket, and a briefcase in his left hand, stepped out of the elevator. It closed behind him as he walked forward to Mac who was walking toward him. Mac shook the man's hand and said, "Larsen?" The Cot nodded. "I'm Sergeant Kerello, but just call me Mac. Me and my partner led the bust that netted your man yesterday morning. If you'll follow me, we have him all ready in an interrogation room." Mac turned and headed past the bright reception area toward the back of the floor, past labs and offices.

Bump

"You are a Cottish citizen. Caught in the Empire committing a crime against the Empire. We've got another sixty-seven and a half hours before we have to turn you over, even to them. So we can do this the same way that we've been doing it and make those sixty-seven and a half hours that much more unpleasurable or you can begin by telling me who and where you got those drugs from? The more you cooperate the easier it is going to get for you Jonas. We're not here to play bad guy, we just want to know where they came from and who they came from. You know, I tell you what, you start cooperating and I'll see about getting a cup of coffee or tea or soda, whatever you want here. We can cooperate with each other. So how about it, the dealer and location?" Interrogation tactics changed swiftly and now it was time to try a whole different approach.

The Foreign Minister was about to shift his own tactics as well. The Cottish legal attaché was requesting that the children be handed over. However, there was something to be gained from the conversation and the Foreign Minister, in a way, had the upper hand, he had them smuggling out nineteen kilograms of 'Valkyr,' a particularly deadly designer drug. "Mr. Ambassador," the Foreign Minister began, "it is my every desire to do two things here: first and foremost, to ebb the flow of drugs into and out of the Empire and, secondly, to ensure that the Cottish Realm is pleased with our decisions. These are children, you are right. However, they were smuggling out nineteen kilograms of 'Valkyr,' the newest and most potent designer drug out there. By itself, 'Valkyr' isn't very deadly except to the degredation of the brain. Mixed with other drugs, 'Valkyr' becomes a ticking bomb that kills hard and fast. That is a fact Mr. Ambassador. Now, the fact of the matter is that we want to know where they got this poison from so that we can hurt the drug dealers where it hurts. Nineteen kilograms is no joke Mr. Ambassador. Do you know what that would do to your night clubs and streets? I shudder at the thought myself. They violated a major law here in the Empire. If it were a joint or two that would be different, that's minor's, that's stupidity. Nineteen kilograms? Nobody smuggles that much out, that carelessly, who didn't have something to gain. We want to know if they have been recruited. You know the dealers do that garbage to young kids. Our priority, right now, is to find out who sold the drugs to them. We have to find out so that these kids remain safe, the drug lords will definitely want them executed now that they've follied up this bad. We must find this information out. Now, onto another matter. VG is reporting some erroneous facts concerning their apprehension and we're going to solve that matter quickly. Within the next hour there will be copies of the security tapes transmitted to your office, for your own case as well as our safety. Guards followed every possible protocol that could have been taken and they will not be held for violation of proceedure. Everything was done legally and we are proud of them for this. In the face of potential catastrophe, they held their cool, apprehended the six children and, without any excessive force, brought them into interrogation. You know, these guards have children of their own, they wouldn't act stupidly.

"Under Layartebian law, authorities may hold suspects for up to seventy-two hours before they are required to be charged or released. At the conclusion of those seventy-two hours, they must be charged, hence read their rights and have lawyers present. If they are released, they are released. However, the sheer amount of evidence present guarantees that they're going to be charged. I cannot stress that enough. They will be charged Mr. Ambassador, for violation of a very strict and serious law within the Empire. A law that they were made aware of when they were interviewed for their travel visas. They and their parents signed and understood the laws of the Empire when they were interviewed and granted their travel visas. I'm sorry but I cannot do much more than sit here and wait until those seventy-two hours are up." The Foreign Minister laid a lot of information out there but only because he could do nothing else. The information he provided was truth and matter of fact.

The VG story was aired on just about every news network within the Empire but it would be countered within the next hour when security tapes were shown to completely contradict their report. Eyewitnesses other than just the teacher and the students would give their side of the story as well and nobody in the airport really cared much about the apprehension. There was one or two a day, mostly from small time crooks trying to evade prosecution or by idiot travellers.


Communique - Top Confidential

TO: COH DOJ
FR: EOL MOJ
RE: Esteban Montoya

Esteban Montoya is a wanted fellon and criminal in the Empire. His involvement with the Florida Cartel is significant. The Empire wishes to see that his justice be seen through. Inside of the Empire, he would recieve a similiar sentence so we are not concerned that he will recieve any less justice in the Commonwealth of Hirgizstan. The Empire will not interfere with his trial or prosecution but we do wish to interrogate the individual with conern to the Florida Cartel.

The Minister of Justice

"Excellent." Larsen said before quietly following the Sergeant. Before long, Larsen entered the interrogation cell where a clearly disturbed man who clearly wasn't Hirgizstani sat, dressed in a messed-up white suit. Larsen recognized him from the documents transfered from Oslo as Strig Bossen.

"Strig Bossen?"

"Yes."

"Jeg er Simen Larsen fra det Cottiske konsulatet. Vi skal se om vi kan få ordnet opp i dette." [I'm Simen Larsen from the Cottish consulate. We'll see if we can't get this thing sortet out.] Larsen introduced himself before turning to the vice officers. "Could I get a few moments alone with my citizen please?"

[OOC: BUMP for Layarteb]

[OOC: BUMP for Layarteb]

OOC: Beat ya.

Layarteb City
The ambassador nodded. He knew of this new drug called Valkyr. The intelligence warnings were ample, both from his own limited intelligence staff and from the people in Oslo. However, he didn't know just how dangerous this new drug was. What the Foreign Minister of Layarteb told him was going to go in the first intelligence briefing to the Ministry of Justice when he was done with this conversation.

"I understand completely sir, but we cannot censor the press. We can give them hints about not to publishing lies, but we cannot tell them what they can or cannot write. However, I will pass the word along. There is one thing you should be aware of though. One of the children you hold in your custody is the son of a businessman from Bergen with very high connections in Stortinget. When those connections find out about the identity of the child, they will make a very loud racket, possibly calling for a boicott of Layartebian goods and maybe even organize demonstrations against the Layartebian embassy in Oslo. I am in no way trying to threaten you or your nation, I am just informing you of possible outcomes of this incident. His Majesty's Government is naturally intent on seeing justice prevail, and will naturally render any assistance required to your Government. However, if I may be so bold as to suggest a compromise.

"The children are prosecuted and trialled in Layarteb, but as for serving the sentences themselves, they could serve them in a Cottish prison? I know that the Layartebian punishments for smuggling drugs are severe, but I believe that the Cottish drug laws are worse. We execute those who deal drugs on the streets. You can just imagine what we do to smugglers. Naturally, if you want to think it over, you may do so sir. I am merely trying to find an acceptable outcome for both our governments."

Interrogation Room, Jamaica
Jonas was getting confused now. First, they threatened him with all kinds of horrors and discomforts. Now, they're offering him refreshments if he talked! What the hell was going on? Was it some kind of weird, bizzare joke? He decided to check what they wanted, but he didn't know enough English to make himself understood. Therefore, he spoke in Cottish.

"Hva får jeg for å snakke da? Dra hjem? Du veit vel hvem faren min er, ikke sant? Han kan sikkert gjøre deg en tjeneste i framtida hvis du bare, du veit, ignorerer det dere fant. Du kan få beholde det selv hvis du vil." [What's in it for me to talk? Getting to go home? You know who my dad is, right? I'm sure he can do you a favor in the future if you just, you know, ignore what you found. You can keep it for yourself if you want.]

In the other interrogation room, Nina was getting serious shudderings and mood swings now. She needed that next fix. When the Layartebian interrogating her didn't want to give it to her, she took a deep breath before moving faster than you'd think she could. Going for the eyes of the interrogator, she jumped over the table and tried her best to maim the interrogator, biting, scratching, kicking, and screaming for another hit.

COMMUNICATION

COMMONWEALTH OF HIRGIZSTAN

DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE

MESSAGE TO: The Empire of Layarteb, Justice Minister



The COH would only be too glad to let an EOL representative interrogate the prisoner, this would surely lead to greater knowledge for cases both here and in the Empire in relation to the new Valkyr threat. We suggest sending someone through either the Embassy in Cape Verde or a consulate in West Africa.

Once he has been charged in the COH, he will be brought up for extradition hearings with the EOL.


COH

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Dakar Police Department Building- Wednesday Afternoon

Mac brought Larsen into the room and he talked to Bossen for a second in Norwegian. Jose listened intently and nodded, like some in the COH he spoke Norwegian.

Larsen then turned to Mac who was still standing at the door and asked him for a few minutes alone. Mac nodded before adding, "We'll be watching and listening, you need us just say. You must realise however that this man is, in the eyes of the COH, a serious criminal and if he was Hirgizstanian would be facing the death penalty. In order for extradition to go smoothly he will need to receive, at the very least, total life imprisonment. He will be likely charged here and given life before he goes up for extradition hearings. Remember, we need to know any and all information he offers up to you."

Larsen nodded as Jose got up and left the small room behind Mac. They walked a few paces up the corridor and entered another room with two dark tinted windows. One looking into an empty interrogation room, the other looking into Bossen's room, Larsen just sitting down side on to the mirror. A camera feed also showed the room in thermal and normal views, and a loudspeaker echoed every little noise in the room.

Jose turned to Mac, "Magodo's house is still being watched, no real activity. Only a gardener, who left an hour ago. The team is all set up and ready to take it down. Once Larsen gets down today, I told them we'd be out to take it down."

Mac just nodded and both watched as Larsen got ready to begin his questions.

Communique - Top Confidential

TO: COH DOJ
FR: EOL MOJ
RE: Esteban Montoya

The Empire will send a legal team immediately. Following our interrogations, we will have no further use for the prisoner. The Empire will make no claim to the man, whose citizenship has been revoked.

The Minister of Justice


"Mr. Ambassador, it is right that one of these shall have connections. It is my hope that the Stortinget let's law prevail over capital but I thank you for the warning. I will pass it along but it will have little sway over the results. If found guilty, they could face execution but we are not out to execute fifteen year olds unless it is an unfathomable crime. However, a lenghty prison sentence, in excess of 25 years could be seen. They could face life in jail, a sentence which the prosecution will be asking for. However, I find this type of deal agreeable and I will convey it throughout the Cabinet and to the legal teams. Once the seventy-two hours are up, they will be charged. Should they request a Cottish lawyer that would be agreeable but keep heed that they will be tried under the laws of the Empire rather than the Cottish Realm."

In the interrogation rooms, things were changing. They would be transported in six hours to a better suited facility, a police station, three or four miles across town, where they would spend the rest of their three days in a very unfriendly position. Jonas began talking in Cottish now, making it slightly more irritating for the interrogator but rather than show his frustration, he spoke Cottish to the boy. "Du burde ikke bestikke politimenn. Jeg aner ikke hvem faren din er, og for å være helt ærlig så bryr jeg meg ikke. Det er deg dette angår, og jeg vil snakke om deg. Hva du får for å snakke? Vel, muligens en redusert straff. Kanskje du sitter bare noen år i fengsel istedet for livstid eller henrettelse. Du vet at vennene dine blir gitt de samme sjansene som du får her. Noen kommer garantert til å gripe sjansen. Vil du sitte i fengsel i resten av livet ditt mens vennene dine lever ut sine? Jeg tror ikke det. Uansett, vi fortsetter. Jeg vil vite hvem som gav deg narkotikaet og hvor du fikk det fra. Hvis du forteller meg det og begynner å samarbeide så skal jeg skaffe deg noe kaffe, te eller brus. Hva vil du ha? Samarbeid litt mer og kanskje du får et godt måltid. Jo raskere du hjelper oss, jo raskere kommer du deg ut herfra. Hvem vet, kanskje du til og med klarer å unnslippe påtale dersom du samarbeider godt nok. Merkeligere ting har skjedd."[You shouldn't bribe police men. I don't know who your father is and frankly I don't care. This is about you and I want to talk about you. What's in it for you? Well, possibly a reduced sentence. Perhaps, instead of facing execution, you could face only years in jail, rather than a lifetime. You know that your friends are being given the same chances here. Someone is bound to take advantage of it so do you want to be in jail for the rest of your life while your friends and living theirs? I don't think so. Anyway, moving right along. I want to know who gave you those drugs and where you got them? If you tell me that and begin cooperating I'll get you some coffee or tea or soda, what do you want? Cooperate further and I'll see about a nice meal. The quicker you help us, the quicker you get out of here. Who knows, you might even escape charges if you cooperate enough. Stranger things have happened.]

Dakar, CoH
Larsen nodded before he turned and sat down, opening up his briefcase and pulling out his laptop, a Compaq Presario V5000. The gray and black laptop started humming discreetly as it started up, the distinctive intro-music for Microsoft Vista being played as the computer emerged from the slumber mode to show the criminal record of Strig Bossen. After having started up the computer, something which was part of the intimidation-mode which Larsen had learned a while ago in a secretive area in Norway. Finally, he looked up and directly into Bossen's eyes while speaking in a clear accent from the northern parts of Norway.

"Herr Bossen, jeg er som sagt Simen Larsen fra konsulatet, og jeg forstår at du har litt problemer med myndighetene her." [Mister Bossen, as stated earlier I'm Simen Larsen from the consulate, and I understand that you have a few problems with the authorities here.]

"De lyger. De er fulle av løgner om meg." [They're lying. They're just spreading lies about me.]

"Hva går de løgnene ut på da?" [What kind of lies?]

"At jeg visstnok skal ha planer om å smuggle narkotika. Helt galskap, naturligvis." [That I'm apparently having plans to smuggle drugs. Complete madness, naturally.]

"Er det? Med mindre Politiet har blitt helt forblåste så har vi en utestående arrestordre på deg på tiltale om nokså alvorlige narkotikaforbrytelser med muligheten til å utvides til å omfatte drap. Vi har nok beviser til å stille deg for retten i Cotland, noe vi har planer om. Du husker vel at vi har dødsstraff for både narko-forbrytelser og for drap hjemme, ikke sant?" [Is it? Unless the Police have become completely senile, we have an outstanding warrant for your arrest on the grounds of rather serious drug offences with the potential to be expanded to include murder. We have sufficient evidences to trial you in Cotland, which we intend to. You do remember that we have the death penalty for both drug-related crimes and for murder, don't you?]

Bossen said nothing, he just swallowed.

"Dersom du forteller oss det vi vil vite så tror jeg at vi kan love deg at du unnslipper dødsstraffen og at du kan få sone livstidsdommen i et Cottisk fengsel. Problemet er at jeg ikke kan få ordnet det med mindre du gir meg noe å arbeide med. Noe som jeg kan gi til de Hirgizstaniske myndighetene. Politikk vet du." [If you tell us what we want to know, I think I can promise you that you'll avoid the death penalty and that you get to serve your life sentence in a Cottish prison. The problem is that I can't arrange that unless you give me something to work with. Something I can give to the Hirgizstani authorities. You know, politics.]

After thinking it through carefully, Bossen decided to talk. He was fucked anyway.

"Jeg sier ikke noe mer enn dette før jeg er i Cotland. Er det forstått?" [I won't say anything but this until I'm in Cotland. Clear?]

Larsen wanted to smile, but he kept a neutral face. "Fullstendig." [Crystal.]

"Okay. Da jeg ble arrestert så ville de to andre som ble pågrepet sammen med meg at jeg skulle smugle et nytt stoff inn i Europa via Cottisk-registrerte skip. Av frykt for mitt eget liv godtok jeg dette. Selvfølgelig hadde jeg tenkt å rapportere dette til myndighetene, men de kom og arresterte meg før jeg fikk en sjanse." [Okey. When I was arrested, the two others who were arrested along with me wanted med to smuggle a new drug into Europe via Cottish-registered ships. Fearing for my own life I accepted this. Naturally, I intended to report this to the authorities, but they came and arrested me before I had a chance.]

Larsen nodded to this, knowing fully well that the tape recorder in his pocket picked up every single word. It would be valuable evidence later if Bossen decided to conveniently "forget" this conversation.

"Hvem er de to andre?" [Who are the other two?]

"Den ene er en Hirgizstanisk narko-distrubitør. Den andre er en Layartebiansk narkobaron." [One is a Hirgizstani drug distributor. The other one is a Layartebian drug baron.]

Larsen nodded and walked to the door, waiting for Mac to come. When he did, Larsen spoke quietly.

"Got enough? If we take him to Cotland, we can get way more from him."

Jamaica, EoL
Jonas was shocked that the Layartebian spoke so fluently Cottish. Shaking his head slightly, he started speaking in English.

"You want to know where I get the stuff? I tell you, but I want water. Clean, cold, no bubbles water, right from bottle." Pausing a little as he tried to remember, Jonas started explaining about how he had met a dealer in a back alley a couple of blocks from the hotel they were staying at in Kingston, and how he and his friends had met the people with the Valkyr in the evening on one of the many beaches near Kingston. Unfortunately, he didn't know what the beach was called or how to contact the Valkyr-people directly since the contact had been through the local dealer, but he spilled his beans, telling everything he knew, albeit in rather broken English with quite a few errors in the translation, some serious enough for the interrogator to not understand, making Jonas having to explain further. When he was done, perhaps twenty minutes later, he asked, "Can I have water now?"

Dakar Police Department Building- Wednesday Afternoon

Mac looked at Bossen for a second, he was looking dejectedly down at the stainless steel table. Mac turned back to Larsen. "We already know everything he just told us, but he's lying about going to the authorities. He's been with the Hirgizstanian for about two weeks. They've been in and out of the Mansion he owns on a regular basis, there is no way he was thinking of going to the authorities. He had already arranged to ship the drugs in advance, but they needed the Layartebian's approval. We have the transcripts of several of the meetings between the Hirgizstanian and Bossen, and we also have the complete transcript of the night we took them down. Perhaps you want to hear them, and then perhaps probe him some more. Perhaps threatening to leave him here in Hirgizstan would elicit a more revealing response?"

"That's a thought. However, you said earlier that you had no plan to executing him. We might. With him in Cotland, we can use that threat to the greatest extent, getting him to tell us what we need. He knows that in Cotland, if we say we're going to execute him, he'll be dead within six months after a trial and an appeal. Anyway, I'd love to hear those tape recordings."

After having listened to the recordings, Larsen returned to the room and sat down opposite Bossen again.

"Jeg har nettopp hørt på bevisene som myndighetene har, og for å være helt ærlig så lover det ikke godt. Med mindre du slutter å lyge så er jeg redd for at vi ikke har noe annet valg enn å etterlate deg her for å sone dommen Hirgizstanerne kommer til å gi deg." [I've just listened to the evidences against you, and to be quite honest, it's not looking good. Unless you stop lying, I'm afraid we have no choice but to leave you here to serve the sentence the Hirgizstanis will give you.]

OOC: I assume you'll question him further in another post?

[OOC: Yup. Just waiting for Lay to post so I can incorporate the two replies in one post.]

The soft glow of the computer danced around the room, its soft hum gently droning in the quiet room. The lights were all off, the shades covering the already blistering African morning. Henning rubbed his eyes gently having just woken up and tapped away at the keyboard. He entered a search engine and typed in the words Death Valley Queen hoping to find something on Valkyr. Maybe it was simply a new type grown somewhere besides the Caribbean or South Pacific. However the reply from the engine was quite different. It wasn’t drugs so technically he had no authority, no jurisdiction but he had lost men over this and regardless he would get to the bottom of it.

There was very little information on the subject, only a brief tidbit in a newspaper a few years ago.

“…The collapse of the TN [The Ninjas] government had left the countries under their rule in complete disarray. Besides the obvious turmoil and problems that must be worked out for the new government there is another problem far more terrifying. The lack of negligence was so great that TN weapons were lost in the mix. This could include various small arms, biological weapons, and explosives. There is only so much a government can do to track, locate, and confiscate these items as there could be vast amounts.

Head of Security for the new lands in USB hands had this to say, “We have the very best on the job tracking and eliminating these threats. They are well funded and armed, and have the proper intelligence to accomplish their mission. However, for them to find all of the weapons left aside would be near impossible. This is only furthered by the fact that the number of organized criminals such as drug lords and mafia members had grown to frightening levels in the downfall of the government. With money and man power one could imagine that they would have acquired these weapons for such cheap prices. That is what we are dealing with and why we will continue to track them as much as possible”

“They have compiled a list of weapons and their names that are currently missing. Some of the names were leaked of these weapons were leaked creating a small public outcry, however the names of the leaked were located using the help of local tip offs prompting the question, should the names continue to be withheld? Still one name on the leaked list remains at large, the Death Valley Queen. The only information given for this weapon is highly classified…”

‘Classified?’ he thought as he stared in complete confusion. Classified only meant one thing…well two in his mind, one: shit and two: shit. He was out the door as quick as you could say shit which he was doing at an alarming rate. He made way for Rudolf’s office because he believed he had figured out at least one piece of the puzzle, that convoy was going to hit all hell.

This was the second time he was entering Rudolf’s office in a rather unorthodox way, with the guards trying to stop him the entire way. Yet his strength and obvious determination was enough to get his way into the office. Rudolf had just sat down as it was very early in the morning; he hadn’t even removed his jacket. His surprise to see Henning was quickly put aside his he saw the look in Henning’s eyes. It wasn’t a frantic look as it was more serious than Rudolf had ever seen. Henning was quickly at Rudolf’s laptop kneeling beside his chair.

“You have top level access codes right?!” Henning was short in breathe but his speech was clear.

“Of course, what do you need?”

“Well maybe we don’t even need this,” pointing to the laptop, “what can you tell me about Death Valley Queen?”

“Not much, all I know is what I’ve read in the papers. Isn’t it some sort of missing weapon?” Rudolf was now completely confused but regained himself and continued, “Wait, that is a weapon…we have no jurisdiction over that, this is Narcotics…remember?”

“That missing weapon is on that convoy and its top secret and I’m starting to believe we are the only ones who don’t know that if you get where I’m going. Those officers transporting that are in danger, and who knows who or what else is! We need to know what that is!”

After a brief pause Rudolf starting typing, accessing different windows and information. Finally after a few minutes of fiddling around he was able to link into a private database connecting with the organization working on retrieving the weapons.

“This better be something or it’s my ass,” he said with a tone of sarcasm.

They both read: The military of the former TN had with it a large stockpile of nuclear weapons…

The shit had just hit the fan.

"You know. I think you and I are going to get along well. Hey. Can we get Jonas here a nice tall glass of cold, clean, and bubbleless water? I think he's earned that much." The interrogator waited until the water was brought to him, during which time he made notes in his pad. "Alright Jonas. What did you plan on doing with all of those drugs?"

A few rooms down, things had gotten haywire. Nina had boiled over and attacked the interrogator, sinking her teeth and nails in his back as he turned away from her. She had flown clearly across the table and latched onto him and hard. Policemen poured into the room but before they could do anything, the interrogator violently moved and stopped his body, flinging Nina clear off, into the concrete wall. She hit hard and was nearly knocked unconscious, that was evident when she almost didn't get up. "Goddamnit! I want her restrained. She better start cooperating." He ordered the policemen. She would be tied down with plastic tie-wraps, strong enough to hold her. The chair was then locked onto the ground and there was nowhere she could go. The fix that she needed so bad would beging to infest her and eat her away. Until she started cooperating, she wasn't going to be moving.

In the other three rooms, the interrogators were treating the children just as they had treated Jonas in the other room. They were hoping to get more. If their stories collaborated each other then they would have something. If they were different, it would only prolong their time because that meant someone was lying.

"What you mean, do with it? Use it myself of course!" Jonas said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. He had no idea the Layartebians were suspecting him of being a dealer. He wasn't. Well, if you look away from giving to girls in exchange for an intimate meeting, that is. Looking at the interrogator while taking a deep sip of the water, he waited for the next the man would ask him.

Nina was defiantely not feeling well. She had broken a few ribs, but that didn't stop her from screaming, crying, cursing and spitting at the interrogators and policemen. She was definately not very cooperative!

Tim, the youngest of the five had already pissed himself during the interrogation, but he kept completely silent just like his older brother had taught him back home in Cotland. 'Keep silent until you get the lawyer, then have the lawyer do whatever he can to get you out. Just keep completely silent!' He intended to do just that, not knowing that the systems in Layarteb and Cotland had some substantial differences when it came to getting to see a lawyer, being charged, et cetra.

Mikkel, the third, had talked the moment he got in, explaining why they brought the drugs in their luggage, et cetra. Basically, he colloborated Jonas' story, but with one important addition: Mikkel pointed out Jonas to be the one who told them to do it.

In the last room, Line was trying a different approach. Being an attractive brunette with a relatively large bussom and with a rather large clevage showing, she tried to seduce the interrogator by leaning forward, giving him a nice view, and by basically offering herself to the interrogator in exchange for free passage. She was sixteen and a few months, being the eldest of the group, and she had used this trick once before with success. Of course, then it had been a teacher who wanted to fail her in a class, not a police interrogator...

Still in India, Maria was growing more anxious by the moment. All the while, Caesarini was flirting with girls at the beach, and here she was, exhausting her cigarettes while waiting for a stupid phone call. It was ironic - years and years of living with Mafiosi and she still had to clean up their mess. Caesarini was worse than Giovanni because at least he had enough sense not to involve himself in special packages. And he also had enough sense not to waste time on the beach with a bunch of girls.

They were sitting in an old hideout, where the Mafiosi used to relax on their Indian adventures, while the territory was still Roman. But governments change hands and the lands as well, so it wasn't the same story everytime she came into India. Still, she insisted on the royalty that she earned being the self-styled "Regina da Roma" - and a most beautiful at that.

The phone rang and she calmly lifted the phone. "Si?"

"Mia Donna, the package..."

"What about it?"

"We're going to have to fight our way to get it back."

"Don Amerigo lost it?"

"No. He still has it - he just needs to get a firmer grip on the package. We've got a big hit coming tonight, and with luck, it'll all be silent too."

"Silent. That's good. Where is this damned ship?"

"It's... not on a ship. It's in Madagascar."

"Didn't you idiots bring this stupid package from Madagascar?"

"Not exactly. But, we're working on it."

"You know what? I'm getting sick and tired of this. This is Niccolo's shit - just blow it sky high once you get your hands on it."

"Don Amerigo?"

"It'll be better if he does it himself. But the ultimate jist is that no one survives this. No evidence. Capisce?"

"We'll lose more men."

"Good - we'll save more money."

She hung up the phone fiercely and its sound echoed in the halls. Seconds later, the phone rang again. Maria sighed and took the phone again.

"What is it now?"

The voice on the other line was not her point man. Instead, it was a charming and demonic voice. "The pearls on your necklace are quite exquisite. How much blood did you spill for it?"

Instantly, Maria snapped and an entire consort of guards surrounded her. The voice laughed. "I've got a powerful rifle, so blocking yourself with human shields won't do you much good."

"You can't see me now; that's all I need," Maria replied, emerging from the mass of men in the cover of her thick walls. "Who are you?"

"I am Nemo."

"Funny, but I don't laugh that easily. You must have been the one who sent the stupid messenger boy. A heartful congrats on that mistake."

"Mia Donna, I would have done it myself if it were me, but you see... Don Maggiano has his ways."

"Hmm. Ratted Niccolo did he?"

"Si."

"Well, where does that leave me?"

"Well, Maggiano didn't mention you to the Doomani. But he told me that a wench needs to have her ears trimmed and her fingers dipped in oil and burned. After that, her eyes are to be removed with force and her heart to be dissembled as she passes from the pleasure to the pain."

"Shut up. What reason does Maggiano want me?"

"Reason has little to do with it, Mia Donna. He just wants his family back, that's all."

"Family - I laugh."

"Well, if you think that that's amusing, how many men are you willing to sacrifice before you actually kill Luigi?"

"I know you," Maria said smiling. "You're that brat that Maggiano sent to Rome, and we tried to kill you."

"I work for that person. And just so you know, I don't miss much. I'll give you nine seconds before I pull the trigger."

"Do it, bastard. See if I care."

"I'm not on the rifle now."

Maria imimediately tossed the phone out of her hand and dashed out of the room, while her guards unexpectedly watched her leave. As she climbed down the stairs to watch her soldati curiously wonder why she was running, the grandiose room in which she was standing just moments ago, went up in a flare. Safe from the blast, Maria yelled at her soldati, "Check the house! Check the buildings! Get that son of bitch, now!" Having issued her orders, she picked up her cell phone and dialed Niccolo. She stepped into her Ferrari and dashed out of the building, and several yards away, Caesarini finally picked up the phone.

"Maria?"

"Get your suit, we're leaving."

Street Fighting Man

With the relative closeness of a large air force base across the Mozambique Channel in Mozambique and thinking about safety the drugs were to be sailed across the Channel and than to travel by air to Namibia where they would be furthered in the drug confiscation process. There would, however, be a small amount of time between the drugs and the Channel as they would have to make their way though center city Tulear to the docks. This was precisely the time, right before they reached to docks that Amerigo was going to make his move. As of this point the guards transporting the package had no idea that they held such raw and horrific power which would not play well for them. There was a convoy of three of three armored SUV’s while in-between them were two cargo trucks carrying the drugs. There were three more such convoys rolling through the city yet these didn’t contain the package, information easily told with the right technique. Within these armored trucks were 4 men each of which belonging to the city SWAT department, god forbid something in the city went terrible wrong. Finally there were two men in the cabin of the big-rig trucks, only one of whom was armed with a pistol. That brought the total number of armed men rolling in the convoys to 15. Although the men did not know of the upcoming assault they sure as hell knew they were transporting a hell of a lot of drugs of which would cost in upwards of some ten million dollars.

A tropical storm was brewing in the Channel causing rough waters and dark cloud. This, however, did little to diminish the beautiful weather over Tulear. The skies were remarkably clear and the sun was at its usual heat index. In a cold warehouse a few blocks from the docks where the convoys would be reaching in a few short minutes, Amerigo and his men readied themselves for an all out battle. They knew full well that this would be no easy cake walk. They knew there would be most likely no escape but something kept them motivated. It was something no one else could claim a sorrowful right to. They, there breed, was dying out ever so slowly. Something more sinister than there own kind was strangling them into a most agony filled death. There home was shrinking, there lives turning to dust. This package was a last hope, a last hope to check the evils that have gone unchecked.

In all there were 30 men, double of what the convoy could dish out. They outgunned the defenders, bringing in rockets and grenades. They had gone over the mission time and time again. They would have only one chance to make their move, and that was it. They were deadlocked in a war, and this would be the final battle for them. They began to move out, Amerigo joining in on the action. His shrewd cowardice getting the best of him, for he knew that it was his ass if this failed, and the debt would surely be collected. The bolts clicked into a locked position chambering a bullet at the same time. Rockets were locked into position, and mines laid. There they waited, and breathed, and prayed.

Meanwhile a mysterious fellow climbed into a quick boat and revved the engine. The boat was painted as any other, and why not, they weren’t doing anything illegal. That is unless, you checked underneath the seats and in the cabin where you would find the latest in armed technology. The man behind the wheel was older than expected but nonetheless in top physical form. His hair was black and short as was the scruff around his face. A dark shaded pair of sunglasses covered his eyes. Another man of much younger age boarded the boat in a wetsuit. Cleary visible beneath it was a Colt M-1911. He began gearing himself up in the cabin, putting on all that was needed to keep one alive under water. A head popped in from above, the sunglasses now removed.

“Once we do this, there is no going back.”

“I know Raven, I know.”

Ethan Raven had aged quite well, or at least better than he should be. In fact, he should be dead because he had killed himself. The story of Ethan Raven is a rather lengthy one yet not one to be ignored. During the September Rebellion he was 19 and the most trusted deputy to Harvard Dugan, the leader of the Rebellion. This meant that all his exploits, mainly capturing what is now known as the September Fleet, would lead him to hero status during the reconstruction. Hailed as a national hero but still young he continued his service finding himself as a splinter cell. However his life of violence had caused him to snap and become of the most wanted terrorist in the United States of Brink. That was the last that was ever heard of him until his body apparently turned up dead with what appeared to be a self inflicted gunshot to his skull. Autopsies revealed that it was in fact his body meaning somebody was either lying or Raven was an actual ghost the latter of which is a little hard to believe. So here he was about to steal a Nuclear Warhead from the most deadly mob on the planet as well as an entire country. Yet that was later and now he was transporting his younger accomplice to his target destination aboard a quick boat.

“When is that convoy scheduled to leave?” Henning’s voice was frantic as it rightfully should be. Rudolf looked at his watch and slowly raised his head, his eyes finally meeting Henning’s.

“It’s too late,” for the first time his voice has lost its cockiness and was replaced with a tremble.

“Get me a phone and a jet!”


The convoy was already rolling and only about 2 blocks from the wharf where the transport ship was waiting. At about this time they were coming into view of the mafia waiting in the shadows as well as just receiving a phone call many didn’t believe. With such a short warning time it was already to late, a RPG from a two story window struck the last SUV sending it on its side in a ball of flame from which only 1 man escaped only to slowly burn to death from the intense flames already engulfing the vehicle. A second RPG hit the asphalt only feet away from the first SUV in line seconding it careening off the road and into a building. The SUV smashed through the weak laid brick building and into a hot bed of Mafioso activity. A small firefight ensued which ended as abruptly as it had started. The mobsters had gained a few weapons and lost 3 while the police had already lost 8 men. With their rockets exhausted the mafia would now have to take down the 3 remaining vehicles by small arms fire. The target was the second big rig in line. Already most of the exits were blocked by flaming wreckage. The first big rig slammed through burnt metal and braved bullets only to be tossed like a rag doll by well placed mines. This small street only a block from the wharf had just been turned into a battleground.

By now the navy and local air force units were alerted which amazing kept quiet against the press. The last thing needed was for the entire world to know that a nuclear warhead was…not accounted for. From the accounts of the city battle now raging it was generally thought that air cover would provide useless unless the attackers were planning to fly the weapon out of the country. The fastest naval units set to arrive would be only small PT boats as the main fleets were either docked or miles away. The jets were give or take still 25 minutes away. Still mass police units were already rushing to the scene. Already the first elements were arriving with more coming by the minute. To add to such SWAT units were already rushing to the scene, if anyone was going to disappear with the nuke it was going to have to be now.

Seeing the situation for how it really was, Amerigo fell back into the shadows as his fellow comrades blazed away from windows, sewers, and anything else that could provide cover. They really didn’t have an idea of what they were truly up against and for this reason there days, rather minutes, were numbered. Shouting a few last orders to his men he stealthy retired from the fight discarding weapons and anything that gave away his identity. What he was going to do he didn’t exactly know but for now it was best he leave as soon as possible. Still the firefight grew intense; bodies began lining the streets and houses around the scene. Grenades had rendered the final SUV useless even as cover leaving only a small exit for the large big rig. However the driver, scared shitless, plowed through leaving the remaining police to deal with the mafia. Suddenly the large hum of a bright red Ferrari was heard distinctly over the hiss of gunfire. Shifting into 4th gear it roared right through the middle of the street dodging gunfire all the way and picked up chase against the transport. The driver, now highly frantic, began swerving as the sports car rolled along side with relative ease. With realizing the situation the driver busted through the wharf gates like butter and began heading down the docks at an alarming rate. The Ferrari was now equal with the cargo hold and with a well placed shot knocked out the reflecting mirrors and began tormenting the tires. The pistol wielding passenger fired back with horrific aim. The car chase was nearing 80 miles per hour a little to fast for the big rig to handle especially with blown out tired and sharp swerves to avoid gunfire. Before it could be realized the big rig was on a collision course for the water at the end of the dock. The Ferrari was steering in and out of flaming debris as the big rig smashed anything within its presence. Without any warning the Ferrari broke off chase making a burnout U-turn at the edge of the docks and screeching away. With a sigh of relief the truck driver focused his eyes once more on the road and hit the brakes but it was too late…way, way too late.

"Alright. You need some alone time." The interrogator said to Nina as he stood up and left the room, leaving her all alone in the sound-proofed room. She was alone now and then, as soon as the door was shut, the lights were turned off, leaving her all alone, restrained, and now in total darkness. "Keep the camera on her with the night view. I want to see how she reacts. We'll blast the lights when I go back in there. For now, I need to see the medic." In the other rooms, everything was different.

The interrogator with Tim had capitalized on the opportunity of him pissing himself. Tim's silence wouldn't help him, not for seventy-two hours. That was a long time and he wasn't going to get a change of clothes between now and then. The psychological factors were enough to ensure that he would eventually crack. Still, the interrogator harped on certain questions, leaned off on others, just studying his reactions. They had been held for seven hours now, giving them another sixty-four but without clocks they had no clue how long that they would have left. That only added to the pain and suffering. They were scheduled to be transported to a police facility in four hours, at 20:35.

Mikkel had sung like a jailbird and that was being taken into account. He was being rewarded with coffee, cookies, stuff like that as he sung the chorus of crime. Jonas was fingered to be the leader, something that they already figured out and that was something that they didn't really need to know anymore. Still, the words from Mikkel stuck well with the interrogators.

In the last room, Line, was taking the level further. She was trying to use her body to get what she wanted but it wouldn't work. The interrogator had a wife, a daughter, and that would be statutory rape, an executable offense. He wasn't going to go down that route, not now, not ever. He continued questioning her and, finally, ordered that she too be restrained and left alone, in the dark, for a little bit of time. Nina would be left in the darkness until she was moved with the rest of them and Line would spend two hours in the dark. The interrogators went over notes and compared their stories. They would go back in with the criminals and interrogate further.

"Jonas. You have a slight problem." The interrogator said as he sat down. "You're story doesn't check out with what the others say. That's going to be a big problem. I don't like liars." The interrogator sat back down and tried to get him to change his story. The same would be done to Mikkel but in reverse. "It seems that not only are you the ring leader but you and your friends have been recruited into the cartels. And to think, I was beginning to trust you."

"Pisspreik!" [Bullshit!] Jonas said the second he had translated what the man said, then was silent for a few seconds trying to translate his response. "Not true! Ok, so I tell them to buy, but we all do it together! We buy to use ourselves! I get lot of money from father. Why should I need money for something that will get me dead?" What he was trying to say was that his dad gave him enough money in allowance to keep him from trying to do something which he knew was punishable by death in Cotland, something his dad couldn't save him from. He wasn't that stupid! Mikkel replied just about the same way, keeping true to their stories which were, more or less, the truth.

Line was surprised that the trick didn't work, but she said little before she was restrained and left in the dark, mainly because she didn't know enough English to understand the seriousness of the situation. When the lights went out, she simply went to sleep, waiting for someone from the embassy to come get them.

Nina on the other hand was shaking so hard now that had she not been restrained, she would have done some serious damage to herself. She was trying now to, using all her energy on the futile attempt of getting out of the restraints. Eventually, she would collapse of exhaustion.

Tim on the other hand was feeling so crappy that he had not only pissed himself, but when the interrogator started telling about the punishment, he shat himself, sending an awful smell throughout the room. It would be a long 72 hours...!

Meanwhile, more details were being leaked to the Cottish medias from a lower-level official in the Foreign Ministry. It was eventually discovered, but by then it was too late. Tommorrow's papers would be in the printers soon, and the first pages of most had the same story in war types: Cottish teens arrested by the Layartebians! Editorials demanded they be charged immediately or released home, and that they be given a fair trial. Other, more radical ones demanded the Rothsky government cut all ties with Layarteb and mount an operation to free them. Naturally, that was out of the question, but a lot of people in Cotland were getting aggrivated at the news that children had been arrested. Needless to say, things were spiralling out of control.

OOC: Cot, can you finish up interrogating Bossen? I want Mac and Jose to be freed up so they can go raid a Mansion.

The interrogation was going pretty well. After a number of veiled threats and the ever present threat of leaving Bossen in Hirgizstan to rot, he talked some more, giving information which would prove to be the truth. After giving information for half an hour, Larsen returned to the two Vice officers and wondered how the situation was now.

[OOC: Too little time to write up a long elaborate post with translations and shit. Just assume he said enough for you to extradite him to Cotland.]

Dakar Police Department Building- Wednesday Evening

Larsen was standing in Mac's office as he was fiddling about with keys below the desk. He opened a small safe in the corner of the hole under the desk for your legs and took out a shiny silver hand-gun with a curiously designed barrel and ornate wood grips, with LW .475 written on one side and BHAC and a serial number on the other. A box of unsightly large bullets was pulled out aswell and Mac loaded the gun as he began to talk to Larsen who was sitting on the other side of the desk, looking at the pistol.

"Well, thats surely enough evidence to get this bastard life in Hirgizstan and with you here we should get him extradited, quicker if it looks likely he'll get executed back in Cotland. Although you'll have to stress that to the judge." Mac finished loading one magazine and smoothly loaded it into the gun, all eight rounds, whil carefully placing another round in the chamber and letting the slide return. He placed the gun down again and produced two more magazines from the safe and one longer one, and began to load them.

"Today is Wednesday, we're due in court for a hearing on Friday and then his trial on Monday, followed by the Extradition Hearing on Wednesday. So this time next week, hopefully, Bossen will be on his way back to Cotland." Mac finished loading the magazines and placed them in holsters at his side and back before putting the bullets away and closing the safe. He stood up and so did Larsen. They shook hands, "I guess I'll see you on Friday Mr. Larsen." Larsen nodded and Mac walked out of the room.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hjamardo County, Dakar State- Late Evening

Kirk Magodo's mansion was on what was not situated in the usual places around Dakar, nor was it in the curiously dubbed 'Millionaire's Mile', a mile long stretch of suburban looking real estate that was close to the city centre, miles away from the suburbs.

Magodo's mansion was out on its on, on a small hill around 20 Miles outside the city, surrounded by lush vegetation. Magodo obviously liked his privacy. Mac and Jose drove the 20 Miles at around 80mph. Jose drove in a midnight blue coloured INDIAN Charger, its sleek lines keeping it low to the road, the roar of the engine sounding awesome outside, hardly even being heard inside. The covered the distance in little under 30 minutes.

The winding road up to the mansion was well kept. Eventually a dirt track broke off it and Jose bumped the Charger down onto it, pressing a couple of buttons on the centre console, adjusting the suspension and raising the chasis off the ground to avoid damage. They eventually came to a pair of Black HMC Judges, an all round police non-marked SUV.

A group of four men and two women were standing in between the two SUV's, all of them dressed in black Combat webbing with DAKAR VICE in white lettering. They wore their civilian clothes underneath.

Mac and Jose had changed from their usual suits to jeans and T-Shirts and suited up in the same combat webbing at the back of Jose's Charger. As they finished adjusting the straps and radios Jose flipped the base of the boot up to reveal another compartment, two M4A2's and two small 3-shot 10 Guage Combat Shotguns. Jose had transferred his .40AE Desert Eagle to a thigh holster, and Mac had placed the dull silver Lone Wolf .475 Magnum in a similar thigh holster. Jose took one shotgun and some shells, followed by his M4A2, placing the magazines in the webbing pouches, Mac doing the same.

The rest of the team carried Kimber Custon Duty .45's, two men carrying MP10's (10mm MP5's), another two carrying USAS-12 Auto-Shotguns, and the two women carried standard M4A2's.

Everyone had studied the plans and layout of the Mansion religously, and everybody knew their job. C4 Shaped Charges had been placed on the main gates, ready to knock them over at the touch of a button. Then the two SUV's would drive straight over them toward the front door. Two men would drive, while everyone else rode on the sideskirts. The door would be blasted open by a SWAT issue weapon known as an Automatic-Knocker, essentially an AT4 Launcher that fired a flate ended projectile designed to knock a door down without explosives and without having to get in close.

Within a few minutes the two SUV's had been mounted up and were on the road, one behind the other, looking up a slight incline at the gates. One of the women removed a small detonator and counted down over the radio. There was then four explosive bangs melded into one as the C4 blew the hinges and the gates fell forward from the wall. The two drivers then gunned the big 6 Litre engines and the SUV's shot forward up the hill, bouncing over the black metal gates and tearing toward the looming Mansion, partly lit up by outside lights and by lights from the inside. The first jeep screeched to a halt at the end of the driveway, around 50ft from the front door, and one of the men on the sideskirts jumped down.

He readided the Auto-Knocker and fired. There was a whoosh of compressed air and gas as the large black projectile shot forward, smashing the heavy wooden door right in the middle, blowing the middle to pieces and tearing the doors half out of the wall. The man then jumped back on the sideskirts and the two SUV's were moving again.

They pulled up right by the steps and the four men, including Jose and Mac, and two women on the sideskirts jumped down and and charged up the stairs, guns in the shoulder. The two SUV's then tore away, toward the small rear gate, blocking any exit.

Once inside Jose and Mac tore off up the ornate staircase straight in front. The two women went left, the two men went right. Once on the landing Jose and Mac began to move more slowly, voices were shouting all over the place, but no shots yet. A head popped out of a doorway a few feet away and quickly ducked back with a hushed profanity. Jose roared at the man to step out with his back to them, but before he could even finish a hand came around the frame with a Mac-10 and loosed a burst along the wall. The bullets were wild and went nowhere near Jose and Mac.

Jose went for the shotgun but Mac already had the Lone Wolf out and he loose two amazingly loud shots into the wall near the door fram, right where the hand had been. A muffled cry, almost a shout was heard and then a trickle of blood ran around the doorframe. M4 shots could now be heard downstairs, steady bursts somewhere to the left.

Jose and Mac heard the calls on the radio, a couple of guys were holed up in a big living room with a couple of Uzis. The two continued along the corridor, checking the rooms, one by one. Most were empty but some were used and had drugs and debris all over the place. Drugged out women and the odd man lay in some of the rooms, a couple with needles still in their arms.

At the end of the hallway the house seemed to suck itself in and a landing bridge to another part of the house crossed above an open plan room below, two dead bodies lying in one part, shell casings and Uzis lying near them, pools of blood around the brass.

More firing came from up ahead, closer this time. The two women were calling for back-up, but the two men were pinned down by the same fire, coming from the Kitchen.
Jose and Mac double-timed it now, taking out another drugged out gun-man, firing at shadows and his own reflection. Jose shot him in the foot and he dropped the gun screaming. Mac kicked away the gun and the two men ran out into the corridor, sweeping down a flight of stairs at the end. The firing was now to their left, M4 rounds and the odd pop of the USAS Shotguns. Cordite was heavy in the air.

As the two men stopped at the foot of the stairs, the open Garage door to their front, with two pick-ups parked up, and the kitchen door a few feet in front of them, a guy wearing just a pair of jeans and carrying a pistol came bolting out of the kitchen, not even looking up the stairs, just going hell-for-leather to the Garage. He didn't make it, instead a burst of 5.56mm fire from Jose's M4 ripped his spine to shreds and his lifeless corpse collapsed down the two metal steps into the Garage.

The two SUV drivers reported all quiet on the outside and then the two women and two men pinned down gave a sit rep. The firing could be heard by Jose and Mac both over the radio and only a few feet around a corner. It seemed three guys were holed up behind a central counter in the kitchen. One of the guys suggested grenades or flashbangs, but Mac said no to both, wanting to get at least one prisoner. The two men and women then tried to draw the fire of the three men and indeed they did, the Uzis and pistols chattering away. The three men had their backs to Jose and Mac as they peered around the corner, looking into the debris and bullet strewn kitchen.

They were so close Mac and Jose pulled out their pistols and slung their rifles, sneaking around the corner, using the noise of the sub-machine gun fire as cover. Mac grabbed the closest guy around the neck, his Uzi going silent quickly, Jose doing the same. The third guy didn't even look over, just kept firing and shouting at the other two, asking why they weren't.

When he did turn his head he stopped firing immediately, and was about to fire again as Jose shot him with the big Desert Eagle in the shoulder, the Uzi thumping out of his hands and onto the tiled floor.

As he fired the guy Jose had around the neck squirmed loose and was pulling a pistol, but fron only around two feet away Mac brought his Lone Wolf up in his right hand, tightening on the windpipe of his prisoner with his left inner arm, and loosing a booming shot straight at the others head. The huge .475 Bullet simply tore his head off, sending bone and grey matter onto the roof and nearby walls, arterial blood spluttering onto the roof as the lifeless body, the jaw being the only part of the head still there, collapsing to the ground.

Around half an hour later thre prisoners were being taken away, two in ambulances, a third in one of the SUV's. Mac and Jose, as well as their team, then began a search of the Mansion itself.

"Your father gave you the money. To do something punishable by death in the Realm. Are you so sure that narcotics trafficking isn't punishable by death in the Empire as well? Trafficking is a high crime, albeit not like treason, murder, rape, or crimes against children but it can warrant a death penalty. It has before. Tell me more. Why was your father so interested in having you spend the money on illegal stuff? What does he have to gain?"

In the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, the Cottish newspapers told it all. This move was definitely not going to go over well, no matter what the outcome. The Empire demanded justice, the Cottish demanded release. Neither side would be happy if the other got what they wanted. The issue was polarized, very polarized. The children were just that, children, but there had been cases of minors recieving long prison terms for violating severe rules. Two homosexual fourteen year old boys were each given twenty years in jail after they were caught with each other. A sixteen year old boy was given life for the rape of a twelve year old girl. Unfortunately, for him, he died shortly after his sentencing from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.

The Emperor knew that he would have to say something about the situation eventually. He knew what he would say and that was that, until those 72 hours were up, he wasn't going to interfere. He knew the law but he was no professor of it nor was he a policeman. He trusted the judgement of the law enforcement officials of the Empire. They wouldn't mistreat the Cottish children but neither would they be lenient. They wanted to know where the drugs came from, who they were going to, what they were for, and why they were trying to smuggle out nineteen kilos of it, in such a stupid fashion. Until then, he would let the authorities do as they wished. He read the proposal for the Cottish children to be tried in the Empire and serve their sentences in a Cottish jail. He wasn't opposed to the idea but, ultimately, that would be a judgement that not only he and the Cottish King would have to agree upon but also the judge. For now, he had to focus on his embassy in Cotland...

Sparetti had found the most difficult method to tracing a killer woman. Half of his Roman "friends" raided the Caesarini estate, found the receipts [clumsily placed, one might add], and reported back to him. He also had a nice chat with Don Silvestro:

"Mio figlio, è ora venuti.”[My son, the time has come.]

“Per che?”[For what?]

“Io dovrei essere onesto con tu – io voglio i morti di Caesarini.”[I'll be honest with you - I want Caesarini dead.]

“Morti? Come?”[Dead? How?]

“Tu decide - effettivamente, io l'amerei meglio se tu ha trattato la sua puttana.”[You decide - actually, I'd rather you go after his wench.]

“Chi l'è?”[Who is she?]

“Maria. Donna Maria-Annetta Gioiosi. Lei è una tipa intelligente, e scommetterei che sa dove mio figlio è. Romperla e portare mio figlio alla casa. Nasconde i morti, e ferma la tua droga.”[Maria. Donna Maria-Annetta Gioiosi. She is a clever kind, and she likely knows where my son is. Break her and bring my boy home. Hide the dead and cut your dope.]

“Perché?”[Why?]

Maggiano paused and slowly replied. “Io penso di fabbricazione contratti nuovi, e la droga non è nella carta. Capisce?”[I'm thinkg about making new contracts, and dope isn't on the list.]

“Si. Io vedrò che posso fare.”[Of course. I'll see what I can do.]

Favors kill - so he had been instructed several years before. Sparetti had lived a life of favors, of one party or another, mostly for Maggiano. This was the first time that he had ever called in person to ask for a kill, and the first time he'd asked for a Mafiosi knock-out as well. He had been troubled by it all, but after reviewing the facts, the Family probably needed to get rid of Caesarini and the lady.

He had puzzled over her ever since he had heard of Maria from Giuseppe. She seemed to be an enigma, but the truth of the matter was that he honestly didn't know, and there were few people who did know. Judging on the expose, Maggiano obviously knew. Otherwise, why would an entire escort of Doomani Inquisition fellows be tracing Caesarini as he frolicked on some "vacation" in India? He knew of them, but he didn't care to get in their way - they were hunting Caesarini likely, and that only helped to pin down the lady in a corner.

His greeting to La Donna certainly sparked some in interest in India for the time, as three murders and a large explosion began to riddle the Indian holds. He just couldn't wait until Maria finally returned to Roman land in Sri Lanka, where he could make whatever greeting he wanted to there - albeit without guns or bombs.

Of Giuseppe, he was safely in Tuscany, guarded by his personal company and likewise by some notable Roman allies in the Senate, who were fighting vigorously to stall the efforts to rat out Sparetti's name [none of them knew that he actually did deal drugs - they only knew he was the subject of a Republican investigation of an immense magnitude, called by Caesarini - who ironically sponsored Senators who were often on the opposing spectrum as those Senators whom Sparetti supported]. In Rome, a political war was fighting out - in India, Sparetti made his own war, and he would do it piecemeal until he found Luigi.

"My dad won't let them kill me there. He had friends that help me. Besides. I know things he not want people to know. To shut up, I get money to do what I want." Jonas smiled, knowing he knew something that no one was ever supposed to know. He didn't intend to tell either.

***********************

In Oslo, things weren't good. A protest was mounting in Cotland, and the cabinet was to convene earlier than normal on the Friday morning due to the events in Layarteb City and in Oslo. By 0900, the fourteen Ministers sat around the table along with the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, the Director of the Police and the Joint Chiefs of Staff, everyone dressed either in expensive suits or, in the case of the Director and the Joint Chiefs, in Class A uniforms, waiting for His Majesty to arrive. He did a few minutes over, adjusting the belt in his own Class A uniform as he entered. Only a few of the people present knew about the woman His Majesty was seeing, although from how things looked, she could very well become the new queen of Cotland. Still, everyone got to their feet as soon as the King entered, the military men coming to a crisp attention with heels clacking in the oak hardwood floor, the sounds echoing in the vast bright room. His Majesty walked down the line, shaking the hands of each man and woman present, saluting at the officers and the Director as he passed before finally sitting down in the elaborate golden chair with red velvet cushions. The seventy-year old Chief Justice looked over people present in the room, quickly being satisfied that the Cabinet was composed as the Constitution demanded. When he was satisfied, he nodded to the King, who spoke.

"Vel møtt mine damer og herrer. Jeg har bedt politidirektøren og forsvarsledelsen om å delta i dag grunnet sakens alvorlighet. Herr statsminister, vil De begynne?" [Welcome ladies and gentlemen. I've asked the Director of Police and the Joint Chiefs to attend today due to the seriousness of the situation. Prime Minister, would you care to start?]

Prime Minister Thomas Rothsky, one of the most respected politicians in Cottish history nodded to the King before speaking. As he spoke, he looked at everyone in the room in a way only he could do, instilling respect and, in some cases, fear for the elderly Prime Minister.

"Takk Deres Majestet. Som dere alle vet så har fem mindreårige Cottiske borgere blitt arresterte i Layarteb, anklaget for narkotikaforbrytelser. De har enda ikke blitt tiltalte, men alt tyder på at de vil det. Utenriksministeren vil fortelle mer om det om litt. Dette er i seg selv en nokså alvorlig sak, men det blir bare verre av at pressen har funnet ut om det og slått det opp med krigstyper. Jeg er sikker på at dere alle hørte demonstrasjonen mot den Layartebiske ambassaden for litt siden. Utenriksminister?" [Thank you Your Majesty. As you are all aware, five juvenile Cottish citizens were arrested in Layarteb, accused of drug crimes. They have yet to be charged, but everything indicates that they will be. The Foreign Minister will tell you more in a short wile. This is in itself a serious matter, but it only grows worse by the press having found out and publishing it as best they can. I'm sure you all heard of the demonstration against the Layartebian embassy a short while ago. Foreign Minister?]

Foreign Minister Siv Jensen spoke up next, checking her notes quickly before speaking.

"Takk. Vi er i fortløpende kontakt med ambassaden i Layarteb, men så langt har vi bare fått nedslående nyheter fra Layartebianerne. De nekter å utlevere borgerne våre uten å tiltale dem, men vi tror at de kan være åpne for å la dem sone straffene de får i Cotland. Fra hva min Layartebianske motpart sa under vår samtale i går så kommer de ikke til å kreve dødsstraff i denne saken. Det er en seier i seg selv. Spørsmålet vårt nå er hvor lang tid det kommer til å ta før de tiltaler borgerne, og om de tillater at advokater fra ambassaden får representere dem i retten." [Thank you. We are in continuous contact with the embassy in Layarteb, but so far we haven't got positive news from the Layartebians. They refuse to extradite our citizens without charging them, but we believe that they may be willing to allow them to serve the punishments in Cottish prisons. From what my Layartebian counterpart told me yesterday, they won't be given the death penalty. That is in itself a victory. The question now is how long it takes for them to be charged, and whether they will allow embassy lawyers to represent them in court.]

"Hvilke konsekvenser kan dette få for forholdet vårt med Layartebianerne?" [What consequences could this incident have on our relationship with the Layartebians?] the King asked.

"Det kommer helt an på de neste dagene. Det er jo som sagt en demonstrasjon på gang, og dersom den utvikler seg til et opprør som angriper ambassaden kan vi få enorme problemer." [That will depend fully on the next couple of days. As mentioned earlier, there is a demonstration on, and if it evolves to a riot that attacks the embassy, we could be in serious problems.]

"Utyp." [Elaborate.] The King demanded, even though he had a grim feeling he knew the answer.

"Jeg er sikker på at Deres Majestet husker hendelsene i det som den gang het Cotlandstad for ti år siden. Angrepet på ambassaden, dødsfallene. De påståtte voldtektene. Layartebianerne husker denne hendelsen meget godt, og de kommer til å foreta seg alt i sin makt for å forhindre at historien gjentar seg. Dette inkluderer å sende inn forsterkninger for å evakuere den." [I'm certain Your Majesty remembers the events in what was once Cotlandstad ten years ago. The attack on the embassy, the killings. The alledged rapes. The Layartebians remember the incident very well, and they will do everything in their power to prevent history from repeating itself. This includes sending in reinforcements to evacuate the embassy.]

Defense Minister Alvheim pitched in, "Vi har oppfattet at en Layartebiansk flåtestyrke er på vei mot Skagerak. Den frakter med seg en divisjon Layartebianske marinesoldater..." [We understand taht a Layartebian naval formation is on its way to the Skagerak strait, bringing with it a division of Layartebian Marines...]

"...og Grunnloven krever at alle utenlandske militære styrker skal ha Stortingets godkjennelse for å entre Riket. Med andre ord risikerer vi krig mot Layarteb, vår nærmeste allierte." The King finished.[...and the Constitution demands that all foreign military forces have the approval of the Storting before entering the Realm. In other words, we risk war on Layarteb, our closest ally.]

"Vi kan ikke la Layartebianerne entre Riket uten tillatelse. Vi vil se ut som om vi blir dikterte fra Layarteb! Det vil bare forverre situasjonen!" [We cannot allow the Layartebians entry to the Realm without permission. We'll look like we're being dictated from Layarteb! That will only make the situation worse!] The Finance Minister said, clearly distressed.

"Ja. Vi må få Stortinget til å tillate en eventuell Layartebiansk styrke å entre Riket. Hvordan?" [Yes, we need to get the Storting to allow a possible Layartebian force to enter the Realm. How do we do that?]

"Deres Majestet, vi kan gjøre vårt beste, men Stortinget har som kjent valg neste år. Denne saken kommer til å bli en viktig del av valgkampen. Å la militære styrker fra en nasjon som nettopp har tatt Cottiske barn til fange fritt leide er neppe veien til å bli gjenvalgt." [Your Majesty, we can do our best, but as you know, the Storting has an election next year. This issue will become an important part of the campaigns. Allowing military forces from a nation that has just arrested Cottish children free entry is hardly the route to reelection,] the Prime Minister said to answer the King's question. "Jeg er redd at Deres Majestet må insistere at Stortinget gjør som De ønsker i denne saken. Eller så må De erklære unntaktstilstand og midlertidig oppheve Grunnloven." [I'm afraid Your Majesty will have to insist to the Storting that they follow your will in this issue. Or you could declare a state of emergency and temporarily suspend the Constitution.]

"Med andre ord begå statskupp. Vi får diskutere dette nærmere senere. Tilbake til demonstrasjonen som jeg har blitt fortalt pågår. Politidirektør Killengren, hva er situasjonen?" [In other words, commit a coup-de-tát. We'll discuss this further later. Back to the demonstration I've been briefed on. Director Killengren, what is the situation?]

The female Director of Police, Ingelin Killengren answered while looking at her notes.

"Deres Majestet, demonstrasjonen er klart anti-Layartebiansk, og det har vært enkelte voldsepisoder, men de har blitt løst raskt og effektivt av Politiet. Vi har store styrker mobiliserte for å takle denne situasjonen, men dersom det utvikler seg til et opprør er jeg redd for at folkene mine ikke strekker til. Da tror jeg vi må ha hjelp fra Hæren." [Your Majesty, the demonstration is definately anti-Layartebian. There have been certain violent episodes, but they have been resolved quickly and efficiently by the Police. We have many officers mobilized to handle the situation, but if this evolves to a riot, I'm afraid my people won't cut it. Then I think we need Army support.]

Army Chief of Staff, general Paul Diesen followed up quickly. "Vi har allerede første Gardebataljon i Oslo sentrum med andre Gardebataljon forlagt i Huseby. De kan være på pletten innen femten minutter. I tillegg har vi Hærens fjerde infanteridivisjon forlagt en halvtime utenfor Oslo. Over ti tusen infanterister, samt helikoptere." [We already have the 1st Guards battalion in downtown Oslo with the 2nd Guards battalion barracked in Huseby. They can be there within fifteen minutes. In addition, we have the Army's 4th Infantry Division barracked half an hour outside Oslo. More than ten thousand infantrymen, plus helicopters.]

"Takk general. Så dersom dette blir voldelig så kommer ikke Politiet til å holde ut lenge, noe som i virkeligheten gjør at situasjonen i Cotlandstad nesten garantert kommer til å gjenta seg." [Thank you General. So if this turns violent, the Police won't hold out for long, something which in reality will almost certainly have the events of Cotlandstad repeat themselves.] The King said grimly. After thinking for a few moments, he made up his mind. "General, begynn å forflytte fjerde divisjon til Oslo. Jeg vil ha dem klare til å støtte Politiet innen fem minutter." [General, begin deploying the fourth division to Oslo. I want them ready to support the Police within five minutes.]

"Som Deres Majestet befaler." [As Your Majesty commands.] The general replied.

"Jeg tror det er på tide med frokost. Vi samles igjen her klokken ti. Dette Statsrådet er hevet." [I think its time for breakfast. We'll reconvene at ten o'clock. This cabinet is adjurned.]

With those words, the King got up and wandered out from the room, leaving the Ministers, flag officers, Director of Police and Chief Justice to make the necessary calls. It would be a long day...

"Your father is an intriguing character. So, to keep you quiet, he shuttled you off to the Empire with enough money to buy a ton of drugs? Did he not know how serious of a crime narcotics trafficking is in the Empire? It may not be a guaranteed death penalty offense but it can be, in certain situations and scenarios. He was quite foolish to do that to you. What is it that you are protecting? What are you trying to protect him from? I tell you what, we're scheduled to leave here in about twenty minutes. Why don't you think about it until then and we can talk on the way over to the police station, where it's a bit more comfortable. Hungry?" Two squad cars and a transport van had pulled up to the airport security annex and six police officers stepped out, looking determined.

In the other rooms, the lights were turned on and the individuals were rounded up. They were handcuffed so as to ensure that they could not escape or worse, attack the police. The interrogators would be riding with the convoy to the nearest police station, about a half mile away, where they could continue. The five teenagers would be admitted, fingerprinted, and scanned. They would not be charged, yet. The goal was to learn more and more about the drug trade, how they got the drugs, who they contacted, what was the deal like, etc. They needed to know how it worked to combat it effectively. DEA agents would be on hand to witness and learn from the interrogations. They needed to know as much as they could and that meant they needed to be there, first hand, taking notes.

Henning was still miles away and at least an hour out but already he was hearing the news. He had set up a communications network within the jet he was in trying to get real time updates on the unfolding situation. He had already realized it was too late to personally stop anything yet he had battle through hours of red tape in a matter of minutes to get done what he had. It is no easy task to get fighter aircraft and naval vessels moving with the intent to kill in such a short noticed and for reasons still not 100% known. This was due in part because of Rudolf who had been working just as hard in his office. Knowing that it was going to take more than one person to stop this he had canceled everything he had planned for the day and put forth his greatest effort to supporting Henning. He knew what was at stake. Henning knew only so much. He knew the men trying to capture this were Italian, or at least connected with a shrinking Italian mob ring. He knew nothing on names, anyone that could have proven any kind of help was dead. There was no paperwork, no paper trail, nothing. Where was the nuke going? Regardless there was still on variable he couldn’t figure out but he intended to figure it out.

The big-rig barreled through the barriers at the edge of the dock and hit the water like cement wall. The front of the rig hit at an angle throwing the cargo hold in a spiral over completing a semi flip. The initial blast of the water knocked both men unconscious while the glass from the windshield shattered killing both of them before they could drown. After a few minutes the water had returned to calm but the rig would continue to sink slowly. Meanwhile the battle had just about died out. What was left of the mafia gunmen had either gone fanatical and ran right into the middle of the fight only to be cut down in a hail of lead or they had dropped their weapons and tried to quietly slip into the shadows which many accomplished. With the gunfire settled and an eerie quiet hanging over the street crowds began to gather to asses the damage done, especially around the sinking freight. Sirens cut down the calm and soon police forces and SWAT members began coming out of the woodwork securing locations and roping of battle scenes. Most had no idea the real threat behind the battle and thus the sinking freight was paid far less attention than it should have been. It would take about 30 minutes for a salvage crew to arrive. However underwater operations had already begun. Nibori Daichi, the younger Colt wielding accomplice to Ethan Raven, had been waiting for the rig to hit water before the firefight had even begun. Now he went to work with a blowtorch in hand he began to work the cargo hold doors in the back. Shielded from sight by the dark harbor water he carefully removed the locks securing the hold. Since the rig had been in the water for a rather decent amount of time the pressure on each side, both inside and out, was equal and therefore the doors came easily open. Once inside it was easy picking as the bag it was located in, or rather that Kibwe stashed it in, was marked with a chemical that gave off a greenish tint when hit with water. With a small knife the bag was cut and after a lot of mist from the drugs dissolving in the water the warhead was found. Now it was time for him to make his way back to Raven and a waiting quick boat to ferry them out of the equation.

The youths for the most part followed when they were told to, but Nina weren't about to go along quietly. When they got out to get into the cars, she kicked the guard following her in the shin and tried to run for it...

"Son of a...RUNNER!" One of the guards shouted as Nina took off, running funny because of her hands restrained behind her. She was running right towards a policeman twenty feet away with his pistol drawn.

"Go ahead sweetheart." He said with a smile. "Let's get her back in the car. This one is going to be a pain, I can tell."

Nina wasn't among the brightest, but even she stopped when a gun was aimed at her. Spitting at the police officers as they detained her (again), her tounge spitted out profanities so nasty that if posted on this board, I'd be perma-banned. The four others looked in horror, having contemplated this idea themselves. Now, they rejected it.

Loaded into the police cars, the convey began to move. They were given priority traffic throughout the streets and the police station was definitely expecting them. They were the Empire's most notorious criminals at the moment. The drive over was quick, for the officers, but undoubtedly long for the Cottish teenagers. The police were already building their case and they had quite a case already: Class A felony possession of a Narcotic, Class A felony trafficking, Class C felony resisting arrest [for Nina], and several other charges, at the moment.

When they got to the police station, they went back, into similar rooms, lights beaming on them. Nina, on the other hand, because of her difficulty, was left with the lights out again but this time there was something more, something that would just itch into her. The temperature of the room was about 85°F, warm and muggy. In the corner, a single, continous water drop echoed throughout the whole room with the thunder of a gunshot, each and every time the drops fell and landed. In addition, in the wall, there was something huming, like a transformer. That would get annoying soon enough. Each room had the same "mind numbing" systems in them and each of them were off, except with Nina. These types of "torture" tests weren't really "torture." They could be easily passed off as just everyday problems, if anyone asked. The water would be from a pipe in the wall, the transformer hum, just that, a transformer. There were others...

OOC: Lay, are you going to RP your officials interrogating Esteban Montoya in Dakar?

Freelance journalists had gotten wiff of the arrest and were present at the main police station where it was expected that the teens would be brought, and sure enough, before long, a lot of police cars rolled up to the police station, carrying the arrested teens. A lot of cameras started taking pictures while camera crews filmed everything, reporters and journalists shouting out various questions as the teens were transfered from the police cars to the building. Nina was proving particularly troublesome, still cursing while the rest were brought in. One lucky journalist got a picture of Tim wearing his soiled clothes being escorted inside by two large gruffy-looking police officers. It was this picture which would be on the first pages of every newspaper in Cotland the next morning, and the journalist would be a lot wealthier since he charged $250 for the picture and there was a lot of newspapers in Cotland!

The picture and the story was on various Cottish web-based newspapers within half an hour, with articles in various stages of objectivity, but all of them had one thing in common: they critizised the Layartebian government's treatment of the children and their stance, and they speculated in what the Layartebians had done to them. Several papers also blatantly accused Layarteb of torture and humiliating treatment of the children, pointing to the picture of the soiled, handcuffed youth being brought in by two policemen.

Five hours after the teens had been brought to the police station, a delegation of dress-clad men and women entered the visitors entrance to the police station and approached the reception. One of them put down his silver suitcase and pulled out his wallet, producing a business card from it as he introduced himself. He spoke perfect British english with a hint of Oxford accent.

"Good afternoon. I am Thomas Utsi, representing the Cottish embassy in Layarteb City. These are my associates, Harold Dawson, Stanley Goodwinson, Anne Gretsjø and Reidar Kristiansen, also barristers. We are here to see our clients, Jonas Fjeld, Tim Quist, Nina Storengen, Line Førde and Mikkel Rasmussen."

He spoke in a polite, business-like manner, but left little room for discussion.

Henning arrived in Tulear about an hour after the gunfight had ceased. The plane touched down without incident and from there had had made his way, with a police escort, to the edge of the city right where the docks were in quick time. The entire area had been roped off, police tape and roadblocks had secured the area while forensic reporters clipped off photo after photo. Reporters who had been tipped off about the gunfire and subsequent high speed chase had a field day as if the story was handed down from the gods themselves. With so many blinked red and blue lights from what appeared to be the entire city police it was hard to concentrate. Nevertheless he began questioning police and civilians alike the witnessed the scene trying to get a make of the suspects of which there were known besides those who were dead. Confirming his previous suspicions the men trying to hijack the transports were in fact Italians. Background reports rang up a dossier for every man there however they gave no further names. That was how they worked, how the mafia stayed alive for so long, the system was complicated and highly intelligent. Nobody led anywhere which was causing Henning nights of sleeplessness.

Still his main focus was on the salvage crew which had been in the water only a few minutes. The two bodies of the drivers were pulled out first and immediately put in body bags. It was simply two more casualties in this growing pain in the ass. Hopefully the divers could pull out some good news, hopefully a nuke. Within an hour Henning, who was having coffee at a local coffee shop was informed that the divers had in fact found something of highly questionable intentions. When he arrived heavy armed guards surrounded the back of a white van. Sitting in the middle of the van was a silver object of around 300 pounds and irregularly shaped. A local laptop made a quick internet search and pulled up information that calmed only Henning, it was a W80 Nuclear Warhead. They had stopped the Nuke from leaving the country. Astonished the other men were quickly hushed about the situation and everything returned to normal at the crime scene. Henning got on the horn with Rudolf to tell him of the good news. The seemingly endless nightmare had just seemingly ended.

Since the Nuke was too heavy to swim with, floats were attacked that would glide it along top of the water while Nibori swam beneath the murky water. A slim brown cloth gave the impression to anyone near enough to see that it was simply a chunk of wood floating down the channel. Waiting a few miles down shore was Raven in the quick boat. If all had gone as planned the jets called in would fly over thinking the mission was off, once they retreated back to the air force base they would take off to their meeting point with no worries at all.

OOC: Lay, are you going to RP your officials interrogating Esteban Montoya in Dakar?

No, I wasn't planning on it (to be honest).

***************************

When the newspapers everywhere showed Tim, with his soiled pants, there was hell to pay. However, immediately and without a second thought, the Foreign Ministry put out a denouncement of the picture and accused it of being photoshopped. That was their official story. whether or not it would be bought, who knew.

At the police station, when the Cottish representatives arrived, they were met by a member of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. "Good to meet all of you. I am glad that you had the opportunity to come here on short notice but I regret that I have some bad news. These five individuals have yet to be charged, which Layartebian law allows seventy-two hours before it is a necessity. Until that time, they are not under arrest and the presence of a lawyer does not have to be given. I will; however, speak with the Ministry and see what their stance on the matter is, just in case there has been something different that has been decided."

Now, in their respective rooms, the five teens were going to go through more questioning. The questions now asked about the trade, how it went down, who they contacted, what it was like, etc.

The claim that the image had been photoshopped was denounced almost immediately by nearly all the journalists and bystanders who had seen the poor lad being brougt in, and new editorials and articles were typed up strongly critizising the Layartebian handling of the incident. Some even demanded that Cottish military forces mount a rescue operation. Naturally, that wouldn't happen.

Inside the police station, the lawyers had expected this kind of reception, but they still intended to try.

"If they aren't under arrest or charged with a crime, then surely they will have the right to leave the interview when they desire, lest they be charged with a crime? Need I remind you sir that the Realm of Cotland is following this situation closely, and will remember every aspect of it in the future? Your best move right now to prevent this situation from evolving further in a negative direction is to allow us to see our clients, preferably now. Or else I'll be forced to leave this station to go back to my hotel, where there are sure to be journalists wanting some answers..." Kristiansen replied. He wasn't too steady in this particular aspect of Layartebian law, but that was why they had two Cottish-speaking Layartebian criminal court lawyers on the team. Utsi merely looked at his associate before pitching in.

"Yes, it would put you in an unfortunate light if we were forced to inform the journalists outside that we aren't allowed to see our clients."

Meanwhile, in the interrogation rooms, Jonas and Mikkel spilled their guts, answering just about every question the Layartebians asked them, save for the ones concerning Jonas' parents. In another room, Line was starting to talk too, while Tim just kept still in the chair, closing his eyes and hoping that this was all just a very bad dream. Nina, still restrained and in the dark room had actually managed to fall asleep, exhausted from the constant attempts to get out.

Dakar State Criminal Court

Mac, Jose and Larsen sat behind a table, facing the Judge, sitting black robed and high up on his platform, the Hirgizstanian flag on one side, and the Dakar State flag on the other.

Strig Bossen sat behind a table with a lawyer, on the other side of the court-room. In the seats for the public sat Esteban Montoya and Kirk Magodo, hand-cuffed and held by Vice Squad Officers.

Bossen's lawyer had pleaded his case well, which was rare for court-appointed attorneys. But the Judge was about to make his final decision. Larsen listened carefully, the COH Judicial System being a new experience to him.

The Judge spoke, "In light of the damming evidence against Mr. Bossen, provided by Dakar Vice and by an Officer from the Cottish Consulate, I have no choice but to confer a lifetime sentence upon him. This shall be for a period of 125 Years without parole and will be served at a Dakar State Maximum Security Facility. I will now realease Mr. Bossen for an Extradition hearing on Wednesday." The Judge banged his gable and Bossen was escorted from the room by a Balif. Larsen shook hands with Mac and Jose before following Bossen out of the court-room.

Esteban Montoya was next up. He was up for a continuation of custody and his Lawyer spoke for a few minutes before the Judge again passed sentence, allowing Dakar Vice to keep Montoya for another ten days without charge, to allow for EOL Officials to interrogate him.

Kirk Magodo was given a similar ten day extension so that Jose and Mac could gather as much evidence as they could from the Mansion and the prisoners they took from there.

The Cottish team had little knowledge of the seventy-two hour detainment period. It was up to the man with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to expand upon that though a man with the Ministry of Justice spoke first. "That would be true if this were not the Empire of Layarteb. Under Empire law, any individual may be detained up to seventy-two hours before they are required to be charged. Until said time as they are charged, they are not given the rights of the accused, such as council and so on and so fourth. At seventy-two hours, they must be either charged or freed. Now, because they are being detained, they are not allowed to leave either. Questioning will continue, I am sorry to say, I do not have the authority to go against anything that is happening here and both the Justice and the Foreign Affairs Ministry are in agreement here. I am sorry but if you go back to your hotel and say whatever it is you wish to say to the journalists, of which I am sure Layartebian will be present, the truth of Layartebian law will justify our actions and they will surface very quickly. We still have, roughly, fifty-six hours before they must be charged or released. At said time I will invite all of you to return to represent your clients. If they are to be charged or freed sooner, you will be notified immediately. I am sorry but Cottish law does not rule here."

With Jonas and Mikkel spilling everything more and more was being alotted to them. Meals were being prepared, comforts arranged, and so on and so fourth. With Line starting to talk, things were beginning to be good for her. Tim was still being encouraged to talk. If he managed to give them something he was guaranteed a shower and a change of clothes. The stentch alone was driving the interrogator crazy. When it was seen that Nina was asleep, the lights were thrown on full blast and the interrogator re-entered. She was calm now, he hoped.

OOC: Hirgy, I wasn't really going to do the interrogation. It seemed kinda monotonous, given what me and Cot are currently RP'ing.

OOC: Fair enough, as long as your happy to revoke his citizenship, he'll get the death penalty.

[OOC: Hirgy, wanna do the extradition hearing? I kinda want that dude back to interrogate him.]

OOC: Fair enough, as long as your happy to revoke his citizenship, he'll get the death penalty.

That's been done already :). Make it painful.

Federal Appellate Court- Floor 15, Extradition Courts

Bossen had spent a couple more days languishing in his cells. He has listened to Montoya go apeshit one evening when Mac and Jose visitied him. He could hear what they were saying just across the wide corridor. The EOL authorities had revoked his citizenship, meaning he would face trial in the COH. Montoya actually had to be sedated before he stopped screaming.

The following morning, with Montoya grunting and shaking his head trying to get the sedative fuzziness away, Jose and Mac arrived with a pair of Balif's and took him out of the cell and into a big black armoured van in the parking basement.

A few minutes later they pulled into another non-descript parking basement and ascended in a large stainless steel lift.

Bossen was led into a small holding pen that was huge but empty. A sign on the wall said in blue letters: POOR BEHAVIOUR WILL RESULT IN PUNISHMENT. At the bottom there was a small logo, the Machete, Sun and Star over the earth, with Extradition Courts written around the edge. Bossen stood in the centre of the room, a huge Balif standing just outside the bars looking in. Bossen sat down.

Within a few minutes two new balifs came into the cell and led him, clains clinking, into a small and more informal court room. The Judge, in a suit and not a robe, sat at the rear of the court on a slightly raised platform behind a desk. In front there were two tables, Larsen, Mac and Jose sitting at one, a lawyer sitting at the other, where Bossen was led to. A stenographer sat just beside the Judge's desk, and the two balif's moved to either side of the court after placing Bossen in the chair beside the lawyer. There was no one watching the hearing in the public benches.

Bossen had been sitting for a few minutes, ignoring the lawyer beside him when a Balif announced, Hirgizstanian Extradition Court is now in session, Case 2504 pending. All rise for Judge Limoago." Everyone stood up and the Judge simply nodded, everyone sitting down again. Usually the Judge entered the court and then everyone stood, but Limoago was already in his seat so the formality was quick.

With just a small pause the Judge spoke in a deep, rolling voice, straight from the plains of Zambia. "Strig Bossen...The Cots want him extradited. What say you Officers?" He looked directly at Mac and Jose.
Jose stood, "We have gotten all the information we can from him, and have been assissted greatly by Mr. Larsen. Naturally he has protection as a Cottish national, and thus we believe if we was extradited the Cots could get much more information on his operation. Naturally we have agreed to send State and Vice Squad representatives back to Cotland to ensure we have a more direct link to any information the Cots can get."

The Judge nodded his head and continued to look at Bossen's case file, opened on the desk below. The stenographer's typing eched around the room for a few seconds and then stopped.

Then the Judge looked up and at Larsen, "Mr. Larsen, what is your angle on this case and, more importantly, why should the prisoner be extradited?"

Larsen got up and straightened his suit before he answered.

"Your Honour, the accused Strig Bossen is a known felon in the Realm. REAF have several outstanding warrants for his arrest on charges of drug trafficing and other drug-related crimes, as well as suspicion of murder in the first degree. Drug trafficing and murder are crimes punishable by hanging in the Realm, and chances are that we will press for the capital punishment if he is extradited to the Realm to stand trial as is his right as per the Constitution of the Realm and the current laws of the Realm." Larsen paused to catch his breath.

"Combined with the sentence he has recieved here in Hirgizstan, he will certainly be given either life imprisonment in a Category HARSH facility or the death penalty. We are, if the accused is extradited to the Realm, we are willing to forget the death penalty if he co-operates and gives us the information we require. Naturally, we will make sure that the Commonwealth will be given access to that information, which I, and I mean this with all due respect for the law enforcement agencies in the Commonwealth, believe will only be available to aquire when in the custody of REAF due to the threat of death hanging over the accused."

The judge scribbled a few notes as Larsen spoke. When he stopped and sat down the stenographer's typing died away and the court was silent. Then the Judge turned to Bossen's appointed Lawyer. "Counsel, anything to add?"

The lawyer stood up heavily with a weary sigh, he knew he couldn't get Bossen off, it was an impossibility, but due process of law required he try anyway. "I point to the fact that Mr. Bossen will likely be put to death if he is extradited. Why can the Cottish authorities not come to Hirgizstan?"

The Judge scribbled some more notes and replied, "You realise if he stays here he will face death aswell? You also fail to realise that the prisoner has outstanding arrest warrants in Cotland and that it would be in our interests to let his own people interrogate him, as Mr. Larsen has pointed out. Anything further counsel?"

The lawyer shook his head and sat down, his face looked surprisingly relieved, he would go back to his own practice after this, no more defending a drug dealer just because some court bureaucrat pulled his name off a database. Bossen simply looked ahead, ashen faced.

The Judge continued to scribble notes, and taking one last look at Bossen's file, he looked up and spoke. "In light of the evidence presented in this case, and from the comments of Mr. Larsen, I see no reason why the prisoner should not be extradited from the Commonwealth. My terms of extradition are as follows: A Dakar Vice Squad Officer and a team of State Department and Foreign Diplomatic Service personnel must accompany the prisoner back to Cotland to ensure that any information taken from the prisoner is processed back to the Commonwealth so we may act on it. Mr. Larsen, as the Cottish representative in this hearing, do you agree to my terms of extradition?"

"I do your Honour." Larsen replied. Justice would be served.

**********************

The Cottish procedure of transporting prisoners was unlike other nation's ways, and the main reason why no one was stupid enough to try to break a prisoner out of jail during air transports. While the Police in its own right was feared, they were restricted by laws and procedures. That was why any prisoner air transports were handled by the Air Force. The soldiers weren't restricted by the rules and regulations, and were free to kill anyone attempting to break the prisoners out as well as the prisoner. In addition, the military posessed far heavier weaponry than the Police, who again were restricted by rules and regulations. That was why a specially modified C-10/B Yggdrasil was sent to collect the prisoner.

Inside the Yggdrasil, a set of special seats were bolted to the floor, with chains and what-not. A team of twelve operators from the Air Force Special Security, the 5th Special Operations Force were attached to the aircraft, being equipped with heavy weaponry in form of mainly 9mm pistols, submachine guns and carbines, as well as heavier ordinance safely stowed away. They even had Wizard MANPADs for use against enemy aircraft, in case someone tried something like that to force it down. In such an event, they would open the rear loading door and fire the Wizard at the enemy aircraft, giving them a very nasty surprise.

In this case, the Yggdrasil was relayed from the closest large Cottish air base, Kairo AFB outside Cairo, Egypt. Five hours after it took off, it landed at the airport in Dakar. Soon, the prisoner Bossen would be the inhabitant of the aircraft, under the custody of the Royal Cottish Air Force...

The Judge nodded, made another scribble and then spoke with finality. "The Commonwealth's terms have been met and this court sees now, no reason why the prisoner should not be extradited forthwith." The Judge banged his gable, the lawyer immediately got up and quickly left the room. Jose and Mac shook hands with Larsen and a couple of balifs took Bossen away to the cells again. The Judge left the room with Bossen's file.

The three men were left alone in the court-room. Mac's phone rang and he picked it up, listened for a second and then said goodbye. He turned to Larsen, "Your plane just landed at the International Airport, our representative is on his way there now with the Foreign Service and State Department Agents, there's four of them by the way, plus our Officer. If you go out to the cells, the balifs will take Bossen to the airport, you can ride with them. Well...I guess thats it, good luck Mr. Larsen." Jose and Mac shook Larsen's hand before leaving.

The recent events in India - bombings and shoot-outs - somehow led to the government collapses there. Rome was moving in with an armed attack, and suddenly, India became less of a paradise than before. Frustrated by this mystery hitman, Maria finally decided on a trip to Africa. Niccolo was being another pain, but he was a prominent card in her stack. She couldn't lose him, and now that she knew that Maggiano was after her, as well as the Doomanum Inquisition, she was more careful about how she dealt with people.

She flew a private jet to Windhoek, having received permission from the USB government under her Roman passport. She knew that she would be followed, because she had left a paper trail. In fact, she had so desired to leave the trail, such as to lead her pursuers on a little track to a playground. If she knew that they were following, it was better, because she could just as easily lead them where she wanted to lead them - hopefully with a one-way ticket too. But while she was on the plane, there was no real reason to fear much. She made a little call to her associates.

"Sandro."

"Mia Donna."

"What passes?"

"Not much. Not much."

"Where is my package?"

"It's in internment now."

"Might I ask... why?"

"Well, let's say that Amerigo f^#*$% up real nicely. The government has spent the past twelve hours detaching his body from his car. It's a good thing too, because DNA tests will be a while, and in that time, Amerigo can suddenly disappear from living records."

"Don't screw with the paper," Maria replied. "The USB government needs something to distract their attention, and Amerigo is a peripheral capo. No one in Sicily will remember him."

"Speaking of Sicily, I hear that Il Capo is upset."

"What bird told you that?"

"I've got contracts in Rome too - they all mention about how the Caesarini place got looted by Roman police two days ago. They asked me if it meant anything to me. I said no."

"Good. You know your place."

"Mamma always told me - 'never stick your neck where your nose can't follow.' I've kept it, and my neck stays on my shoulders, not on the floor."

"Good. What's being done about the package though? Because my little Nicco made a serious investment and I'd hate to him that Amerigo wasted it."

Sandro coughed. "Well, things are being done. Mostly, we're waiting for opportunity."

"Fortune knocks once, lest you forget that. Find someone to get it, quickly."

"I've got it in hand. My folks know where it is and what they're doing with it. We've also got an inside man working from the government to keep tracking it. He's working on getting a transfer to the case. He says he also knows a friend who'd be interested in helping, but he doesn't know where he is at the moment."

"Well, it's on your shoulders now, until you get someone to do this right."

The police station was quiet except for the reporters outside. They were hoping to get Tim to talk, even just a little bit, so that they could get him a new change of clothes. Jonas and Mikkel had revealed significant details about the drug trade so far and that was giving the police a lot of leads. Already several raids were being planned already, two on a pair of villas only five miles away. The 6th Special Operations Forces were preparing to board Black Hawks and arm up their weapons. The assault on the villas would be quick, hard, and potent. They wanted to net several high value dealers who would, hopefully, squeal on others and allow them to move up the ladder. Those two raids were only two of four. The two other raids would be against a factory about sixteen miles away and against the port on the southern portion of the island. The port raid would net, hopefully, a pair of speed boats ferrying VALKYR. The factory raid was just that, a raid on a cocaine factory.

The four raids would be conducted by Marauders teams. Two teams would hit each site. They would fly to the targets about eight gunships, four Black Hawks and four Panthers. They would come in low and fast, hitting the compound from a surrounding position, fast ropping onto the ground and then seiging the villas, port, and factory.

The lawyers left the police station and spoke with the reporters for a few minutes, not directly talking trash about the Layartebian law enforcement and rules therein but rather critizising the Layartebian practice of not letting the detained see a lawyer until 72 hours after the arrest and pointing out what they considered flaws in the Layartebian practices and customs. They also reminded all journalists, especially the Layartebian ones, that the arrested were innocent until proven guilty in a court of law.

Inside, Tim was feeling a bit better, but he was still playing mute. However, after the Layartebians gave him a change of clothes, he asked to see a lawyer, speaking only in Cottish. Nina was still acting crazy, while Line was starting to tell more and more. She still didn't say much, but what little she did say basically confirmed the statements from Jonas and Mikkel, who were spilling their guts, hoping for leniancy in the sentencing.

Jonas and Mikkel were spilling everything although Mikkel still pinned Jonas as the "leader." They were hoping to get better sentencing but that wouldn't happen, they were equal just like the others. Jonas would, obviously, get the harshest sentence of the five because he was the ring leader but as far as amnesty was concerned, none of them were going to get it. As Line gave up more, even though it was a little bit here and there, they were able to grant her more opportunities. With three sets of stories, all the same, they had two to go. Nina was frantic still and they were debating whether or not to drug her to calm her down but that was ruled out, eventually, as a bad idea. Tim, on the other hand, with a fresh change of clothes, had begun to sing a little bit. They hoped to push more and more and more. They weren't going to get relief anytime soon...

The news reporters just ran with the story. The lawyers' criticism was something that they expected to hear but they weren't happy hearing it. They didn't like hearing their own laws and customs criticized. This was the Empire, not the Cottish Realm and they had no business telling the Empire how to run their affairs. Their teenagers had gotten themselves in this mess and it was their fault. The Empire wasn't going to beat around the bush and make it hunky doory for them.

The Judge nodded, made another scribble and then spoke with finality. "The Commonwealth's terms have been met and this court sees now, no reason why the prisoner should not be extradited forthwith." The Judge banged his gable, the lawyer immediately got up and quickly left the room. Jose and Mac shook hands with Larsen and a couple of balifs took Bossen away to the cells again. The Judge left the room with Bossen's file.

The three men were left alone in the court-room. Mac's phone rang and he picked it up, listened for a second and then said goodbye. He turned to Larsen, "Your plane just landed at the International Airport, our representative is on his way there now with the Foreign Service and State Department Agents, there's four of them by the way, plus our Officer. If you go out to the cells, the balifs will take Bossen to the airport, you can ride with them. Well...I guess thats it, good luck Mr. Larsen." Jose and Mac shook Larsen's hand before leaving.
[OOC: I completely forgot about this post. Sorry Hirgy.]

Bossen was escorted to the airport by the bailifs and Larsen, who had done as instructed by the ambassador in Cape Verde, who in turn had been instructed by the Foreign Ministry. He was not a happy man.

As they reached the airport, the gray-painted C-10/B Yggdrasil loomed on the tarmac, the armed men in camouflage uniforms standing watch outside made Bossen start to grow uneasy. Fortunately, he was cuffed on both hands and feet, so the bailifs were able to manhandle him out of the vehicle and over to the approaching Cots. Four of them were walking towards the vehicle, one of them dressed in an olive flight suit with the Cottish flag on the right shoulder and insignia that revealed that this man was a Cottish Major in the Air Force. The other three were dressed in camo uniforms and had pistols in hip-holsters, two of the men armed with L44A1 carbines. The two men without carbines saluted to the bailifs and signed some paperwork the bailifs handed over. When that was all over and done with, the two men with carbines slinged them on the backs and started dragging a now kicking and screaming Bossen into the aircraft while the two others ignored it.

"Well gentlemen, I believe that was it. On behalf of the Realm, I am hereby officially taking over control of the prisoner Strig Bossen," the man in the pilot-suit said before adressing the Hirgizstani officials that would accompany the aircraft. "If you'd be so kind as to board the aircraft? The seats are in the forward compartment. Staff sergeant Bjørnås over there will show you. I want to be in the air in fifteen minutes if that's alright with you."

Dakar Police Department Building

Esteban Montoya had taken to sleeping most of the day. He had screamed usually, every time someone came into the holding cells, but for a while now he had been silent, simply dozing or staring blankly at the walls. He had been told his Layartebian Citizenship had been revoked, that had set him off. He knew he was now a nobody, he officially did not exist. That meant getting information out of him would be a lot easier, but Mac and Jose let him wait. They could wait half a year and still not interrogate him, the fact that he didn't exist made their lives a lot easier.

But today, they came for Kirk Magodo, who had been relatively quiet, just asking all the time what day it was and when would he get to make a phone-call.

An Officer brought Magodo around to one of the interrogation rooms and sat him down across the table from Mac and Jose.

Jose spoke first, "You have a nice house Kirk...or you did...until we got there. Now it looks like a building site. The Department is going to sell it, donate the money to the Dakar Orphans Fund."

Magodo simply looked blank. He said nothing.

Mac spoke now, "Your brother was in that house, nearly killed a few of our men." Magodo smiled slightly. "Of course, he wasn't smiling when I put a .475 Magnum through his forehead. We had to identify him via DNA, his jaw was mush...had to wipe it off the kitchen floor." The smile evaporated from Magodo's face, tears welled up in his eyes and he snarled, trying to struggle out of the chains that kept him sitting in the chair. He tried to throw his arms out, but the chains attached to his ankle, and to the chair, caught and he strained for a few minutes before giving up, putting his head down.

Jose spoke again, "Your girlfreinds were there aswell...they're in custody. They were going away for life...until they talked, now they might get paroled when they're sixty. But they didn't have as much to say as the other guys we found in the house...and nothing spoke louder than what we found in the basement. There was enough to put you away for about a thousand years. You're the one who's been supplying the city with opium and exporting it. But we've taken that now. What we want to know is where the Valkyr is?"

Magodo lifted up his head, tears still in his eyes. He mouthed 'fuck you' slowly and stared at the two cops with utter contempt, breathing heavily from his nose and mouth, his chest heaving.

For a while Mac and Jose said nothing.

Magodo's breathing became less heavy and then Mac took a couple of pictures from his jacket and placed them lightly in front of Magodo. They showed two young people, probably at School or University. At this Magodo strained on his restraints, growling and hurling obscenities. Mac and Jose simply sat there and waited for him to grow tired.

Mac eventually spoke, "Nice kids...your ex-wife is looking good aswell. I'll ask you once more about the Valkyr, and then someone might be paying your family a little visit. You have a sister aswell, she's now in Investment Banker in Sudan, in case you didn't know. So I'll ask you once more, where is the Valkyr?"

Magodo said nothing. Mac took the photographs back and both men stood up to leave. Then Magodo shouted at them not to. So they sat down again and waited for the pained Magodo to speak. "The samples are on my yacht, in the hold, look for a brown brief-case. There is a shipment also, Bossen knows about it, so does Montoya, but I don't know the name of the ship, they were going to tell me when you lifted us. I swear...I...I." Magodo tailed off, tears in his eyes again.

Jose spoke up, "If your lying, or if the boat is a trap...remember your family..." Magodo shook his head, tears running down his cheeks. Mac and Jose left him, and he was taken back to his cell, looking frail and defeated.

The news kept getting better and better it seemed. Reports indicated that although the bomb had separated into 2 or so smaller pieces it was stable and in fact a nuke. Geiger counters confirmed radioactive substances in the area of the nuclear warhead. Although still not official it was taken as the gospel, a grave mistake in hindsight. As of now it was being sent labs in Windhoek for evaluation and top level security. This time they would take no chances with the weapon which would travel by air personal escorted by spec ops as well as two F-22’s. This seemed to calm everyone down thinking that the entire ordeal was over when in reality it was only just beginning. The only person who still had his doubts was Henning; even Rudolf felt readily assured the mess was thwarted before it could get out of hand. Nevertheless Henning would wait for actual confirmation…even personal if need be. This was something way to big to be left to chance. In the meantime he was ordered to fly back to Windhoek for a debriefing with Henning. Still very tired from the previous day’s activities he would be taking a flight the next day around noon-ish.

At the very same time Raven and Nibori were quickly making their escape via quick boat. Moving along the Madagascar coastline they traveled north through the Mozambique Channel until they were about a hundred miles from the most northern point when they crossed the Channel to Mozambique. Once there they ditched the quick boat leaving it to the mercy of a thermite grenade while they moved to a pre-loaded yacht which would take them and cargo along the African Coast to Somalia. Although it would be risky leaving USB waters, having USB ID’s, especially Raven’s military ID, would provide adequate protection from Bjornoya coast guard or at least from a search of the vessel. With the condition of Somalia still very much in contention it would be the perfect place to set up shop until Amerigo’s boss could be contacted. Until then they waited for Kibwe who was finishing the job.

Henning returned to Windhoek the next day refreshed but still slightly stressed. The results from the lab still hadn’t come in yet and wouldn’t for a number of days which was good enough for most people but not him. Still he had a meeting and he wasn’t about to miss it. For what seemed like the first time he didn’t enter the office building steaming mad and in a hurry. He was calm, collected, but utterly nervous and would be until this matter could finally be put to rest. Entering the office his eyes lit up in horror. He quickly upholstered his 9mm sidearm and began to nervously shift from corner to corner of the room. When he felt satisfied that the room was clear he walked over the desk and put two fingers to Rudolf’s neck. Feeling no pulse he took a deep breathe. A deep red stain was clearly visible in his chest, directly over his heart.

Alessandro Locatelli is a prominent African-Italian. His family owns a business in Cape Town, selling yachts and boats to rich people. Since it began, his business was extremely lucrative when Caesarini recruited him to do some other business [other than the businesses he already had]. Get a party, get a special task force, and get an insider. So far, he's gotten all three, and he's done marvelous works with it, all through the hands of another point man - Michelangelo. Since the entire "package" affair began, he's been receiving almost daily calls from La Donna, and it's been a bother on him. He's a man of his word, and he will deliver what he has promised, whether its 20 kilos of coke or 5 kilotons of explosives.

After Amerigo lost his hand on the deal, he arranged a poor old chap to cross a red light and ram into his beautiful yellow Lamborghini against three or four other cars. While police were surveying the damage from this freak accident at 0400h [the official report says drunk driver...], Amerigo suddenly disappeared from existence and no one seemed to know who this fellow crushed underneath several tons of metal and mangling masses was. The police had put his DNA into reserve files so that they could crack the case at latter date, but chances were that this was another forgotten case, and Sandro gets himself a new team.

"Michelangelo."

"Hm?"

"Have you gotten the party?"

"Hm-hm."

"Are there people around?"

"Hmm-hm."

"Why are you hmming then?"

"Hm-hmm-hm-hmmm."

"Are you trying to annoy me? Because I will mess with you. Don't make me more upset than I already am."

"Hm-hmm-hm-hmmm-hmmmmmm."

"Police?"

"Hmm-hm."

"Bugs?"

"Hm-hm."

At that, Sandro hung up, concerned that he might have given up too much. Of course, the only thing that police could infer was that Michelangelo and he were engaged in illicit activities - they wouldn't know what kind. And it was smart and somewhat providential wisdom that led him to call from a public phone. He headed back to the club and disappeared from the public view once again.

The seventy-two hours were up and the five children yielded a lot of information. Jonas was definitely the ring leader but he, Mikkel, and Line all said the same things. They described the nature of the drug deal, their intentions, and so on and so fourth. They hoped to get more out of them but it wasn't happening. Tim barely said much and Nina gave up nothing. He drug addiction was probably the worst out of them all. When it came time for the charging, they were all charged. Jonas recieved the harshest, all class A felonies, which included: drug trafficking, conspiracy to aide the cartels abroad, and willful causation of harm to the Empire. Mikkel, Tim, and Line all recieved accessory charges but their involvement was high enough that they were still under class A felonies. Nina, on the other hand, had all of that and then some to add, which included assaulting a police officer, on numerous occassions, and resisting arrest.

They would stand trial, in the Empire, under the laws of the Empire, defended by lawyers of their choice, and they would serve there sentences in the Realm, possibly, that was still on the table and had yet to be decided. The Emperor was working out a deal with the Cottish Parliament. If the Cottish Parliament granted the Emperor permission to mount a rescue mission to his embassy, if needed, then the children could serve their sentences in the Realm. Otherwise, the Emperor would still authorize the mission but the children would be serving their very long sentences in very harsh and very uncomfortable Layartebian prisons.

Riding down the hierarchy, Michelangelo was making a contact with a good friend, who happened to know someone for hire. A dangerous someone for hire, apparently; it cost him a good deal of money to get the contact to work, and he received a call from this someone for hire.

At least, he thought it was him. He didn't speak a word, except through a tape recording that obvious obscured his voice. He wasn't bug-friendly apparently, and he planned out the entire conversation very nicely and neatly. He only wondered who this renegade would be: "Spare the talk; I'd rather meet in person. Don't give me B*S* by sending another one of your senseless minions; come out and meet mano a mano. Read the background."

Didn't make much sense until they decrypted the ambient noise and registered a morse signal, that coded the message: "START - Airport - PAUSE - Windhoek - PAUSE - 1600 - PAUSE - hours - PAUSE - Be - PAUSE - There - PAUSE - or - PAUSE - your - PAUSE - bomb - PAUSE - never - PAUSE - leaves - PAUSE - this - PAUSE - land - END."

He didn't know with whom he was dealing, and he was not likely to know with whom he was dealing as well, but in retrospect, Michelangelo didn't want to disappoint his new hire. And he came to the Windhoek International Airport, ready to meet his new contract, uncertain where to find him. Just as he exited his entourage, his phone rang, and nearly everyone around him stuttered. Michelangelo nodded and answered.

"Si?"

"Go inside and meet in the men's restroom janitor's closet, main corridor. Three hundred meters from the main entrance. Leave your party out of the rooms, or else you're not leaving alive."

"I don't threaten my hires," Michelangelo replied.

"Neither do I. I just warn them."

The call ended, and Michelangelo could easily see where this story was heading. He turned to his associates and idly chatted: "Il pensa di essere il duce." [He thinks he is the leader.]

The five lawyers were finally allowed to meet their clients, and a lot of information was given. The teens complained about the treatment and the conditions they had been under for the past seventy-two hours, giving the lawyers a chance to claim that the information had been collected under duress and possibly even mental torture. The press was all over the case, and regular news reports was given back to Cotland. Among others, Tim confirmed what had been claimed for the past two days in Cotland: that he had been left wearing soiled clothes for upwards of two days before finally being allowed to change. That information was relayed to Cotland, and the crowds reacted accordingly, chanting slogans even louder and demanding the release of the teens. It was enough to get the police nervous...

Inside the courthouse, the lawyers sat with their clients, dressed in newly purchased suits (for the boys) and dresses (for the girls). The lawyers, dressed in expensive suits, had to hear the charges first, but they would most likely demand they be dropped on grounds of being gathered under duress. Now, they were just waiting for the judge to enter the courtroom, and the teens talked with their lawyers while they waited.

The Storting was seriously considering the Layartebian proposal, but they still had to get a majority of 2/3s to allow for it to happen. An emergency session was scheduled for 10:00 the next morning.

The baliff entered the courtroom from the entrance to the right of the bench. "All rise for her Honor, Judge Lisa Michaels." The judge entered the room. She was a middle aged woman, tall and slender, but definitely someone who had seen her fair share of cases and dealt her fair share of sentences down.

The judge sat down and slammed her gavel. "Be seated. Today we're hearing the charges against Jonas Fjeld, Tim Quist, Nina Storengen, Line Førde, and Mikkel Rasmussen. Who will be proceeding for the prosecution?"

"Jonathan Tony."

"Michael McDonald."

"Marissa Weathers." The three lawyers stood, said their names, and then sat back down.

"Accepted. And for the defense?"

The teens and the lawyers rose along with the rest of the people in the courtroom, and sat again. As the judge asked who was representing the teens, the five lawyers rose one by one, stating their names and who they were representing.

"Thomas Utsi, representing Jonas Fjeld."

"Harold Dawson, representing Line Førde."

"Stanley Goodwinson, representing Mikkel Rasmussen."

"Anne Gretsjø, representing Nina Storengen."

"...and Reidar Kristiansen, representing Tim Quist."

"Very well accepted. The charges please."

"Yes Your Honor." Michael McDonald stood. "The Empire hereby charges Jonas Fjeld with the following class A felonies, drug trafficking, illegal use of illicit substances, illegal purchase of illicit substances. The following class B felonies, willful causation of harm to minors. The following class C felonies, conspiracy to aide the Florida Cartel abroad. The Empire hereby charges Line Førde with the following class A felonies, illegal use of illicit substances and illegal purchase of illicit substances. The following class B felonies, drug trafficking. The following class C felonies, conspiracy to aide the Florida Cartel abroad. The Empire hereby charges Mikkel Rasmussen with the following class A felonies, illegal use of illicit substances and illegal purchase of illicit substances. The following class B felonies, drug trafficking. The following class C felonies, conspiracy to aide the Florida Cartel abroad. The Empire hereby charges Tim Quist with the following class A felonies, illegal use of illicit substances and illegal purchase of illicit substances. The following class B felonies, drug trafficking. The following class C felonies, conspiracy to aide the Florida Cartel abroad. The Empire charges Nina Storengen with the following class A felonies, illegal use of illicit substances and illegal purchase of illicit substances. The following class B felonies, drug trafficking, assaulting a police officer, and two counts of resisting arrest. The following class C felonies, conspiracy to aide the Florida Cartel abroad. The charges are brought herein against the aforementioned on this day, the 21st of August, 2006 by Michael McDonald."

"Very well. How do the defendants plea to said charges?"

Utsi nodded to Jonas, who stood slowly and took a deep breath before speaking in moderately accented English, "Guilty.", as his lawyer had advised him to do. When he had said that, he sat back down substantially quicker than he had gotten up.

Next up was Line, who got up and pleaed not guilty before sitting back down again, disregarding the advise her lawyer had given. Mikkel got up next and plead guilty on all but the Class C charge. The next bombshell was when Tim got up and plead guilty to Class A charges, dispite the fact that he had said very little during the interrogation, but not guilty to the remaining charges. He did as the lawyer said.

Next was Nina, who started cussing in Cottish, basically saying among the Cottish profanities that she plead not guilty. Her lawyer did her best to shut Nina up, but it was very difficult. It evolved to Nina attacking the bailifs trying to shut her up.

OOC: The following proceedings were RP'd by me and Cotland via AIM.

"Order! Order!" Nina was immediately restrained and put into handcuffs. "Order!" The pounding gavel echoed in the courtroom as Nina was thrown back into her seat. "Young lady. You will not act like that in my courtroom. As a witness herein I am charging you with contempt of court and a second count of felony assault on an officer of the law. You will be held without bail and fined §800 for contempt and assault. As for everyone else. Mr. Fjeld, please rise." He did. "You hereby plea guilty to the following charges under your own accord?"

Jonas rose and looked uncertain at his lawyer before saying "Yes."

"Very well. You will be held without bail until your sentencing, which will be one week from today at 08:30 hours. Please be seated. Mr. Rasmussen, please stand. Do you hereby plea guilty to the charges of your own accord and do you plea not guilty to a class C felony charge of aiding the Florida Cartel?"

Mikkel got up and gave the judge an ice-cold look while saying "That's what I said, right? Yes!"

"You will learn to use a correct tone in a courtroom before you leave here today. Be seated." The judge returned the ice-cold look. "Mr. Quist, do you, under your own accord plea guilty to the charges and do you plea not guilty to the the following class B felony, drug trafficking and the following class C felonies, conspiracy to aide the Florida Cartel abroad?"

Tim tried to get up but the poor lad was very close to a nervous breakdown to begin with and now it came. He started sobbing, clearly unable to talk or understand the ramifications of anything he said. Therefore his lawyer got up. "Your Honor, on behalf of my client, yes. Furthermore, my client clearly isn't fit to stand trial in the first place. I respectfully request he be allowed to see a psychologist for the sake of his mental well-being."

"Very well, I will allow that. An examination shall be today at 15:00 hours. If you wish to conduct your own, independent examination you may have that right. Ms. Førde please stand. Do you, under your own accord plea not guilty to all the presented charges?"

Line, starting to understand the seriousness of the situation, got up and said in Cottish, "Ja." [Yes.]

"Very well. Be seated. Now. Ms. Storengen, please rise. Do you, under your own accord, plea not guilty to all presented charges?"

"Fuck you!"

"Young lady. You are herby fined another §250 for contempt of court but you will answer the question and you will answer it now."

Anne Gretsjø shook her head before whispering a few words in Nina's ear, clearly calming her down. Finally, she just said "Yeah, whatever..." in a calmer voice, whispering all kinds of curses about the judge under her breath afterwards.

"Very well. The pleas are entered. Does the defense wish to speak on behalf of their clients?"

Utsi got up first and affirmed that he represented Jonas. Since he had plead guilty, there was little point in demanding the charges be dismissed since the evidence burden was too massive. At best, he would get some evidences dismissed from the trial, but that would be done as the evidences were presented to the court. Next was Stanley Goodwinson, the fourty year old Layartebian lawyer who represented Mikkel.

"Your Honor, my client has admitted to having used and purchased illegal drugs, and to having tried to bring drugs out of the Empire. However, he had not nor have he ever had any plans to assist the Florida Cartel, which we intend to prove in this court of law. May it please the court."

He sat back down, allowing for Dawson who represented Line to get up.

"Your Honor, my client has plead not guilty because there is no credible piece of evidence in the prosecution's evidence burden! We demand the testimony obtained during interrogation dismissed from use in this case due to the fact that it was obtained during duress. More specifically, mental torture. The defense intends to prove that the methods used by the police to interrogate people are the equivalent of mental torture, and for that purpose, we intend to supena witnesses that can testify that the conditions my client was subjected to forced her to admit to a crime which she didn't commit in order to escape said conditions."

Next was Tim's lawyer, Reidar Kristiansen.

"Your Honor, as witnessed just a few moments ago, my client clearly isn't mentally fit to stand trial to face charges. Nor was he mentally capable of understanding the consequences of his actions on the day in question. For that purpose, we demand the charges be dropped due to his mental state of mind, and that my client be released to undergo treatment for his mental condition."

He got down, having claimed temporary insanity for his client. Then, saving the best for last, Anne Gretsjø got up and looked at the desk, sorting her thoughts out for a few seconds before starting.

"Your Honor has witnessed the erratic behaviour of my client herself, just a few minutes ago. We can prove that my client is mentally unfit to understand the consequences of her actions due to the brain damage of forced use of drugs for the majority of my client's life. We request the trial be dismissed or at least postponed due to we have obtained the medical records from Cotland, which we intend to use to prove that my client is, for all intents and purposes, insane."

"Mr. Goodwinson, that is acceptable for the court. Mr. Dawson, in the Empire harsh torture is not illegal and in this instance, I have reviewed the interrogation reports and have determined that torture was not even used in this case and that the 'mental torture' you speak of is nothing more than the standard duress any individual experiences when they have been arrested. The admission of guilt by Mr. Jonas, in addition, requires that your client prove that she did not actually commit the crime. In the Empire you may be innocent until proven guilty but in instances such as this it is reversed. Your client will stand trial. Mr. Kristiansen, your client will undergo an examination. However, determination will be made to see if he was mentally fit at the time of the crime. If he was, then he will stand trial, otherwise charges will be dismissed following the recommendation by psychologists and psychiatrists. Mrs. Gretsjø, your client is definitely an addict, as has been shown. Whether or not she was forced to take the drugs we have not determined yet. Your client may have some behavior problems and for that we will have a mental examination for her as well but the same will apply to her as for Mr. Quist. The fines for contempt will stand. I find sufficient evidence to go to trial. The following shall be such. Mr. Quist and Ms. Storengen will be held without bail pending the results of his exam this afternoon. I will convene in my chambers with all attornies present following the exam. Mr. Rasmussen and Ms. Førde will be held until their trial can begin in one week's time from today. Their bail will be set at §10,000 each and they shall be remanded to the area. Should they leave the area, they will be held without bail and further charges will ensue. With the exception of Mr. Quist and Ms. Storengen, pending the results of their exams and the guilty plea of Mr. Fjeld, the trial shall begin at 08:30 hours on the 28th of August, 2006. Dismissed."

The lawyers and teens got up as the judge left the room, and shared a few last words before the teens were brought away.

Kristiansen would be with his client at the mental evaluation, which would tell that he was infact temporarily unfit to stand trial. However, there was no conclusive proof to prove that he was insane in the moment of the crime. For that, it would take closer examination.

In the case of Nina, the evaluation made it clear that she was mentally unstable, and unable to understand the consequences of her actions and that they could be illegal. A CAT scan would show that the brain had been severely damaged over the past seven years of excessive drug usage and neglect. Medical records and criminal records were also relayed to the lawyers via the Cottish embassy in Layarteb City, and showed that she had several overdoses behind her.

The criminal record painted a very unflattering image of the young woman, having numerous assaults, drug-related crimes and assaulting police officers on her criminal record. However, in all cases she had been released due to "reasons relating to the security of the individual", something which in Cotland meant that someone higher up in the system had applied pressure to release the girl. Unbeknownst to those involved in the trial, that had been the friends her parents had in the Judicial Commiteé in the Storting. Yeah, it was a violation of the Constitution to apply that kinds of pressure, but if the politicians didn't say anything and threatened the civil servants to keep mum or lose their jobs, what could one do?

Judge Michaels sat in his chair, behind her desk, reviewing the exam results. Clearly, Tim was suffering from post traumatic stress disorder and Nina had tons of problems due to drug use over the years of her life. She had a horrible record but never saw punishment. It was a pity and the Judge thought so. "Alright. Now, in the interest of what we have here, does the prosecution have anything to add to this case?"

"Yes Your Honor. Given the admission of guilt by Mr. Rasmussen, we will hereby drop the class C felony against him, avoiding trial. We will drop the class C felony against Mr. Quist as well, pending that he plea guilty to a class C felony of accessory for drug trafficking, avoiding trial for him as well. As far as Ms. Førde and Ms. Storengen, we will drop no charges as of yet except to reduce their felony of aiding the cartel to accessory."

"Very well. Has the defense anything to add to this?"

The five lawyers shared looks, silently agreeing. Utsi, being the unofficial spokesperson for the five lawyers looked at the judge.

"Your Honor, I believe we all accept those terms, as long as we are presented with the evidences to support the new charges. As for the guilty plea for Mr. Quist, his lawyer will have to make that decision. Reidar?"

"I believe that is an acceptable deal. I will naturally have to confirm this with my client, but I believe he will accept it." Kristiansen said, correcting his sleek designer glasses.

"I have been in contact with the parents of my client," Dawson said, putting a brown manilla envelope on the judge's desk. "And I have been authorized to present to the court the sum of §10,000 as bail for my client."

Stanley Goodwinson also produced an envelope, a white one this time, and placed it too on the judge's desk. "The bail for my client. Ten thousand shingrots. I trust he will be released to my custody immediately?"

Ironically enough the very catastrophe Henning was trying to avoid, singly handily it seemed, was about to take place right under his nose. The Italians had gotten very uneasy about the entire African situation not to mention lost their patience. It was at that point when the final act of the plan was carried out, the tying up of loose ends and the eventual meeting that was taking place now. As Raven and Nibori waited anxiously with the bomb on the other side of the country, Kibwe was about to make all three of them very, very rich.

Michelangelo was highly intelligent and quick witted making him the ideal candidate to send for the meeting. He knew himself and his business and what this meeting would mean. He was about to acquire a weapon more powerful than he could dream off. Nevertheless he kept his mind clear for he also knew that this meeting was a mystery and could very well turn into an unwanted encounter. His entourage kept a small profile and a watchful eye as they neared their destination. As instructed his men halted before the restrooms and Michelangelo entered, nervous but not showing it. He than slowly, making sure nobody was watching, entered the janitor’s closet. It was dark, pitch black almost, save the light bending in from under the door. He was expecting a voice but was startled when he heard the ring of a telephone. He was mad at himself for jumping; he should have seen this coming. His journey, it seemed, was not yet over.

The voice on the other end spoke, “This line is secure,” the voice was muffled and deep, “I have what you are looking for, but it won’t come cheap. I want 20 million upfront and another 20 million when you get it. In Wing A second level food court there is a bench in the back left corner. Underneath is a briefcase, inside of which is a digital camera. The battery contains a USB Bluetooth. There is an account number for the Bank of Saint Lazare on it. Once confirmed that the money has been transferred you’ll receive further instructions. Understood?”

That was quite a lot of information, information that wasn’t going to get repeated. There was no need because Michelangelo was paying close attention. He did not like being forced around but knew it was necessary. He actually enjoyed the hunt; at least he knew they were professionals. He replied firmly, “Understood, and what if you blow us off?”

“It will take more than 20 million to kill me.”

Michelangelo grew somewhat angry, his job was killing per say. How could someone be so cocky? For a moment there was silence.

“Oh yes, and I’d destroy the phone, your prints are all over it.”

"Well from the results we have the following. Mr. Quist has a very severe case of post traumatic stress disorder as a result of interrogation. However, none of the methods used during interrogation were methods that would even be considered mild torture by the Empire, should torture be illegal. I cannot grant throw the case out for that. What it seems is that Mr. Quist was, at the time of the crime, in good mental health. However that being so, I will need to have him stand trial for the aforementioned charges. I apologize. With Ms. Storengen, the years of substance abuse is definitely regretable. However, I see a laundry list of violations. Ms. Storengen has repeated violated law and order and never been punished for it and I am afraid that she will not escape punishment here. I am sorry but she will stand trial. Substance abuse or not she was competent enough to hide the drugs and she knew what she was doing. I am sorry but I don't see cause here to throw the trial out."

"Your Honor, if I may?"

"Yes you may Ms. Weathers."

"Your Honor. We are prepared to drop conspiracy charges against all of the defendents, including Mr. Fjeld."

"Why is that?"

"Your Honor. We feel that the charge, though it is presentable, is perhaps, to say, overkill?"

"Well said. What does the defense have to say?"

OOC: Bumping it for yourself? Waiting on you spiffy.

Michelangelo was extremely frustrated and direly resisted his urge to twist off the head of the phone. He makes every effort to placate these vermin, and they treat him as some busboy or something worthy of servile attitudes. He marked it in his head - this man would not live to see his payment through. He put the phone back into its place and left it there for the janitor to pick up. Unfortunately, this other gentleman did not know that Mafiosi pay to have their fingerprints removed via plastic surgery, such that they almost have not prints from their hands. Of course, it increased the difficulty in grabbing smooth objects, and occasionally the prints would reappear, but generally, they had a reputable source of doctors to keep them up-to-date.

The phone would remain there, likely to be taken up if the police ever became suspicious. If everything went well, the janitor would touch it anyway and disgard it for him. He exited the bathroom and ventured out to Wing A, with his company trailing by at least 60 paces. He saw the table, with an old man sitting by the very chair.

"Excuse me, sir?" one of Michelangelo's henchmen asked him.

"Yes?"

"Is this yours?"

"Not that I remember. Some other fellow left it there and asked me to watch it."

"Ah, then he's left it for us."

"Well, glad to be of aid!" The man returned to reading the daily news and the henchman took the case out and handed it to Michelangelo, who turned it to another person. In an instant, they headed out of the Wing and to a more secure location. Michelangelo expected a call, but surprisingly no one did. His men continued to work out the order. He made a quick call to Alessandro, updating the process. And in a matter of minutes, the money was wired.

[OOC: You're the prosecution, I'm the defense, remember? I'll assume you asked the defense attourneys what they think.]

"The defense is pleased with the prosecution's offer, and will not oppose it, Your Honor." Utsi said on behalf of the defense team.

"While I object to the trial against my client on grounds of his mental wellbeing, I will prepare myself and him for trial. However, I requests the court take his current mental condition into account during the trial, and that he be assumed innocent until proven guilty." Reidar Kristiansen said to the judge.

Anne Gretsjø figured as much, but objected nevertheless.

"Very well. However, I feel that Your Honor and the prosecution deserves to know that I intend to prove in court that my client is mentally incapable of taking responsibility for her actions."

*************

In Oslo, the Storting had debated the issue presented by the Layartebian Emperor in great length, debating every single side of it in detail. It was decided that the offer made was indeed generous, and it would allow the Cottish a chance to get their children back alive without the need for going to drastic measures such as breaking them out or anything. Hence, they accepted it with a 85-50 margin. Two hours later, the Cottish ambassador to Layarteb was on his way to the Emperor to inform him of the decision, which was being kept secret for the time being.

OOC: Should have been defense, fixed.

“It’s done, make the call.”

It was all Kibwe needed to hear. He pressed the ‘end call’ button on the cell phone and slid it into his pocket. With his other hand he folded the newspaper he had been reading up and set it beside him on the bench. With a large sigh he got up and covering his eyes with an outstretched arm glanced around for anything suspicious. He walked a few paces to a phone booth located on the corner of the street and walked inside the small glass case. Pulling the door shut he pulled out a small handkerchief and griped the phone.

Michelangelo was busy ordering a slice of pizza, a new dish brought about by Africa’s modernization, from a small shop in downtown Windhoek when his cell phone vibrated and than began to play a tune. Placing the food next to him he clapped his hands together in an attempt to throw off any unwanted sauces. He answered with an alarmingly angered tone.

“Ovambo Marina; Pemba, Mozambique; Dock 3; Boat 21. Everything needed to claim the vessel is in the briefcase. You’ll be safe with the identification from TATO nations along the coast. Once out of USB waters wire the rest, understood?”

“Yes.”

“Good, there shall be no reason to test each other than eh?”

“I would think not.”

"Mr. Kristiansen, I will take that into account. If there are no further changes then I would like to inform you that you can produce bail down the hall at the bailiffs office. Your clients will be brought under your care. They are NOT to leave this island. Is that understood? If it is, we will meet again in one week."

**************************

The clauseway onto Governor's Island was quiet until the Ambassador's car began passing over it. In his office, the Emperor was already prepared to meet with him. He hoped that he would bring good news, especially concerning the situation in Oslo. His secretary under strict orders to immediately allow the Ambassador entrance to his office. When his car arrived at the gates of Castle Comhghall, he would be escorted throughout the castle towards the Emperor's office by four guards of the Secret Service.

The ambassador followed the Secret Service agents through the castle and, after a relatively long walk, he finally reached the office of the Emperor. Entering, the ambassador shook the hand of the Emperor, having met the head of state on several previous occations.

"Emperor, I have news from my Government. The Storting has, after careful consideration and a massive debate in a closed session, decided to grant a Layartebian evacuation of the embassy through Cottish airspace if, and it's a big 'if' sir, firstly, Cottish aircraft shall escort the Layartebian ones at all times while in Cottish airspace; second, that Layartebian aircraft shall not open fire against any potential enemies unless they are directly fired upon; and thirdly, that the Cottish teenagers which this whole incident revolves shall be allowed to serve the sentences they are given in a Layartebian court of law in Cottish prisons."

"Mr. Ambassador, I do believe that is a fair agreement. I can accept those terms. The incursion force will consist of helicopters moving approximately 150 miles per hour but we will have a few fast moving HV-24 Bulldogs moving in excess of 400 miles per hour. You should have escorts for both of these groups. The Bulldogs, given their high speed and heavy carrying capacity will be responsible for the initial reinforcements, dropping in up to forty-eight Marines and taking out the ambassador, his family, and other important information. We will have a total of 26 HV-24s embarked on our group so we will be running at least six of them at any one time but given their size we can only land two at a time. Now another matter of importance that I would like to discuss. I just recieved a call from my commander on site at our embassy. You've got a full scale riot on your hands chanting 'Death to Layarteb!' and 'Power to the people!' What is that about, might I ask?"

"Emperor, I was unaware that the demonstration has evolved into a riot. Thank you for informing me. If what you say is correct, then it is, and bear in mind that this is speculation only, then the riot is the workings of a terrorist organization consisting of ultra-extremist left-wing elements called Socialist Front. From what our intelligence services tell us, they aim to execute the King and government and transform Cotland into a communist or socialist nation. Clearly, we cannot allow for that to happen. Please do remember that this is only speculation from my part, and I advise you to wait with any announcements before we can confirm the identity of the terrorists responsible."

"The Socialist Front you say. At the moment I am not proceeding anywhere except to keep the previous aforementioned orders for my embassy and the Marines that protect it. Does the Socialist Front have the potential to turn this riot into a full scale offensive against the embassy?"

"That sir, you'll have to ask the Police or REAF, or our intelligence services. I honestly have no idea. Will there be anything else sir, or may I return to my embassy to forward your answer?"

Michelangelo was heading back to his place, as he had his henchmen working to fix the boat for safety into international waters. Of course, the only thing that these people knew was that they were transferring sensitive items, including quarry items. They had yet to fax any manifest to the crew, but he told them that he would send it by less "conventional" methods when the scene was safe. In the meantime, he would wait for word from Alessandro, about where send the package.

He had received the call from Kibwe and had another group trace the call. They found the phone booth and wiped it completely, finding every single fingerprint that they could afford to find. In the meantime, they would find this indigent fellow or find someone who was equally receptive to eliminating this person and "help" them.

Maria received the news very quickly, and was somewhat at ease, unbeknownst to her that all of her organization was settled in Windhoek, and Sparetti had them all under the scope.

"Yes you may. I hope this situation resolves itself without the need for force." The Emperor stood as the Cottish Ambassador left the office and headed on his way, back to the embassy. As he did, the Emperor picked up the phone and informed the Joint Chiefs of the updated situation. He wanted hourly reports from the embassy on the situation and he needed to know the instant that things changed drastically for the worst.

So the tale of a fish is quite unusual. It begins its life in the lakes and streams of some obscure country, and swims its way down to the sea, where it promulgates into the vastness. It tends itself near larger groups, but in the end, no one can tell where this little fish goes, until it returns to the lakes and streams to breed. And as such as we follow the little fish to its home, we find Giacomo Benevetti - a low-lying minion of Cosa Nostra. He visits the Maracaibo Cartels occasionally, only because they are not so well-known. He'd almost been captured when the Miami Cartels went through a serious break by Layartebian forces [or was it the Havana Cartels? He couldn't remember.]

Pablo Muertes looked around and saw Giacomo suddenly appear from nowhere and examined him closely. "Where did you come from?" Giacomo smiled and sat by on a tree stump while numerous workers were relaying different radio frequencies, trying to keep all of their production facitilies in order. Pablo didn't like Giacomo's sudden appearance. "The last time anyone saw you, Imperial drugbusters came in knocking. What's going on?"

"The Empire is a little fidgety," Giacomo said. "It's been going on everywhere. They've arrested 5 kids, 2 foreign citizens, and pretty much all of these other assortments of folk who were simply caught with drugs. Some say they were tortored to make a confession, not that it meant anything that they were the actual ones."

"So I've heard..." Pablo was less suspicious. "What brings your fat ass here?"

Giacomo slowly rose [not himself a fat ass...]. "My contractors would like to know if your contractors would like to have revenge."

"Revenge?"

"Yes. For all of the mishaps that the Empire has been causing you people. You see, my contractors take a serious offense when people start hurting our suppliers. Our suppliers give us a great business, and you see... we need businesss to keep doing what we do. We can't have goody-two shoes breaking up our fine business, so we want some blood. Real blood. And a lot of it too."

Pablo liked what he was hearing.

"I know all of the cartels have some kind of overlord person - I've seen some references, but I don't know who or what he or she is. I only know that there is, so, pass this word along. Let him know that we've got something that will make the Empire rue the day they banged heads with us."

Pablo smiled. "I will see what they say, mi hermano." Giacomo then took out a satellite phone, wrapping in some cheesecloth. "When you guys are ready, give me a call. I'm the only one who will ever answer that thing."

The Governor of South Eastern Virginia, a member of the secretive shadow organization within the Illuminati called Majestic, was already assisting his treasonous cohorts in a plan that would allow them to further their plans. Majestic had but one plan, to cripple the Empire, restore the Republic, and put themselves in positions of near absolute power. It was a conspiracy as old as the Republic was and furthermore, when it collapsed so did its conspirators, only to be replaced by the current group. Majestic was, perhaps, the most secretive organization in all of the Empire and it only consisted of twelve men, all of whom were in positions of extreme power, whether it was as a statesman, as a military officer, or as part of a powerful corporation, the Layartebian Defense Corporation, Umbrella Corporation, and Manchurian Global being the most ones in the Empire and all represented within Majestic.

They were all good and kept their affiliation with the secretive organization extremely secretive. Nobody outside of the twelve knew anything about their clandestine meetings, ulterior motives, and sinister plans. They found the weakness of the Empire and that was in its arrogance. Since the very beginning, the Emperor proclaimed that the Empire would be a bastion for safety, prosperity, and peace. Following the conquests of land to the south, north, east, and west of the original boundaries of the Republic that was just what they had, although briefly. The rise of the RLA, the situation in Grenada, and the small misgivings of the group was already creating some sort of uncertainty with the people of the Empire. They had been promised absolute safety from enemies, both domestic and foreign. Grenada, being the central hub of the Caribbean Command Sector, the most secure, perhaps, of all of the Caribbean islands, was now under the control of a communist government, which had received, publicly, backing from the United Eastasian Republic, a wolf in sheep's clothing. The communist armada that was the UER had been friendly with the Empire for a long time but was not beginning to show true colors. It shook the foundations of the Empire when Grenada fell away from the hands of Layarteb City.

Majestic, which had planned, funded, and assisted the take over in Grenada, was now planning "Phase II" of that operation. It was called "Plan Overture" and would add a demonization to the Grenadian crisis. At the forefront of the plan was the Governor of South Eastasian Virginia, the longest standing Governor in all of the Empire. Though the Province of Layarteb was older, its first two Governors all died in office, of natural causes. He had grown powerful and had millions of connections. When the first drug wars tore his province apart, leaving towns burned to the ground and thousands upon thousands dead, he was approached by the two surviving cartels. They were weak and they had a big proposition. The clandestine meeting, one that would have sent him to the gallows if it had been discovered, was, perhaps, one of the worst cases of treason the Empire had seen. The cartels proposed several things. First and foremost, they needed the war to stop, they needed the Governor to declare that the cartels had been defeated. Another six months of fighting and they would have been totally eradicated. They had taken a big chance in this meeting but they came with a benefit for the Governor. There were certain rebellious groups within the province, all of whom hated the Governor. They promised him intelligence and protection, a definite deal with the devil. They proposed that they would export over 75% of their drugs and that only 25% would be sold on the streets. The Governor wasn't pleased with the figures but he liked the plan as a whole. They offered bribery money, on the order of §10 million a year, which would increase by 2.8% each year. He was up to a little over §14 million now. Lastly, the deal would allow for one more thing and that was protection for the cartels. With the new War on Drugs, the Governor was strapped for what he could do but he did his best. The deal wasn't with the Florida Cartel so most of the efforts were against them for now. However, the remaining two would have their time soon enough.

Now, with this age old pact sitting under the table, the Governor received something as a present. A courier for the Esmeralda Cartel delivered him a message, one of utmost importance. The new War on Drugs was a global effort that was probably worse elsewhere rather than in the Empire. The Empire was definitely pushing it along but it wasn't the only actor anymore. Now, the Cosa Nostra, an organization as old and deep rooted as the Freemason society within the Empire had a present for the Esmeralda Cartel. It was of such significant importance that it was going to be a bargaining chip for the cartel. They wanted further protection, they needed further protection against the Empire and its new War on Drugs. The Esmeralda Cartel, acting alone on this one, wanted nothing other than protection against the Empire and the other two. The Florida Cartel was receiving the biggest brunt of force by the Empire and soon it would be the Meta Cartel and the Esmeralda Cartels that took their share of hits. The Empire had already disrupted a meeting of the two cartels. The strike was devastating and the meeting was definitely given up to the Empire by informants and possible by intelligence assets. The truth of the matter was that the intelligence agencies had been listening to their communications for months and years prior to the outbreak of war. Informants only validated the intelligence and information gathered by intercepting phone calls and triangulating cellular phones.

That was why, this time, they sent a person. There was no signals to intercept and finding one man out of millions was extremely difficult if you didn't know who you were looking for, especially in this land. Chatter between the cartels dissipated a week before the courier was sent and in exchange for guaranteed protection, the cartel was willing to transfer something of the utmost importance to the Governor, for whatever his use was. They weren't aware of just how sinister the man was and what devious plans he had. The meeting was arranged for just three days after at 03:20 hours, in a secluded section of the Caracas docks.

The cartel, on the other hand, had only one thing to say to the Cosa Nostra, their brothers in arms. "How much?"

Dakar Police Building

They had found the vials of Valkyr in a metal briefcase hidden below a floorboard on Magodo's large boat. There was room for about six cases but there was only one, shiny and metallic. There were five vials of Valkyr in the case and they had been pored over by the top scientists in the Commonwealth, determining the properties and affects of this new 'superdrug'. The results were devastating, and Jose and Mac, along with Dakar Vice, received plenty of kudos on both a state and national level. But just because they were getting patted on the back didn't mean the job was done.

Magodo, it turned out, was just an importer, a rather small cog in what appeared to be a huge and complex machine. He had only bought five vials, but that was enough to buy him a bullet with his name on it.

However, there was someone else who hadn't been spoken to, and who was languishing in the holding cells in the Dakar Police Building. Esteban Montoya had lost a lot of weight and was still wearing the ragged and dirty clothes he had been arrested in. The cast on his left arm was also dirty and the fact that he had been provided with as little calcium as possible in his meals meant that the arm was still repairing, and probably still sore.

Right now he sat ashen faced, bags around his eyes, at the bolted down stainless steel table in one of the interrogation rooms. Once again Jose and Mac took up their usual positions, facing him.

Mac spoke first. "You know we have this island for people like you, non-persons your called-people with no citizenship and who are criminals. Its out in the ocean somewhere, far away from here. You go there and you'll simply cease to exist, but you won't die, oh no, thats not what happens out there."

Montoya simply sighed and looked determinedly at nothing.

Jose and Mac didn't skip a beat, they simply stood up and left the room. They went down to another door and walked in, the mirror in the room looked out at Montoya, sitting still.

Jose went over to the mirror and flicked a button on a console in front of it, the room went pitch black, but then the mirror seemed to flicker and a grey night-vision image appeared, showing Montoya looking up at the lights. He could see nothing in the room, but Jose and Mac could see him.

Then Jose flipped another switch and then began to slowly turn a large dial with small numbers around it. He turned it to a low number and waited.

Inside the room Montoya would be aware of a strange ringing in his ears, barely even there, but enough to make him shake his head and fiddle with his ears, trying to clear something that wasn't there...or was it?

After a few minutes Jose turned the dial to a higher number. Now Montoya definetly heard something, a constant noise...white noise. He began to look around the room, but he couldn't move from the chair as he was chained to it. Then, without warning, Jose turned the dial further, and Montoya's face cringed and grimaced. Jose and Mac couldn't hear anything, but the noise in the room was simply overwhelming. It pulsed in Montoya's ears and he could barely think straight.

Then Jose turned the dial as far as it would go. Monotoya's face turned into a grim mask, his mouth was open, probably screaming, but he couldn't hear it over the noise blasting his ears, boring into his skull. Then abruptly, Jose turned the dial back round and flipped the switch, and then turned the lights on.

They entered the room again. Monotoya was breathing heavily, he had dribbled all over himself and his face was still in a grimace. The effects of the white noise would be there for days to come.

Mac spoke again, but he was standing this time. "In the place we talked about, they do that for hours everyday if you so much as look in the wrong direction. They like to do that when your sleeping aswell. We can keep you from going there. Heck, we can get you sent to a nice prison in Zambia, and you can avoid all that nastiness. But we can't do that unless you spill, so to speak." Montoya had stopped grimacing by now and he was looking up at Mac. He spoke low and slow, "What do you want to know? I'm just a nobody, I don't really know anything."

Jose spoke up now, while standing at the door. "If you lie to us like that, we'll go out of the room and we'll do we did just now all night and all day. You either co-operate now, or later."

Monotoya's head fell and he growled, "But...they'll...fucking kill me...fuck"

Mac looked puzzled, "How...your in prison in Hirgizstan, the only people with access to you is the watch officer and us. You keep this up and you'll be on a boat tomorrow..."

Montoya shook his head and then lifted his head. Mac spoke again, "Now, why were you in the Commonwealth?"

Montoya half shouted back, "Coz this is the biggest damm country in the world, the biggest market, you need me to draw you a fucking diagram?"

Mac smiled, "Lose the attitude or you'll be lost yourself."

Montoya continued, "The cartels in the Empire, they're ambitious now-they were nearly destroyed, but now with Valkyr they are more powerful everyday. And they want to get this drug sold everywhere, and there's so much trade between here and the Empire, this was a natural choice. So they sent me to get things going."

Jose spoke up, "Are you the first, were any others sent to the Commonwealth?"

"I dunno man, I only hear from my own people, other cartels maybe send people. I never heard shit though...I swear...I swear...fuck..."

Mac spoke up moving over to the middle of the room, "Ok...ok, but how much trade are we talking here? I assume this wasn't your only market?"

"No...everywhere...the cartels want to trade everywhere, they're ambitious, and powerful...they wanted more trade outside the Empire than in it."

Jose spoke again from the doorway, "The five vials of Valkyr...was that it for the Commonwealth?"

Montoya's face tightened, like he knew the question was coming but had wanted to avoid it all the same. "No...shit...there was two ships on their way as of a week before you arrested me. I was supposed to go back to the Empire and organise more...I know stuff about the cartels in Miami, where they hang out and stuff...please...I'll help you...but you gotta help me."

"Hector. Something isn't right. Where's Esteban? He was supposed to be here hours ago." Two men, both Cuban, Hector and Fidel, sat uncomfortably in their car, waiting by the docks. Esteban Montoya was just one of the hundreds of "couriers" for the Florida Cartel, based out of Florida, Cuba. Esteban's whole job was to introduce drugs into new markets and he was very good at it. He had been the one to first introduce Valkyr into the European nations and he had spread it like wildfire in Mexico. Now he ventured off to Africa, to the Commonwealth of Hirgizstan, to spread the wonder drug there. He would be gone for two weeks and now he was eight hours overdue. During his time he would make no phone calls and no communications, that was a given. They didn't want the Empire or anyone else to intercept a call bouncing off of a satellite over the Atlantic. This was secretive. Instead, the whole process would be arranged with strict meeting times but now he was overdue, way overdue. The two men were authorized to wait for up to twelve hours. Rough seas could slow down his vessel significantly and so that would be taken into account but if he wasn't there by the twelfth hour, they were gone. They had been sitting in the vehicle for a while now and they always suspected that they were being watched. Their suspicions, though unproven, were true nonetheless. A Marauder team had tracked them from a villa in the countryside to the docks outside Cienfuegos. The team knew that the two of them were henchmen for the Florida Cartel and that they were probably meeting someone coming from a boat. Whether they were importing or exporting, they knew not but what they did know is that the Commonwealth of Hirgizstan had a Layartebian citizen in custody suspected with links to the Florida Cartel. Could they have been waiting for him? The question was exercised.

What Hector and Fidel didn't know was that Esteban had been picked up by the authorities and so too were they going to be in a few hours, once they left the dockside. The 8-man Marauder team was dressed in civilian clothes but outfitted with submachine guns so that they could take down the car easily. The mission was to apprehend the two of them, not kill them, so they would be working to that end. A trap was already set up. If the henchmen left by either way off the docks, they were going to drive right over a tack strip, concealed with the pavement. Their tires would be flat instantly and then they would be staring at eight men, pointing MP5 and P90 submachine guns at them. If they moved for their guns they would take non-fatal shots to their arms and legs, putting them in enough pain to hopefully make them think twice about going further.

OOC: Time to co-ordinate our efforts in Miami? We the three guys in Custody, they should be able to provide some info about where the Cartels law low etc.

Giacomo had to break from his law office, in the middle of a consultation with a local restaurant owner, and answered the phone. "How much?" was the question.

"Have you decided?" he replied.

"We've considered it, but we need to know the cost."

Giacomo paused. "Let us consider this something of an investment. We'll give you something and we'll trust that you guys know what to do with it. Besides, this is too big to have a money trail, and you fellows are our biggest suppliers. We get drugs cheaply from you, so why should we make you pay more to end a mutual problem? You know?"

"We've got a possible use for whatever it is that you're bringing, but we need to know what it is, and where you're sending it."

Giacomo tsked. "You need to tell me if you want it. Then I'll give it."

The other person sighed. "We'll take it. What is it?"

"Caracas dock #14. Inside is a crew with the package. Eliminate them quietly. Once they've been neutralized, you can take the package wherever you want to."

"Is it heavy?"

"Not particularly. I haven't seen it, but it isn't that much of a burden. The one thing I will say is that if we figure out that you screwed this up, consider our business done. We want to see headlines, with the top listing noting thousands, if not millions, of folk dead in the streets of the Layarteb Empire. Capiscono?"

"Yes." The other person had only one clue as to the identity of this package, and his initial thought was so horrifying and satisfying that he had to calm his mind into reality. Giacomo laid down the phone, and picked up another phone, with a secure wiring to USB.

"Alessandro. I've got your customers. Tell the crew that they are to head to dock #14 in Caracas. I've already cleared the head quartermaster of the harbor about this arrival."

"Do they suspect anything?"

"As far as they know, these are goodwill supplies, in transient to Grenada, where humanitarian shit will be heading after their rest here. They'll never look. By the way, what is this package that you're sending? I've never heard of drug dealers sending weapons for free."

"How much will it cost to keep this private?"

"It'll be 500,000 if you don't give me a name."

"Watch that amount fill your SL account."

The conversation ended, and Giacomo was somewhat suspicious when Alessandro willingly paid the money. He was often picky with finances, but this time, he didn't even second-question the payment. It was obviously big, and Giacomo didn't like big. He left Italy because he hated big, and he was content just dealing with civil suits and criminal prosecution. He returned to his client.

OOC: Time to co-ordinate our efforts in Miami? We the three guys in Custody, they should be able to provide some info about where the Cartels law low etc.

OOC: What's in Miami?

OOC: $500,000 huh? That's not a lot of money but okay :) You should add at least two more zeroes to that.

The black cargo van came to a stop just a few docks away from #14. Caracas was a big city and the docks were large. The shipyard, as old as the city, had been expanded from a measely few wooden piers to a massive shipyard with over a hundred piers, a military section, a civilian section, and who knew what else. The docks were secure but not as secure as Layarteb City would have liked. Layarteb City was far more secure than Caracas and even the least secure docks in the Empire weren't nearly as bad as Caracas. Part of the trouble came from the nature of the docks. They were tough to police and patrol, there was a lot of seedy business around them, and the black market, what little influence it had in the Empire, feasted on the Caracas docks. The military section was far seculded away from the rest of them and they were sealed off and most of the attention drawn to them. One could say that the shipyard in Caracas was the Achilles Heel of the Empire. Every land had some weakness and the reduced security in the Carcas shipyard was the main one.

The black cargo van was just one of two cars, both of which were not empty inside. Inside the cargo van were six men and inside the black, Chevrolet Caprice Classic behind them were another four men. All of them were armed and they came here for business. Toting submachine guns, primarily Uzis and MP5s, all suppressed, eight of the ten men got out of the vehicles, leaving a driver in each. "Cállese. Es allí." [Keep quiet. It's over there.] The man speaking was a major player in the Esmeralda Cartel. He was the "go-to" guy who got things done. When they needed someone assassinated, they went to him. When they needed something stolen, they went to him. Whenever they needed anything, they went to him. He worked by himself mostly. When it came to categorically large jobs, he hired out, so to speak. He was a mercenary-for-hire and he opted his services out exclusively to the Esmeralda Cartel. The nine men fighting with him this evening were all mercenaries as well, his band of "goons," so to speak.

They walked, hunched over, weapons readied, towards to the main dockhouse. It was a brick structure, sitting at the end of a short row of piers and above its main door, which looked large enough to allow for a small boat to pass through, was the number "14." This was the dockhouse that they needed to hit. It was like a big garage, as high as a seven story building, brick, a slanted roof, and no lights. The garage door was down, its aluminum composition barely enough to stop a bullet fired at it from 100 meters away. They weren't going to enter through the front but rather through the side. There was a steel door on the eastern wall of the dockhouse, which was, evidently facing them as they came up the docks, hunched over, moving quickly. They benefitted from the lack of lights because of the time but also by the low sun. It was 19:30, almost sunset. The sun was down, low, on the horizon in front of them. Because of its angle, the area was pretty dark as the red sky above them cast little light. Street lights weren't turned on yet and neither were the lamps on the exterior of the dockhouses. It was the perfect time to hit, dark enough to sneak up to the building but light enough to see just what they were doing without having the need for night vision.

"Aquí. Es esta puerta. Calma." [Here. It's this door. Quiet.] Victor, the pointman, opened up the door, slowly, and quietly, and stuck a small, fiber optics cable into the door. He looked around to see that he would be entering a corridor, with one man inside of it, at the opposite end. This had to be quiet. "Un hombre. Al fin. Permanezca aquí." [One man. At the end. Stay here.] He pushed the door open more and pulled a throwing knife from his pocket. He was a master at this and a master was what was needed. Crouching, he took careful aim on the target and launched the knife towards him. Tumbling over itself as it spun through the air, the knife met its target perfectly. It was 9 inches long and almost 5 ounces, a good knife. It wound up imbedding itself in the back of the target's neck, putting him down on the ground, nearly instantly. It was a mortal wound but it hadn't proved to be fatal yet. He reacted quickly and took off in a burst of speed, running towards him, his main knife drawn. The man was on the ground, trying to pulled the knife out of the back of his neck, his face down. Victor dropped his knee into the man's back and grabbed him by the hair, lifting his head up, making the knife wound that much worse. With his main knife he slashed his throat, deep and fast, the cut never being felt. The man would bleed out now, dead from the two mortal wounds to his neck. Wiping both the throwing and killing knives off on the man, Victor walked back to the door. "Movamos." [Let's move.]

The eight of them were in the corridor now. "Cierre la puerta." [Shut the door.] Another man spoke. The outside door was shut behind them and they were now at another door. This one, undoubtedly, led into the main area of the dockhouse, which, just like a garage, was one, big, open, and empty space. There would be a bathroom, an office, and a small "break" room on the opposite side of the building. They had to clear it, completely, get the cargo, and get the hell out of there. They observed at least twenty men guarding the building before they attacked and they could see that all of them were armed with automatic rifles and submachine guns. Whatever it was that they were here to steal, it was important, very important. Once again, they put the fiber optic cable underneath the door. They could see the main package, a crate sitting against the wall on the opposite side of the doorway. They counted eleven men, all of them armed.

"Once de ellos. Tres en la izquierda. Seis en el derecho. Uno en el centro. Uno en el otro lado. Se parece a alguien está en la oficina, yo no puedo ver. Podría haber personas en el cuarto de baño y el otro cuarto también." [Eleven of them. Three on the left. Six on the right. One in the middle. One on the other side. It looks like someone is in the office, I can't see. There could be people in the bathroom and the other room too.] Victor said as he pulled back the wire and put it away in his pocket. The door wasn't locked and they easily opened up the door. They moved away from the door and looked at each other. Using hand signals, Victor informed them that they would split in half, four to the left and four to the right, taking cover behind some boxes and crates that were against the wall. "¡Vaya! ¡Mátelos todo!" [Go! Kill them all!] They moved into the dockhouse quickly, their guns firing. The first firing group saw them shoot four of the eleven men dead. That's when the return fire began, putting bullets into the brick walls behind them. They kept shooting though, stopping only to reload.

The echoes of gunfire barely escaped the building and the flashes of muzzle blast lit up the darkened interior. Nearly pinned, Victor and his men leaned around the corners of their boxes and fired over the tops, putting covering fire against the enemies so that the others could pop out and engage. It was an excellent tactic that allowed them to finish off the rest of the men, taking only minor hits themselves, mostly scratches from ricochetting bullets and falling debris. They still had to check the bathroom, office, and employee room, which meant that they had to go in slowly and carefully. The office and bathroom turned out to be fatal for two of the mercenaries, catching fatal wounds to their chest and head by a quick burst of bullets from submachine guns. When it was over, they had them dead. Victor picked up his walkie-talkie and keyed up the microphone. "Traiga la camioneta. Es claro. Hemos bajado dos." [Bring the van. It's clear. We've got two down.]

OOC: In Miami be kippers...or drug cartels supposedly. I assume Miami is one of their hubs?

[ooc: Giacomo was asking for a name - he doesn't know that it's a big thing, so he doesn't ask for much. Alessandro willingly pays the 500grand to keep his big yap shut, for a good reason too...

BTW, great elimination!!!]

CARACAS - Giacomo was packing up the office and heading out to his car, parked about three blocks down in a parking garage. He had just won another civil suit, and he was expecting a lot of money to be filing into his personal account. It was a good day.

He reached his car - a black Mercedes. It was left as it usually was, but as he approached the front door, two eyes glared back at him, as he opened the rear door and the driver's door, locking him between the doors and staring down a slicer barrel.

"You've got twenty seconds left to live. Do you talk or run?"

Giacomo, shocked at the sudden appearance, tried to dart away, but of course, it was futile. The masked man shot him twice in the back and left him to fall over the ground. He sought out the casings and the bullets, embedded in the door. After cleaning his scene, he picked up the files and the keys from Giacomo's folder. Having left it nice and tidy, he took out an incendiary grenade with a remote detonator and attached it to the body. After he had exited the car garage, he flipped a switch and let the flames burn. At 4000C, very little - if any - evidence would remain. Of course, there was the side effect of extensive collateral, but he didn't care about that.

He cautiously re-entered Giacomo's office and sought out more details and files. He conducted a search on his computer, after using passwords that he had hacked from another computer, just five blocks away in a cafe. He loaded the SL Bank accounts and filed them into a separately encrypted account, and deleted all evidence of the former account, feeding a self-deleting worm into its matrices. After he took care of the money, he wired all of Giacomo's last calls, his messages, his personal contacts, and loaded them onto a PDA. After taking the information, he bugged the entire computer before he took out another grenade and set it on the desk. He carefully left the office, locking the door once again, and headed to a bar just across the street. After a quick drink, he paid the tab and went back out and triggered the bomb. There were plenty of witnesses around as Giacomo's office quickly burned to the ground, and his own testimony was as clean as any of the other people.

He managed to avoid getting caught by the fire folk, leaving in a group of people that didn't want to be questioned. Once he had reached a safe distance, he picked up his phone and gave a call to his hitman - "Tutti fatto, Don Sparetti." [It is finished.]

The fire in Caracas was no mystery to investigators when they arrived on the scene. The temperature and destruction of the fire, the quickness of its spread, and the remnants of the igniter all led to one cause: arson. The law office was was one of two casualties of the evening. The head lawer, a Giacomo Benevetti, a very successful and prominent lawyer in the Province of South Eastern Virginia, was found murdered and burned beyond recognition by his vehicle. It was determined, based on bullet holes in his car door, that he had been shot twice but there were no casings and no bullets recovered. The shots had to be precise and on point but the charred body wouldn't lend itself to a good autopsy other than "fire." Whether he was alive or dead at the time he was burned is something unknown and nobody had actually seen the shooting the resulting fire. They had heard the shots and saw the fire but that was the best they could do. The charred remains of the car would be good to piece together something. When his whole office burned to the ground, including everything in it, the police investigators knew that this was no "mugging." This was planned and this was professional. Immediately, they began to link the murder of Dr. Gray with the murder of Mr. Benevetti, mainly because of the lack of evidence at the crime scenes. This would perplex them for many years to come.

OOC: I've spoken to Layarteb about including this RP into the War Against Drugs and he's approved it. So shut up. :upyours:

Background/Disclaimer: This RP is intended to deal with gang warfare and drug use/drug dealing. There will be a great deal of descriptions of violent activities, detailed drug use, and detailed drug dealing. Discretion is advised.

The purpose behind this RP is highlight the high crime rate and sometimes very negative and desolate conditions of several areas of the city of Mobile, Alabama - where a lot of my life I grew up, specifically around the Emerson Gardens Housing Projects [though I never lived in them].

Furthermore, this RP will tie into Layarteb's "War Against Drugs" RP by creating a very tense sitiuation between several street gangs. The names of real gangs will be used. All characters will be fictional, but sometimes based on real people.

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IC:

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Characters:
- Shiv [Gang: Folk]
- Kastro [Gang: Folk]
- Emerson Slim [Gang: Folk]
- Goldmouth [Gang: Folk]
- Shank [Gang: Folk]

- Akili [Gang: Blood]
- Skrilla [Gang: Blood]
- Overcoat [Gang: Blood]
- Stunt [Gang: Blood]
- J [Gang: Blood]

- Silk [Gang: Crip]
- Heavy D [Gang: Crip]
- Flip [Gang: Crip]
- Mayn [Gang: Crip]
- D-Ice [Gang: Crip]

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Emerson Gardens Housing Projects
Mobile, AL
6:17 AM, Central Standard Time...

Even in late September, it was still hot and humid in East-Central Mobile. While it was not sweltering, the temperature was still a good 89 degrees Fahrenheit. The weather itself seemed to almost describe the neighborhood where a man of African descent, only known by the nickname of Shank, lived -- unpleasant and uncomfortable.

Accompanied by fifteen other young males of African descent, Mayn and the rest of his company stood on the corner of Salem Street and the 200 Block of South Jefferson Street. All around them stood the bleak, dull, one-story brick "houses" with burglar-proof iron bars over the windows and doors. These projects were some of the largest and violent in the entire city of some 575.000 people, though not to say any of the housing projects were good, or even decent.

The fifteen members of the gang Folk, between all of them, had a total of over $7.500 worth of crack-cocaine, marijuana, and strong narcotic pills. All of the men, all between the ages of 22 and 27, wore black bandanas around their heads, baggy black jeans or black shorts, black oversized shirts or white tank-tops.

Goldmouth: "Ay cuz, when dis foo' comin'? It's hot in dis bitch."

Shank: "He on da way, nigga, chill."

Sure enough, an elderly man of European descent came hobbling towards the group of gangmembers. The man was an opiate addict, a needle user, and a local character, known as Bip. He had a nappy beard, long hair, was sickly skinny, and poorly dressed.

Bip: "One of y'all got an Orange* or a Grey*?"

Emerson Slim: "Right ova herr, Bip!"

The old man hobbled over while reaching into his pocket, pulling a syringe out while going for his money, which was crumpled up in his shaky hand.

Emerson Slim: "You need to put dat shit away, muhfucka, da police always out here! Da fuck's wrong with you?"

Bip: "I'm sorry, I'm sorry... can I get a Grey for 40?"

Emerson Slim: "Nigga, you know da price be 50."

Bip reached into his pocket and pulled out another ten dollars, then handed all the money to Slim. In return, Emerson Slim revealed a pill bottle and shook out a grey, 100mg Morphine tablet and placed it in Bip's hand.

Emerson Slim: "Now getcho ass outta here!"

Bip ran off as fast as a man of 67-years-old could.

Kastro: "Time to move, yaheard?."

Shiv: "Yuh. We headin' ova to Michigan Avenue?"

Kastro: "Da fuck fo', Folk?"

Shiv: "Cause Folk, we need to holla at Mayn and Silk 'n' dem ova in da Birdsville Projects."

Goldmouth: "I don' even know why we be fuckin' wit dem Crip niggas anyway."

Kastro: "Cause, nigga, we work out a peace treaty wit dem, we can work ova on South Broad Street, Folk."

Goldmouth: "I still think it a bad idea, dude."

The rest of the men shrugged and piled into newly-painted black luxury cars with huge rims and loud sound systems...

"Yes you may. I hope this situation resolves itself without the need for force." The Emperor stood as the Cottish Ambassador left the office and headed on his way, back to the embassy. As he did, the Emperor picked up the phone and informed the Joint Chiefs of the updated situation. He wanted hourly reports from the embassy on the situation and he needed to know the instant that things changed drastically for the worst.
The ambassador nodded, thanked the Emperor for seeing him and left, moving quickly down the long corridors and out into the courtyard where the black Mercedes S550 with diplomatic plates and a driver waited. The ambassador got in and as the sedan started moving out from the castle and down the long causeway between Governor's Island and Brooklyn, the ambassador made a call over a secure line to the embassy, telling them that the Emperor had agreed to the terms. A press bulletin would be released tommorrow morning, Oslo time. For the rest of the half hour long trip back to the embassy which was situated in the International Zone, the ambassador rested in the comfortable leather seats in the Mercedes.

Sparetti had just looked over the details and felt a headache come over him. Giacomo was certainly an extensive person - well-respected and deeply rooted to numerous criminals. At least, Sparetti knew them as criminals. His apartment in Johannesburg was filled with information as he kept Giovanni updated on his progress. Fortunately, Giacomo knew nothing of Luigi, because no one ever mentioned of that sort. He knew half of what they were saying, in part because he spoke the same language.

He continued to wonder what exactly Maria was doing. She was making contacts with druggies and sending them equipment, instead of the other way around. Maybe she was planning on a war; but what kind? She wasn't sending weapons - would the druggies fight with blades and knives? Informationn warfare? Not likely; she didn't mention anything about computers or hardware. The only transcript that mentioned anything about the shipment was one listed from a USB-affiliated vessel - DVQ. Was some new term for a new drug? Not likely - again, she was shipping to the druggies. Maybe it was chemical components that made transporting the drugs more unlikely. But how?

Regardless, there was one name on his list that seemed to be Giacomo's contact with Maria - Michelangelo. He would visit him very soon.

Henning was obviously distraught; he sat by Rudolf’s side trying to figure out the situation. They didn’t have the bomb that was clear and made the entire situation that much volatile. He got up placing his hand on his sidearm for leverage. He was about to make his way for the door when it flew open almost off the hinges it seemed. Thinking it was the killer returning he drew his pistol and aimed only to find that opposite his barrel were four men in police outfits each shouldering pistols of their own. However it all happened to quick for comfort and the police eyeing the pistol being drawn open up with the bullets one of which struck Henning’s shoulder. Henning’s arm, hands, and fingers tightened up sending a round through the chamber and into the officer’s upper thigh. Upon hearing the shots the second officer put two more into Henning, one in his lower thigh and the other into his upper chest. Henning hit the floor almost at the same time of the one officer who was clutching his leg in pain. The firefight was over and the end result was not in Henning’s favor. When the paramedics arrived he was unconscious and losing large amounts of blood. The only person who knew how bad the world was in danger was now clinging to life and accused of the murder of Rudolf.

Meanwhile Raven and Nibori had been keeping close tabs on their package. Although this was a dangerous task, it was also an investment and they’d be damned if it was going to be used for anything other than what they wanted it to be used for. They had planned almost every step of this from the beginning with the added perk of Henning out of the picture it seemed almost too easy. They watched as men killed for the Death Valley Queen, betrayed each other, and gave up what little dignity they had. It was a curse on mankind and its vileness grew by the day. Where the bomb went, evil was sure to follow, death was its only end. Although Raven and Nibori kept close to the bomb there was a job that interested them highly, a job that would bring them face to face with utter darkness.

OOC:

New Characters:

- Magnolia Spitta [Gang: MP3; New Orleans]
- Coldheart [Gang: MP3; New Orleans]
- Slick Pulla [Gang: MP3; New Orleans]
- Gutta Poppa [Gang: MP3; New Orleans]
- Big T [Gang: MP3; New Orleans]

- Low Down [Gang: Mob-Town Mafia]
- Skippa [Gang: Mob-Town Mafia]
- OG Dirty [Gang: Mob-Town Mafia]

- Mac [Gang: None; Gun-runner, primary drug supplier]

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Birdsville Housing Projects
Mobile, AL
7:32 AM...

Gathered outside of Akili's housing unit in the Birdsville Projects was the group of Bloods that Akili led in that neighborhood. A total of ten men - eight of African descent and two of European descent - stood closely by eachother, talking.

All of the men wore red bandanas or hats and red t-shirts. The subject at hand was the escalation of the "war" between the Bloods and Crips which now involved the gang Folk. While Crip and Folk were not exactly allies, they were not enemies either. Even though Folk was an offshoot of Crip, the two would not hesitate to become incredibly violent with one another if their respective territories were encroached upon.

The purpose of the Bloods' discussion that morning was to kill the cell of Folk from the Emerson Gardens Projects. It had been agreed amongst the top three ranking members of the Birdsville Projects Bloods - Akili, Stunt, and Skrilla - that if Folk and Crip formed a peace treaty, the Birdsville Bloods would lose the "war."

Akili: "Alright, y'all know what da muthafuckin' score is today. Y'all niggas know exactly what's up. Time to take deez Folk punks out. F'good."

Stunt: "Goddamn right. We fightin' a losin' war out herr. E'erday we gettin' clientel straight up took from us by deez Crip and Folk niggas, ya heard? Shit, y'all know dem Crips capped Lil' Mark just last week fo' gettin' too close to Down the Bay Projects. Nigga wasn't even in 'e-"

Just as Stunt was about to finish his sentence, they saw four all-black luxury cars with black tinting and chrome rims driving down the street they lived off of -- Michigan Avenue.

J: "Der go dem Folk niggas right der!!"

Without speaking, or even thinking, all ten Birdsville Bloods pulled pistols that were tucked into their waistlines - almost entirely Glocks or Rugers smuggled illegally into Layarteb from the Fourth Reich - and opened fire on the passing vehicles.

One of the Bloods, Overcoat, quickly ran into Akili's housing unit and ran back outside with a fully-automatic StG-36 Assault Rifle - also illegally smuggled into Layarteb from the Fourth Reich - and fired off the entire clip at the passing cars.

The screeching of car tires and the sounds of glass shattering quickly filled the morning air. The cars, driven by members of the Emerson Gardens Folk, slammed to a halt and fifteen of the gangmembers jumped out and took cover behind their vehicles.

While stepping out of the driver's seat of his black Lexus, Shiv - one of the top-ranking Folks of Emerson Gardens - was hit twelve times by gunfire. The man collapsed on the pavement and began shaking and coughing blood out of his mouth. He shivered a few more seconds then went still.

Shiv: "Get dem bitch niggas..."

Shiv managed to fire off two rounds from his Glock 21 before he died on the pavement of Michigan Avenue. Enraged by the loss of their close comrade, the members of Folk began to fire back with the fury of Hell behind them.

Emerson Slim: "Die muthafuckas! Die!"

As Emerson Slim was letting loose fire from his Smith & Wesson .40E, another member of Folk was gunned down while Slim landed two rounds into the left side of the Blood known as Overcoat and one in his throat.

While Overcoat slumped to the ground, still squeezing the trigger of his StG-36 and shooting the last four rounds into the air, the rest of the Bloods sought refuge inside of Akili's housing unit. They slammed the door behind them as several rounds splintered holes into the wood of it. Several penetrated the poorly-constructed door and slammed into the back of a Blood by the name of Young Ricky's head, killing him instantly.

The Folks fired more and more rounds at the housing unit, and inside four Bloods were wounded.

Kastro: "Keep shootin' dem niggas! Get 'em! Get 'em!"

Right after he had said these words, six armored cars with blue, white, and red lights flashing marked with the words "Imperial Layartebian Police" stormed down Michigan Avenue towards the firefight.

Shank: "Fuck dis, shoot dem fuckin' police, Folk!"

Suddenly, both Bloods and Folks began firing at the Layartebian Police. Within seconds, four Layartebian Police Officers were murdered on Michigan Avenue by assault rifle and pistol fire. Without thinking twice, the officers returned fire -- wounding four Folk members and killing three more.

Shiv: "Get out da way, nigga, duck! Let's move! Come on! Let's get da fuck outta here!"

The black-clad Folk members scattered into the Birdsville Projects, running past Akili's housing unit, firing their weapons at the police behind them. Emerson Slim immediately pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and called for a car to pick the remaining seven of fifteen Folk members.

Meanwhile, Akili ordered that the rest of his Bloods run out the backdoor and seek refuge at a friend's house outside of the Birdsville projects. Running through the maze of brick houses and avoiding the Layartebian Police, who did not have enough manpower at the moment to pursue them.

Both Blood and Folk had taken heavy loses with three minutes. In those three minutes, four Folk members had been murdered; two Bloods had been murdered; four Layartebian Police Officers had been murdered; four Folk members had been wounded and arrested; four Bloods had been wounded and arrested.

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Emerson Gardens Housing Projects
Emerson Slim's Housing Unit
Mobile, AL
8:16 PM...

The group of seven Folk members sat in a circle in Emerson Slim's house. Each man was holding a can of Colt 45 malt liquor and marijuana wrapped in cigar paper was being passed around.

No one had said a word in over two hours. What was said next came as a surprise to everyone. Exhaling a huge cloud of marijuana smoke, Kastro spoke.

Kastro: "It about dat time to hit up 'Nolia Spitta and dem. Today was all fucked up, cuz."

Goldmouth: "Nigga, you stupid, yo. Dem New Orleans niggas ain't got no reason to put they neck on da line fo' us. Shit..."

Kastro: "Nigga, we lost eight of our boys today. Fo' of 'em ain't never comin' back."

Shank: "Damn straight, Folk. Time to call the artillery, yaheard?"

Emerson Slim: "We better get dem Mob-Town Mafia boys to back us up den."

Goldmouth: "Nah, nigga... nah uh... OG Dirty already got a hit out on my black ass. You outcho goddamn mind... trippin'."

Shank: "Da fuck else we gon' do? Besides, dem white boys could help us."

Goldmouth: "How you figga?"

Shank: "Cuz, Folk, dem white boys got da hook-up wit' Mac over in the Trinity Gardens Projects. And anyway, the MTM stay over in the Orange Grove Projects. Ain't in our part o' town. We could set them up with some turf over here in Southeast Mobile."

Emerson Slim reached in his pocket and pulled out a piece of aluminum foil folded up several times. He unfolded it and revealed a light brown powder. Slim then revealed a small straw from his pocket and snorted a small amount of the powder up his nose and closed his eyes.

Kastro: "Slim, you need to quit fuckin' with dat hero'n. You gonna damn kill yo'self, Folk."

Emerson Slim: "Folk, my heart hurt too bad right now to be worryin' 'bout dat... muhfuckin' po-po's really gon' be after our ass now too..."

There was a long moment of silence and Kastro picked up the house phone and dialed the number: 504-555-1922.

Kastro: "Yo Spitta, dis Kastro from the Emerson Gardens in Mobile."

Magnolia Spitta: "What up, Folk? What's dis shit on da news 'bout the Folks and Bloods killin' eachothah and da Lay po-po's ova der in Mobile?"

Kastro: "Some personal problems. I need some help from the MP3. You remember where Emerson Slim stay at?"

Magnolia Spitta: "Slow up, Folk. What da fuck I got to do wit' dis?"

Kastro: "We can make it worth yo' while."

There was a long pause and then the man from New Orleans spoke again.

Magnolia Spitta: "A'ight, cuz. Gimme 'bout two hours. Street Sweepers will be der."

Kastro: "See you den, Spitta."

The two men hung up their respective phones. Emerson Slim's eyes were now only half open when he spoke, and he slurred his words and spoke very slowly.

Emerson Slim: "So... wut up den... Folk?"

Kastro: "Dem MP3 boys is on dey way, yaheard?"

Shank: "Dats what's up. Time to get deez bitch niggas."

Shank and Kastro slapped eachothers hands and threw up the hand-sign for Folk...

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Orange Grove Housing Projects
Mobile, AL
9:02 PM...

OG Dirty, Skippa, and Low Down sat on a couch located in OG's housing unit on the second floor of one of the three-story apartment buildings in the Orange Grove Housing Projects.

They were watching the news where a helicopter was showing the crime scene from earlier in the day on Michigan Avenue. The shapes of several bodies had been drawn on the ground, a huge crowd of people had gathered around the closed-off street, and police and ambulance lights were everywhere in sight.

OG Dirty: "Shit... with dis happ'nin', we could back up da Bloods... Crips... or Folk... still come out on top with turf and change over on the East Side of the city."

Low Down: "Got dat right. I been wantin' to bust dat nigga Goldmouth's head open for a minute anyway."

Skippa: "Dat's what the fuck's up, yaheard? I say we hit up Akili 'n' dem right da fuck now."

OG Dirty picked up his house phone and dialed the number. All Hell was about to break loose in the Port City of Mobile...

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OOC: If anyone wants to RP one of the gangs or any of the members, let me know. I think Layarteb would be okay with that. BTW, Lay, now would be a good time to write a response to that.

OOC: NG is about to introduce something very awesome to this RP :). Just one correction. Civilian police authorities, though organized under the Central Justice Agency, will bear the name xxxxx Police Department (i.e. xxxx = city name/town/whatever). So Mobile Police Department or something like that.

Detective Michael Howe, the lead Mobile PD detective, was on scene when the news helicopters came around. "Damnit. I hate reporters when they serve no purpose to me." He said, sipping his coffee, looking down at the white sheets of the four slain police officers. Layartebian Police Officers weren't normally slain in a style like this. Sometimes one caught a round or two from an escaping criminal and died but never four like this, gunned down in the middle of a gang war. That was what was brewing, a massive gang war in the middle of downtown Mobile. That wasn't going to happen, if he had anything to do with it.

"Inspector. The reporters want a sound byte." That was his official rank, "inspector" even though he was a detective first class, just a title. "What do you want me to tell them?"

"Tell them to go to hell. No no. I'll give them a sound byte. Tell them I'll be there in a minute." Sergeant Patrick O'Reilly was an Irish-born veteran of the force. He was known for his cool temper and high level of sarcasm but he was also know for always being respectful to those who outranked him. He started walking the beat after Ireland was taken over by the Empire and moved his whole family to Alabama in search of summer or so he'll tell you in any conversation. Rumor had it that he was a wanted man in Ireland but nobody could substantiate anything. When he was younger he ran with a small gang and he had a record but by twenty, he was clean of all of that and fixing his life. Now, at thirty-two, he was about to be promoted to lieutenant and he was more than happy to recieve that rank and pay raise. He knew something about gangs and that was what made him so useful in this situation. Four minutes later, Inspector Howe walked up to the cameras and strained his eyes against the bright lights. "Alright hold on to your questions for now. What we have here is a gang-related crime. It looks like the gangs here and beginning to grow more and more bold and now have resorted to engaging our brethren. I am sorry to admit that four of our officers were killed here, names withheld pending notification to next of kin. That's what happened here. Good day." He walked off, ignoring the hundreds of questions coming his way. "You know Sergeant. This could definitely be an ambush scenario. I don't think this was a deal gone bad. Drugs are bad here but so are the gangs. There are a lot of them and they're not friendly to each other all of the time. Look at those tire tracks. Someone slammed on their brakes. No it looks like these guys were ambushed by those guys," he said, pointing to the dead Folk members and the dead Blood members. "You know, this is a good opportunity."

"For what?"

"Project Cypher."

"The Deputy Chief already hates that idea."

"That's because none of our boys have been killed like this. It's not enough that we're out here in kevlar with forty-caliber and forty-five caliber pistols. We need more. SWAT and ESU is one option but they can't be called out to every situation like this. We need higher firepower."

"Submachine guns? Assault Rifles?"

"Perhaps we need more mobile, quick-reponse units that could have those. They don't necessarily need SWAT training but we need their firepower. This is the beginning. You see one gang ambushing another? That's an act of war and civilians will get in the way. Police officers will get in the way and they don't care, they're not out to worry about collateral damage. They're out to kill the enemy and to them, anyone who isn't themselves is the enemy. No. Project Cypher will work." Project Cypher was an effort by three local departments and about thirty officers to start a specialized anti-gang squad. It was like Special Forces for the police. They would be given certain leeways to get the job done, better ammunition, better protection, and less red tape. Inspector Howe wanted to start that force and he wanted Sergeant O'Reilly to lead it. He wanted to have his men walk down the street and do deals with the gangs, to get on the inside, to find out who was who, and then, like a snake, strike quickly, effectively, and accurately. He wanted the gang leaders dead or behind bars. He didn't care about red tape, not for this, and he didn't want to see his city turned into a bullet-ridden block of swiss cheese. "This isn't Afghanistan or the Middle East." He frequently said when describing crime scenes with hundreds of bullets everywhere.

When it came to the next briefing, Project Cypher was secretly approved, in a close vote. The council voted 12 -10 in favor of the resolution with 1 voter absent and that meant one thing, inevitable success.

OOC: In Miami be kippers...or drug cartels supposedly. I assume Miami is one of their hubs?

OOC: No they're based out of Cuba.

New Characters:

- Hammerhead [Gang: Folk; Prichard, AL]
- Craig D [Gang: Folk; Prichard, AL]
- Rasheem [Gang: Folk; Prichard, AL]

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Day 2...

Emerson Gardens Housing Projects
Mobile, AL
9:13 AM...

The "representatives" from the MP3 [Magnolia Projects, 3rd Ward] gang, based out of New Orleans, had arrived at Emerson Slim's housing unit. These gangmembers did not wear definite colors, as did the Crips, Bloods, or Folks, but they made their identity clear with numerous "MP3" tattoos on their arms and upper torso.

Though separate from the Emerson Gardens Folk, who identified themselves by wearing black rags or all-black clothes and having clearly-visible pitchforks tattooed on the right sides of their bodies, MP3 was not a rival gang and could benefit a great deal from operating in a city apart from New Orleans.

Emerson Slim, Shank, Goldmouth, and Kastro heard a loud knocking on Slim's iron-barred front door. Immediately, they all reached for their pistols and aimed them at the door while Emerson Slim opened it. Standing in front of them was Magnolia Spitta and the rest of the "representatives" of MP3.

Magnolia Spitta: "Dis how you greet friends, hah?"

The members of Folk lowered their weapons and invited the MP3 gang members inside.

Slick Pulla: "Good to see y'all niggas."

The twelve men total gave eachother daps -- slapping eachothers' hands and throwing up gang signs.

Shank: "Shit, we 'preciate you makin' da drive ovah here."

Gutta Poppa: "Ain't no thang, yaheardme? Now what da business is? Why we here?"

Emerson Slim: "Dat incident you saw on da TV where da fo' Mobile Po-lice got capped, dat was all us and dem Bloods from da Birdsville Projects. Dem slobs [OOC: Bloods] ambushed our shit while we was on da way to meet up wit' dem Crips over in da Down the Bay Projects.

"Fo' of our boys got kill't, fo' mo' got hit den da po-lice got 'em. Shiv dead, nigga."

Coldheart: "Da po-lice know it was y'all niggas?"

Shank: "Nigga, is you stupid? Dey prolly got ourr faces sketched out down in da First Precinct already."

Magnolia Spitta: "Den what da fuck we doin' here!?!? Y'all got me fucked up, dem po-lice could bust up in dis muhfucka any second and wouldn't shit we could do 'bout it!"

Emerson Slim: "Ain't like that, cuz, dis my auntie house. She died two years back and her last name different den mine. Won't find us here.

"We got some problems tho. Dem Crips might think we too dangerous to fuck wit' now. Plus, things is about to get hot wit' da Bloods. Real hot. We gotta worry 'bout the Mob-Town Mafia now too. Eight of our niggas gone. Dats almost half da force in the Emerson Gardens."

Big T: "Den y'all niggas is gonna need to consolidate. And what we get fo' helpin' yo' asses out?"

Shank: "So whatcha sayin' 'bout consolidatin'? We'll give y'all rights to operate three blocks in da Emerson Gardens Projects. Y'all pick which ones. You get da clientel too. If ya need workers, kids out here about fo'teen to seventeen years old is slick as fuck wit' runnin' money or dope around."

Big T: "Dat sounds straight. What I'm sayin' 'bout consolidating, nigga, is get da rest of da Folks to back y'all up. Sup wit dem boys ova in Prichard?"

Shank: "We already sacrificing a lot fuckin' wit dem Crips and gettin' y'all to back us niggas up. We can't afford to hand out more territory."

Magnolia Spitta: "Nigga, you must not know 'bout what's been happ'nin' outside o' Mobile. Folks ain't fightin' wit' eachother over territory no mo'. Dey help eachothah out on GP, yaheardme?"

Emerson Slim: "F'real? We best hit up Hammerhead and dem ova in Prichard..."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Hammerhead's House
Prichard, Mobile, Alabama
9:32 AM...

A prepaid cell phone on a table next to a bed with all-black sheets, all-black pillows, and an all-black blanket rang loudly. The man who picked it up - who was laying shirtless in the bed and half covered-up by the blanket with two totally nude women of Latino descent to his right - was only of average build, but was one of the most feared men in Prichard and Mobile.

The phone had rudely shook the man from his deep sleep. He answered, slghtly irritated.

Hammerhead: "Who dis?"

Shank: "Yo Hammer, it's Shank from da Emerson Gardens."

Hammerhead sat up in bed and stretched his arms out, the cell phone in his left. He moved the phone to his right hand, then put it to his ear.

Hammerhead: "Shit, what up witcha, Folk?"

Shank: "We got some static happ'nin' ova here. MP3 be here."

Hammerhead: "I figga'd dat was y'all yesterday. Me, Craig D, and Rasheem will be der in 'bout an hour. I got a couple o' G-Queens in my bed right now, yaheard? Where y'all at?"

Shank: "Slim's."

Hammerhead: "See ya den, nigga."

Hammerhead hung up the phone and crawled out of bed. He walked into his living room where on two couches, both covered in protective plastic, were two men passed out with their clothes still on. Marijuana was scattered on a table in the center of the room and cans of Colt 45 Malt Liquor and Olde English Malt Liquor lined the floor. Two empty bottles of vodka also sat on the table.

The remnants of joints and blunts had been collected and put into an ashtray on the table in the center of the room.

Hammerhead: "Y'all niggas get up. We gotta help out some Folk ova in da Emerson Gardens..."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Skrilla's Housing Unit
Birdsville Housing Projects
10:22 AM...

The remaining Bloods who participated in the shoot-out with the Emerson Gardens Folk and the Mobile Police Department were gathered at Skrilla's Housing Unit discussing their next move.

Akili: "Aight, my niggas. We got total war up in dis muhfucka. We holdin' down Michigan Avenue. No one goes up or down dis muhfucka without us knowin' dat shit.

"It's time to hit up dem Mob-Town Mafia niggas and get some back-up in dis bitch."

Skrilla: "'Bout time. Shit, I even know where dat nigga Emerson Slim stay at. Dey lost eight of dey boys yesterday. We fucked dey shit up."

Stunt: "Ain't like we didn't lose nobody, Blood. Dats why we gon' be fuckin' wit' dem Mob-Town Mafia niggas."

Without hesitation, Akili lifted the phone and dialed seven numbers.

Akili: "Hello? Yo, Skippa, dis Akili from da Birdsville."

Skippa: "What up, Blood? Y'all holdin' it down ova derr on Michigan Avenue."

Akili: "Dats why I called. Meet up wit' us at Skrilla's place."

Skippa: "Man, we be derr in about 20 minutes."

Akili: "Holla."

The two men hung up their phones and the Bloods in Skrilla's Housing Unit all looked at Akili with anticipation.

Skrilla: "So what da fuck is up den, nigga!?"

Akili: "Skippa 'n' dem is on dey way to help us clean up deez niggas in da Emerson Gardens."

Everyone: "OHHHH SHIT!"

Stunt: "Hell yay-uh, nigga, we gon' give deez muthafuckas what dey deserve, yaheard!?"

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Emerson Gardens Folk:
http://www.mdw.army.mil/images/photo_gallery/gang_signs.jpg
From left: Goldmouth, Kastro, Shank, Shiv [now deceased], Emerson Slim.

Birdsville Bloods:
http://www.comptonpolicegangs.com/images/photo-gallery-bloods.jpg
From left: Akili, Stunt, Overcoat [now deceased], Skrilla.

"So what do you have for me?" With the Cypher Program only twelve hours old, as Lieutenant O'Reilly's promotion, they had their first big lead.

"Well Lieutenant. Old woman in the Birdsville Housing Projects gave us a positive ID on two of the suspects wanted in the shooting. Both of them belong to the Bloods over there. One goes by the street name Akili and the other Stunt."

"Any other?"

"No. Woman was scared to death when the bullets flew around but she caught a view of the whole group just before the bullets went out. Only could identify two of them. The others she said she's seen around there but couldn't describe them well enough."

"That's going to have to do. Good work Sergeant." The Cypher Program, led by Lieutenant O'Reilly was going to be staffed by eighty something police officers, twenty-four of which were going to be organized in a quick response, heavy weapons unit. They would have stronger armor and submachine guns and assault rifles to combat the gangs and their arsenals of assault rifles. Semi-autos were legal in the Empire but automatics weren't and that was what was coming at them, automatic rifles. Three helicopters would be transferred over to them, all equipped with FLIR and night vision, giving them the edge over the gangs. However, only now, twelve hours later, they had four police officers, in addition to Inspector Howe and Lieutenant O'Reilly. Inspector Howe had be assigned to be the lead detective for the unit and as he was still sifting through the evidence from the ambush the day before, he listened in to news reports about the slaying. They were still talking about it. "You know what we need Inspector?"

"No. What's that?" He didn't look up from his paperwork.

"We need to tap phone lines and listen to their cell phone calls. All of them, you know how they are, they use disposable cell phones and stuff like that. They're smart."

"That they are. We're going to need about a dozen court orders for that."

"Who do we have that can get on that?"

"Call up Donovan."

"On it." Lieutenant O'Reilly would place a phone call to Lisa Donovan, the district attorney for Mobile and one hell of a lawyer. She made her fame and got her position by putting away some of the most ruthless criminals in her areas, including Jay John Wilkins, a serial killer and rapist who went for five years before he was caught. Married with three children, Lisa was a super woman, and juggled it all accordingly, something that wasn't easy for anyone, let alone her. Within six to eight hours, they were hoping to have court orders and warrants giving them the ability to eavesdrop on the phone calls of established gang members in Mobile. Unfortunately, even if it was granted, they still had to get the cell phone numbers and they still had to establish a clear link to the criminal. It wasn't easy and it wouldn't happen overnight and there was little hope that they would get help from the military, which made eavesdropping an art form. They were doing this one alone.

Day 3...

Van Antwerp Building
Room 9; 17th Floor
Downtown Mobile
10:24 AM...

The two Crips from the Down the Bay Housing Projects known as Silk and Heavy D were on their way to visit the most powerful judge in Mobile, a man by the name of Michael Scheuermann. Rumored to have a penchant for handing-out unnecessarily harsh sentences, including a 15-year prison sentence given to an 18-year-old man for possession of one marijuana joint, he was also known for his extreme corruption, though nothing could ever be pinned to him.

However, those rumors came from truth, and for once the truth came from the street gangs, notably the Down the Bay Crips who had dealt with him the most concerning one of their comrades known only by his first name -- Dabu.

Dabu was convicted two years earlier for possession of two illegal firearms [one fully-automatic M-16 Carbine and one fully-automatic AK-74] and over two kilograms of cocaine and over $7,000 worth of street-value crack. There were four other charges that were dropped, but the reason why is still under softly-spoken discussion in close circles.

In the Alabama State Prison in the Northern Section of the state, Dabu was seen before the State Judge for the murder of four inmates. The killing was described as gang-related, but the case was turned over. Why the State Judge by the name of George Brown had overturned the case was also discussed in a hushed voice, except by the Down the Bay Crips of Mobile.

Now on their way to meet with Judge Scheuermann, Silk and Heavy D looked about as inconspicuous as a bull in a china shop -- dressed in blue shirts and blue bandanas tied on their heads, they clashed strongly with the almost entirely black business suits of Downtown Mobile.

When the two men entered the Van Antwerp Building in Downtown Mobile, they were immediately stopped by two security guards, their hands by their sidearms on their waists.

Security Guard #1 "May I ask what your business is here in the Van Antwerp Building?"

Heavy D: "Nigga, y'all hassle me e'er'time I walk up in dis bitch, you know what da fuck we here fo'!"

Looking slightly surprised by the outlash, the second security began to open his mouth before Silk interrupted.

Silk: "S'all good, cuz, we here to see Judge Scheuermann."

Silk revealed a briefcase he had been holding behind his back.

Security Guard #2: "Go ahead. Judge Scheuermann is on the 17th-"

Heavy D "We know where he's at, nigga, move."

Heavy D stared down the security guard as he and Silk entered the elevator which would take them up to the 17th Floor, where Judge Scheuermann was waiting in Room 9.

Silk and Heavy D reached their destination and knocked on the heavy wooden door. A harsh voice from inside greeted them.

"Who is it?"

Silk: "Lemme handle dis, Heavy... Delivery for Judge Scheuermann!"

The judge opened the door and let the two gang-members inside.

Judge Scheuermann: "Who's this gorilla with you today, Silk?"

Heavy D: "I'm Heavy-muthafuckin'-D, nigga. You got security downstairs... just say I'm dis nigga's security, yaheard?"

Judge Scheuermann: "Right. Just don't break anything, alright?"

Silk shot a glance at Heavy D, telling him with his eyes to calm down.

Judge Scheuermann: "Have a seat, gentlemen."

The two Crips sat down at a desk in front of the judge, then placed the briefcase on it and opened it up. They spun it around and inside was a bag of ten grams of cocaine and below were over forty stacks of 50-dollar bills, each stack a total of $5,000.

Silk: "We threw in an extra 150 g's and an extra five g's of powder dis month. Dat shit 97% pure too."

Judge Scheuermann: "Why the extra?"

Heavy D: "Dabu."

The judge let out a hearty laugh before speaking.

Judge Scheuermann: "What do you need me to clear him of now?"

Silk: "Don't need you to clear him o' shit. Need you to get his black ass outta lockdown."

Judge Scheuermann: "Whoa, son, slow down. How would we explain to the Department of Justice that we're releasing him seventy-three years early?"

Silk: "Figga'd you'd say dat."

Silk revealed another bag of ten grams of cocaine and one containing two grams of heroin.

Judge Scheuermann: "What's this shit on my desk?"

Heavy D: "Dats called ten grams of 97% pure cocaine and two g's of 95% pure heroin. Ain't been touched by no one but me and my nigga right here."

Judge Scheuermann: "Sure, I'll bribe Judge Brown with heroin."

Scheuermann laughed again and the two Crips looked at eachother, both irritated. Silk tossed a set of keys on the judge's desk and a phone number.

Judge Scheuermann: "What's this?"

Silk: "Keys to a 2008 Cadillac Escalade."

Judge Scheuermann: "What am I gonna do with a gang car? Get this dirty shit out of my office. I'll see you in two months. The extra will cover October."

The judge got up to leave and Silk nodded at Heavy D, who immediately stepped in front of the judge, grabbed him by his neck, and slammed him down on his back next to the briefcase of money and drugs.

Silk: "A'ight, muthafucka, we been more den generous, yaheard? But we gotta look out fo' ourselves at da same time. What we gave you is enough to take care o' yo' ass fo' a long, long time.

"We got a new deal."

Silk reached into his pocket a revealed pictures of a young man buying drugs.

Silk: "Word in the Down the Bay Projects is dat yo' son... yo' own flesh and blood likes to get high. We could change dat fact two ways: One, we could kill his ass and he won't never touch no dope again; two, we could stop selling to him and remove him from the list for Down the Bay and Emerson Gardens Projects."

Judge Scheuermann: "You're a dead man!"

The judge attempted to sit up, but was quickly slammed back down by Heavy D.

Heavy D: "You close yo' mouf when my nigga speak."

Silk removed another photo from his pocket. It was a picture of the Judge's wife, a young woman in her twenties - in sharp contrast to the Judge of sixty-two years - meeting up with a young man in the backyard of Scheuermann's house in West Mobile.

Silk: "Oh, shit! Dis bitch could give a dog a bone!... god... damn. Looks like she gave dis nigga one!"

Silk let loose a gut-laugh and pointed at the young man in the picture.

Silk: "Dis nigga in da picture one of my boys from Down the Bay. He been fuckin' yo' wife for a minute, dawg! Shit, what else I got in deez deep pockets..."

Silk removed another picture. It was a series of clips from a hidden camera planted in Judge Scheuermann's house. It revealed pictures of two women who were obviously prostitutes, as well as Judge Scheuermann performing numerous sexual acts with them, while it showed him snorting several lines of cocaine.

Silk: "Y'know what else, Judge? I know for a fact dat deez two rock ho's both got AIDS. I get the feelin' you didn't wrap yo' jimmy, cuz.

"I got more dirt on yo' ass then Mobile Landfill. Shit, I bet the Emperor woud prolly have yo' ass kill't fo' dis kinda shit. By da way, yo' son loves him some her'on. Loves to pop himself wit' dat needle, yaheard?"

Judge Scheuermann: "Fine... you win, you fucking piece of shit."

Silk: "Yo D, let dis bitch up."

Judge Scheuermann was released by Heavy D and straightened his clothes up.

Silk: "I want my nigga Dabu on a bus to Mobile by the end of da day."

Judge Scheuermann: "Fine. Now give me those pictures."

The man reached for them, but his hand was strongly slapped away by Heavy D's massive palm.

Silk: "Be sure to tell yo' wife I said 'what up.'"

Silk threw the pictures at the Judge.

Judge Scheuermann: "Fuck you!"

Before he knew it, a sharp blow was landed on the Judge's upper lip by Silk's fist. Blood squirted out on the hardwood floor and Scheuermann collapsed to the ground.

Silk: "Nah, nigga... fuck you."

The two Crips left the building, but not before picking up the keys to their Cadillac Escalade first. They headed back to the Down the Bay Housing Projects...

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Quayle Street
Birdsville Housing Projects
3:35 PM...

Akili and Stunt were walking to the corner of Quayle Street and Dove Road, where they were meeting up a very rich heroin addict of Irish descent, who wanted only the best smack in the city. In Stunt's front-right pocket was an $800 bag of heroin, which would only be 1% of the possible profits from the deal if the man liked the drug the Birdsville Bloods had procured.

Sure enough, waiting on Quayle & Dove was a dark green 2007 model Mercedes-Benz 500 Class. When the man rolled down the driver-side window to speak with the two Bloods, Akili whistled.

Akili: "Daaamn, son, dis yo' ride?"

Man: "No. I stole it. Like you do. Let's see what ya got."

Stunt handed over the bag of heroin and the man rolled the window up for a moment. After roughly half a minute, he rolled it back down and threw the bag of heroin out of the window.

Man: "This is 100% garbage."

Stunt: "Nigga, what da fuck you talkin' 'bout? Dis shit 97% pure. Better den da shit dem Crip niggas get f'sho'."

Man: "Fuck this. Neither of you can come up with anything worth a damn. Get away from my car."

Akili: "Nah, nigga!"

Akili pulled out a Glock 36 and let loose six rounds into the man's upper torso and face.

Akili: "Fuckin' punk."

Stunt reached inside the car and dragged the man out. While the two Bloods were going through his pockets, Akili found an atom bomb -- inside the man's coat pocket was a police badge, indicating the man was a Mobile Police Department Detective.

While Stunt was rejoicing about his "new car" as he was calling it and the $4,000 in the man's pockets, Akili seemed to lose color in his face.

Akili: "Nigga... we done fucked up..."

Akili flashed Stunt the badge, then they both ran...

Michelangelo had returned to office to find a peculiar fellow sitting at his desk.

"Who are you?" he asked, reaching for his gun.

"I am Don Giacomo Benevetti. Please, have a seat."

"Benevetti is dead."

"Ah, isn't everyone? Died in a fire, did he?"

"Yes. You faked your death?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps it was someone unfortunate to pass my ways at the time this murderer came looking."

"Don't think that this is me trying to knock you out, Benevetti," Michelangelo replied, remaining calm. "You're a lawyer, I'm a hitman. I don't hit people I don't need to hit. You have your money, right?"

"Perhaps I do. But I want to know why someone would come after me."

"I don't know. You work with the cartels - maybe someone there doesn't like you. Maybe you weren't careful."

"Mio signore - I am always careful. If I'm not, I'd end kaput like that poor soul down on the 14th block of Caracas. I'm here for a name."

"I paid you 500,000 for a name. That's done business."

"Not for me. Someone's trying to kill me, so I'm getting that name."

Michelangelo smirked. "You're not Benevetti. You're gutless."

"Well, people do grow guts when they're about 40, right?"

"You're smart. You'd be smarter if you knew what was best for you. Disappear and don't come back. Maybe I'll help you get rid of these people."

"Give me a name, and I'll fix him myself."

"Well... if you're going to be insistant, how much is going to cost?"

Giacomo unveiled a Beretta at Michelangelo and before he could grab his own, he secured the gun in his hands, such that he had two weapons. Michelangelo felt like shouting for help, but he knew that this would end in more ways than one. Benevetti stood carefully, making certain that Michelangelo couldn't make any sudden movements.

"You're a hitman. You know what to do. Give me a name and everyone walks cleanly. If I'm not pleased, two bullets run through you. And I'll be certain to leave the evidence for the police to pick. After all, you're a criminal too."

"And you're not Benevetti. Who are you?"

"Give me what I want. What is DVQ?"

"DVQ..."

"Who do you work for? And the hell is DVQ? Some drug-modifier?"

"Ah, you must work for the government? Or perhaps someone else? Competition?"

Benevetti shot a single shot at the wall, inconspicuously that none of Michelangelo's guards outside felt that there was any problem. Michelangelo began to sweat. "So I'm not the gutless lawyer from Caracas. But I'll tell you one thing - I kill for pleasure, but I've business to do. Give me a name and I'll consider lettinng you go clean."

"I have no clue what DVQ is. You'll have to ask Alessandro - he's the one who arranged the whole thing."

"You don't know anything abouut DVQ?"

"Nothing."

"I doubt Alessandro touched it. Who did you get it from?"

"I don't know."

"You're starting to lie to me. I hate liars."

"I don't know. But whoever it was an indigent SOB."

"Ah..."

"Yea. That's about as much as I know. That bastard cost me $40mil, and he's still roaming around."

"You'd like it that he's dead."

"Actually... yes. I would."

With that, Benevetti turned out a bluetooth adaptor and laid it on the floor. "That's your $500 grand. You keep quiet about this, and maybe you'll see another day. Otherwise, not only does that money come back to me, but I'll passing two tulips for your finace. Capisce?"

"Si."

"Good. Now, I'll have my leave..."

Michelangelo gestured to Benevetti - "My gun?"

"You'll get it back. PO Box 43516, Windhoek Central Post, tomorrow. The key is in the bluetooth, along with the instructions." With that, Benevetti, jumped out the window. Michelangelo felt like chasing this SOB, but in honest opinion, he didn't want to mess with morer stuff than what he needed. He only hoped that whatever he did with Alessandro wouldn't come back to him. Instead, he pulled out a cigar and began to puff away the night.

Birdsville Housing Projects
18:25 hours

The Cypher Program wasn't going so well. They had no leads other than the two IDs on the people who shot and killed the cops in the shootout. That was about all that they had and that just wasn't enough. The first attack force was ready, six men, armed heavily, armored heavily, and trained heavily. They were going to get their first task and that was to bust down the door of Akili's place and arrest him or kill him, whichever Akili preferred. When news came in that another officer was down, things just went from bad to worse. The man was a captain and he was trying to get in with the Bloods but something had gone wrong and he had six shots in his chest and face. Nobody saw anything either and there was no survelliance. Whether or not he was buying for himself or going it on his own, he was dead. The six .45ACP rounds tore him to pieces and it was doubtful he had enough time to react, which wasn't good. They found his wallet about ten meters away, dropped on the ground, badge flashing the sky. That was when it was set, the heavy assault unit would attack Akili's place.

The six men drove into the Birdsville projects alone, in a van. Not more than thirty seconds behind them were sixteen cars, all loaded with cops, who went to surround the housing project that Akili lived in and surround it with force. When the six men came out of the back and cabin of their van, they doned M30A3 Carbines, loaded with dual-magazine 30-round clips, giving them sixty rounds at the ready. They carried another four magazines with them. They doned Ranger body armor, which allowed them to take up to three 7.62 x 39mm rounds before the plates cracked. It was excellent armor and it fit their bodies, allowing them to move around at will. They looked like Special Forces when they jumped out of the van in urban camouflage, the body armor, the Carbines, and M77B7 Tactical Assault Pistols. They were here and they meant business. They moved into the building, the smell of urine filling their nostrils. Their armored helmets protected a good amount of their head and their masks covered their faces up to their noses. On their eyes were shatterproof glasses that helped shield their eyes from flying fragments. Their plan of attack was to walk up to the door, set a breaching charge, blow the door, toss in a pair of Flashbang grenades, to stun those inside, and then storm.

Akili lived on the third floor of the unit and the stairwell was disgusting and creepy. The red brick was scribbled with gang names, symbols, and other signatures. Graffiti was everywhere as was the garbage. Needles sat in one corner, used and stained with blood. They had to step over four McDonald's cups, empty and lying with wrappers and food. A rat pecked at a half eaten French Fry and barely moved when the six officers stormed up the stairs, quietly and silently. Their combat boots made not a sound as they stepped up each and every step. On the second level a dried puddle of puke still smelled. There was a blood stain on the wall too and it was evident that someone had been beaten in this stairwell. Who knew if the puke and blood were from the same incident. The smell was nauseating. They walked up to the third level and put a piece of electrical tape on the peep hole of the door. The pointman smiled as they had the surprise and he pulled a small charge from his pocket. It was enough to blow a door lock into bits and he placed the two parts of the lock on the two parts of the door where the doorknob and the top lock was. two of them backed down the stairwell slightly as two others moved up to the next flight. The other two stayed in front of the door with the Stun grenades ready. The charge wasn't powerful enough to hurt them but it could sent fragments into their bodies but the armor would protect them. The pointman lit the fuse and the pins on the grenades were pulled, safeties engaged. The five second fuse on the charge and the three second fuse on the Stun grenades were just enough to give them a moment to slow their heartbeat enough to be completely calm when the charge went off.

Akili's Housing Unit
Birdsville Housing Projects
6:27 PM...

Akili and Stunt were in the process of packing everything up and leaving when the door was blown apart and two Stun Grenades were thrown inside. Akili could be considered the lucky one of the two, as he was in a separate room when the Grenades went off.

Stunt, on the other hand, was no more than four feet from both grenades, and collapsed to the floor coughing, unable to even speak. Three Cypher Officers immediately jumped on top of him while another held an M30A3 Carbine at the man.

When the other officers kicked down the door to the bedroom, they found Akili holding a Glock 36 to the head of a young man of Latino descent with needle marks on both arms and cocaine caked around both nostrils.

Akili: "Back da fuck up, I'll kill dis muthafucka! I'll kill him! I don't give a fuck, nigga! You think I give a shit 'bout dis lil' nigga right here?"

Akili began to advance towards the officers, still holding the gun to the young man's head who was pleading and crying in Spanish...

Stunt was looking up at the suppressed barrel of an M30A3 Carbine and he knew that there was a round in the chamber. You didn't have to be a rocket scientist to know that much. As he writhed on the ground and the officers handcuffed him and began to subdue him, the others were engaged in a little bit of a standoff. Akili was holding a gun to someone's head, someone who couldn't have been more than eighteen or nineteen. "Alright. Alright. We'll back up. We'll back up. Just take it easy. We don't need a murder here." The pointman said as he backed up slowly, more to aim his weapon than to do anything else. He had his rifle pointed right toward Akili's hand and just before he squeezed the trigger he yelled out, "¡HACIA ABAJO!" [DOWN NOW!] He hoped that the Latino man would act quickly. If he did he would be able to put a round in Akili's hand, rendering it useless to hold and shoot the gun.

(OOC: Cuba...maybe we can do something there at some point. Not yet though.)

(OOC: Cuba...maybe we can do something there at some point. Not yet though.)

No I'm saying the Florida Cartel is based in Cuba. Esmeralda is in Venezuela and Meta is in Colombia.

Sparetti's chat with Michelangelo convinced him of one thing - it's alot easier to break Maria's organization than he had expected. But of course, he still had leagues to travel before he reached her. Still, whatever DVQ was, he was certain that Maria had some devious plot on hand.

And so, there was another obstacle - Alessandro. He would visit him very soon. He called back to Silvestro.

"Ah, how is your vacation?"

"I wish Emilia were here," Sparetti replied, almost sullenly.

"Crimes will soon be done. Tell me, what has Maria been doing on her vacation?"

"Being a bitch, as far as I care to know."

"Ah. Always her way, I see. Well, what would like to talk about about?"

"Well, I'd like to know if your sons are doing well. They are well. I can't tell about Luigi though, but I'm certain that he's fine as well. If you happen to see him, tell him his father loves him."

"I will. How is my own visitor?"

Giovanni shifted in his seat and let the creaking sounds of his reclining chair echo through the phone. "Eh. He's bothersome, but we always have visitors like that, so consider him safe. You know, it's alot easier to manage the family, since they destroyed the distinctions of the two states in Italy. I can go clear to Rome and back without being stopped by border patrols at all."

"Is Rome safe?"

"I'd say so. But I'd hate to entice to come back, since you're clearly enjoying your vacation over in...?"

"Africa."

"Ah, yes. A beautiful continent. Well, it is nice to see you in high spirits. And I appreciate the calls. Ciao."

"Ciao, mio Capo."

The job was not even half-done, but Sparetti would have his day. For some reason, Don Maggiano seemed optimistic about Luigi still. Even though no word leaked about his whereabouts, he was certain to find out where Maria left him - he had yet to find the right person, and while he wasn't certain, Alessandro seemed the perfect candidate. He would wait, but for some reason, Sparetti felt some pressure on the time he had, and he felt that not much longer was available to find Luigi - let alone, figure out what DVQ was.

The MH-60L Black Hawk lifted off the helipad at the Marauder base in Bogotá on a balmy and uncomfortable August night. The aircraft was carrying one team of Marauders, heading southeast of Puerto López in the Meta state. They were going to raid a meeting being conducted in a small villa in a secluded clearing of the jungle. The meeting was going to include one major buyer for a foreign cartel and two major players in the Meta Cartel. When the information came to the Marauders, they were more than happy to execute a quick strike and grab mission.

The mission template was set, quick, and well rehearsed. They would fast rope in, do a quick assault on the villa, using the Black Hawk as support, capture who they had to, and extract back to the base. They weren't in the mood for a lot of shooting and they wanted this done as quickly as possible. The M74A1 Miniguns on the Black Hawks would prove useful if the enemy decided to turn it into a gunfight.

The Black Hawk was loaded, ready, and off the ground at 21:00 hours. It would be a short ride for them, not even a half hour each way. The villa was secluded and that meant they wouldn't have to worry about collateral damage or even attracting too much attention. That was beneficial for them as they lifted off the ground and took to the night sky, night vision goggles fitted to everyone's eyes. Inside the cabin, the sound of the engines made communications difficult and those not hooked into the internal communications system resorted to using hand signals or talking extremely loudly to the man sitting no more than two inches away from them. Two of the men read as they flew and the others just sat quiet and comfortable. They were inbound to the target and they weren't going to be caught dozing. They wanted to make sure that when they hit the ropes and then the ground 70 feet below them, they wanted to be at peak attention.

They cruised towards the target at 500 feet and 150 mph, cutting the peaceful night in half and tearing a vortex of fear with them as they flew. The rotor wash barely bothered the grass below or even the tall trees and the Black Hawk wasn't heard past a quarter of a mile to a half a mile away from its location. That was good since they were out of the area long before anyone could react. The flight to and from the villa would be over jungle, rural terrain, not the populated parts, giving them a slight edge in that their element of surprise would be true and untainted, or so they thought...

From the minute the Black Hawk lifted off, it was being watched. Not more than a half mile away, sitting on top of a six-story building was a lookout crew. They were paid highly by the Meta Cartel and the Esmeralda Cartel jointly and their only task, for twenty-four hours a day, was to watch the Marauder base on the outskirts of Bogotá. Six of them lived in the lavish apartment, taking turns, running four hour shifts, once a day. When a helicopter took off or a convoy left, they made a phone call to someone a few more miles away. Plans went into action and people were warned. When the helicopter turned over the apartment building and moved towards the east, another call was made. "Dirige al este en Meta." [It's heading east into Meta.] The watchman said into his phone. That's all he had to say, others would take care of the rest.

The helicopter flew for about ten more minutes before it was spotted again and another phone call was made. The Cartel figured that they were going towards the meeting, after all, they had planted the information in their mind's. The meeting was a set up, too juicy for the Marauders to pass up. The Meta Cartel was planning something and they were about to execute it too. Sitting under cover, along the path of the helicopter, only eight miles from the villa was a group of four men, two of them carrying a man-portable, shoulder missile launcher. Each launcher had a single FIM-92 Stinger round loaded. These were advanced Stingers, guided by imaging infrared, meaning that flares would do nothing to confuse them. Jamming, on the other hand, would, and the Black Hawk had a jammer onboard. Whether or not it would be on would determine if they were going to hit or not. They only had two missiles at the ready and that meant they had to be careful when they shot them off. They needed to secure a hit, especially since the missiles had cost the Cartel a lot of money.

Just five miles from the ambush point, the helicopter was spotted again. "Cinco millas. Entrando. La altitud acerca de 500 pies." [Five miles. Coming in. Altitude about 500 feet.] The helicopter came in visual range soon enough and the men armed their missiles. One of them immediately locked up the helicopter and fired the missile.

"We've got a missile inbound. Get on your flares. Evasion. Jammer on." The MH-60 banked hard, flares dropping out of the rear of the helicopter and its jammer on. The missile banked hard, trying to get a beat on the helicopter but it wasn't gaining fast enough. It missed, unfortunately, exploding harmlessly about two hundred feet behind the helicopter. "We're under attack. I repeat. We're under attack. One missile fired. Evaded. Suspect further. We're about thirteen miles from the target point. Aborting mission."

"Negative Jupiter 12. Negative. Mission must proceed."

"Roger that." The pilot and co-pilot, annoyed, turned back towards the villa. They left the jammer on this time.

"Espere hasta que ellos sean pasados nosotros. Despida otra vez." [Wait until they're past us. Fire again.] The MH-60 passed about a half mile away from the firing point and the men had moved and were at a new point. Once again they had the helicopter locked up and this time, they fired when the helicopter was slightly past them, meaning that the missile would come up behind them. The flash and noise in the small clearing echoed but not as far as the helicopter.

Inside the cabin, the jammer was on, trying its best to suppress anything incoming but it wouldn't work this time. The white streak of the engine caught the glimpse of one of the men inside the cabin and as soon as saw it he yelled, "Incoming again! Starboard side!" It was too late. The missile had a perfect lock and bearing on the helicopter and as the pilot banked hard again, flares dropping, repeating the attack message, the missile impacted, slicing a hole in the roof and the engines. The main rotor snapped off and flew into the unknown, spinning fast. Like a rock, the helicopter dove straight for the ground. One man was already dead, killed when a flying piece of shrapnel severed his main artery in his neck. The helicopter, diving straight for the ground, impacted at a speed of 200 mph, stopping instantly as it exploded in a ball of fire, rolling onto its side. All inside were dead instantly, some violently thrown from the helicopter, only to die on impact with the ground or a tree. The coordinates of the helicopter had been given in the previous call for help but they were down now and not responding to subsequent calls.

Day 3...

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The Bottom
State Street & Martin Luther King, Jr. Boulevard
2:33 PM...

Magnolia Spitta, Slick Pulla, Gutta Poppa, Big T, and Coldheart were on their way to State Street to do some investigating concerning the Mob-Town Mafia. Word on the street was that the Mob-Town Mafia had teamed up with the Birdsville Bloods in exchange for a number of small arms and drugs. In other words, they would be able to better patrol their territory and increase the money they made off of running it.

The gang known as "MP3", a gang from New Orleans, had managed to get into Layarteb with little trouble. Now, all five of them were cruising down Martin Luther King, Jr. Boulevard towards State Street. Inside their dark green Cadillac Escalade with 22-inch rims was a small arsenal -- two fully-automatic AK-74s, one fully-automatic Tech-9, one fully-automatic snub-nosed Mac 11, two Glock 36 .45 ACP's, two Smith & Wesson .40E's, one Smith & Wesson Model 617 4" Revolver, and one Mossberg 935 Magnum Shotgun.

It didn't take the five men to find the group of eight members of the Mob-Town Mafia -- afterall, they were eight males of European descent in a primarily black neighborhood.

Magnolia Spitta: "Der go dem bitches right there! Pull it on 'em!"

Within a few seconds, a Tech-9, an AK-74, a Mossberg .12 Gauge Shotgun, a Smith & Wesson Model 617 4" Revolver, and a Glock 36 were aimed out of the stopped car's windows.

Big T: "Look up, bitch!"

The group of eight Mob-Town Mafia members tried to take cover at the hail of bullets coming at them, but three were gunned down in front of an auto service shop. Immediately taking advantage of the situation, the man known as Slick Pulla put a ski-mask over his head, grabbed his Glock 36 and a can of black spray paint and headed towards the three men lying on the ground.

One was trying to drag himself away on his stomach, another was cold dead, and the last was shaking like a leaf and bleeding from multiple gunshot wouns to his stomach.

Slick Pulla: "MP3, nigga!"

Slick Pulla fired three rounds into the back of the man trying to crawl away, and fired another between the eyes of the man shaking from stomach wounds.

Quickly and efficiently, Slick spray-painted the letters "MP3" on the front of the office of the auto service shop.

Magnolia Spitta: "Come on, nigga!"

Slick Pulla ran full speed back to the Escalade, and the five men screeched down the street while the remaining members of Mob-Town Mafia fired off five pistols at their car. The back window was shot out, but none of the members of MP3 were hit...

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Birdsville Housing Projects
Akili's Housing Unit
6:28 PM...

Akili was not expecting what came next: the young man of Latino descent elbowed the Birdsville Blood in the stomach, and hard. Before Akili had a chance to react, his right hand was shot with an M30A3 Carbine round, and he was hit with a taser.

Immediately, he collapsed to the floor and the officers of the Cypher Program stormed on top of him and handcuffed the Blood.

Akili: "Shit, man... I ain't gon' get outta dis one."

The Cypher Program officers picked him up off the ground and drug him downstairs into their custody...

Akili and Stunt recovered from the shock of the lightning raid and before they knew it, they were in the back of a squad car, on the way to the nearest police station, where they awaited seventy-two hours of hell. Layartebian law allowed for a 72 hour forced detention of suspected criminals whereby they had no rights of the accused and were, in essence, interrogated. This wasn't going to be good for them. As the officers wrapped up their assault, a few stayed behind to sniff around the apartment and what they found was disturbing. Akili had a stash of weapons from a fully automatic M4 Carbine to a whole host of semi-automatic pistols and revolvers. They expected to find an AT4 after the searching but the anti-tank rocket wasn't going to be present in this man's apartment. Drugs and cash were found soon after and everything that was searchable for evidence was seized. When the police left the area, they left with bags upon bags of evidence, all of which had to be entered into the system and stored. There was tons of cash and drugs to be found and though the temptation existed, the officers of the Cypher Program were too disciplined for the petty rewards and urges.

Earlier in the day, a shoot out had left three more gang members dead, all of them part of the "Mob-Town Mafia." When investigators arrived and found the letters "M," "P," and the number "3" they were baffled. No gang in the area or surrounding areas went by the name "MP3." They would have to search deep for this one and if it was a new gang that would only make things that much more difficult to solve and accomplish. The more gangs that they had fighting amongst themselves, the more they were at risk for a full war that tore the streets of Mobile apart and turned the city into a third world country, complete with kidnapping, extortion, and a total absence of law. It was time for some heavy crackdowns!

Maria was smoking a joint as Niccolo sat at his desk, having to unravel the numerous domestic problems plaguing his corporation. It was only then that he learned that his latifundia was raided by Roman police, and it was only after his numerous flirtation that he realized his political suave was losing ground. It wasn't safe in Rome anymore, especially not after the Union between Doomanum and Rome.

He was frantic, as Maria was her usual self, satisfied with the progress that the plans were taking. She stroked on Niccolo's back, tense with the unrelieved strains of the past two days.

"Well, our plans are coming to fruition," Maria said, puffing away.

"How can you be so optimistic? Everything is falling apart!"

"DVQ is out of here and someone is going to take a nasty hit. And after that, Rome will be ours again."

"DVQ is a bomb. All that it's going to do is divert their attention from drugs to national security. And that's going to make things more difficult gettinng back to Rome without hundreds of reporters coming out swarm me at the airport, followed by a brigade of three thousand Roman soldiers! We have to protect our interests."

"They are protected."

"How? If I can't go back to Rome - even Sicily! - If I can't go back to Sicily, Maggiano will replace me. Then I'll have no share!"

"You dimwit," Maria chided. "You already have no place. Maggiano already knows about DVQ, and he knows about other things too."

"What? How does he know?"

"He sent snitches to spy on you. So I eliminated them. Well, partially..."

"Who? What?"

Maria turned out a newspaper, featuring Maggiano's sons. Niccolo glanced at the paper and yelled at her. "Luciano? I thought I fired that bastard!"

"Not him. The two boys. They're Maggiano's sons."

Niccolo stared in shock. "Don't tell me you eliminated them..."

"I did not. But if Maggiano doesn't take a hint soon, he'll be getting Luigi back in pieces. Rome is our turf, as is the rest of Italy. Once that old freak learns that and makes his peace with Don Giovanni, I'll die a blessed woman."

"Good god. I'm fighting a war with the Mafiosi. Don't you know? They've gotten every single contact in the world with a death warrant on my name! I wouldn't be surprised if the Doomanum Inquisition comes in here with a death squad!"

"I've taken care of everything!" Maria replied, trying to calm Niccolo. "Maggiano is an old-timer; he doesn't dare to do more than what's already been done. He knows that I will do what I have promised to do, unless he backs away and steps down from the Capi. Then Cosa Suestra will become Cosa Nostra. And Rome will rule the world!" ... such was transpiring with Maria's devious plots.

The wreckage of the crashed MH-60L Black Hawk was found as the sun began to rise the next morning. Their "Mayday" call had been received by their base and a search helicopter was on the prowl for them all night. Unfortunately, they had little luck locating the wreckage because of a fog that came in over their section of Colombia just an hour after the crash. When the fog lifted on the next morning, they found it. There had been no fire and the helicopter had definitely hit hard, nose first, then rolled over onto its right side, and landed on its rooftop. The main and tail rotors had blown clear off and severed through trees all around the crash site. It crashed into a rough section that wasn't anything near a clearing, meaning that rescue operations were going to be difficult, if anyone was alive. From the look of the crash, they doubted that anyone was left alive.

Four helicopters and a pair of Stalker gunships hovered over the area as they prepared to fast rope in. Two teams of eight men would secure the area around the crash site while another twelve men would work on rescue and recovery. The helicopters would remain airborne to provide cover and provide extraction at a clearing only about sixty-five meters away. It was a small clearing, enough to land one helicopter at a time, making it that much more difficult but there wasn't another decently sized clearing for four hundred meters, where the MANPADs had been fired from and where they dared not tread.

Unfortunately for the downed Black Hawk, all of the soldiers were dead. Two were thrown out of the bird and died after impacting a tree. Three were sliced clean in half by shrapnel and flying debris. The rest died as a result of the hard impact of the crash and possibly from internal bleeding.

6th Special Operations Forces HQ
Bogotá, Colombia, South Eastern Virginia

The leadership of the 6th SOG were sitting with two very important men. One of them was the General of the Special Forces and the other was the Minister of Intelligence. It was a high profile meeting, a meeting that the drug cartels would stop, if they could or knew about it. The meeting was called after the MH-60L Black Hawk went down just four days prior. After intelligence reports were compiled and some signals intelligence analyzed, it was determined that the enemy who shot down the Black Hawk had been staking out the base and watched the Black Hawk throughout the entire length of its journey. This startling piece of evidence, along with other reports found that the 6th SOG were under constant monitoring by the cartels.

"Listen. We've got a major problem. They can see everything we do. We take off and they track us everywhere we go." The commander of the 6th SOG stated as he looked around the room. "How can we expect to be combat effective? We just lost a whole team and a Black Hawk four days ago. They saw us the whole way there."

"It's definitely a problem. The Ministry of Intelligence is doing its best here. SIGINT is a difficult business but we aren't as real-time as you would imagine." The Minister of Intelligence stated as he scribbled down some notes. "What we need is, sadly, a new operating force."

"As an SOG group we are public knowledge, albeit the rest is classified. You know that the cartels can actually find out our operating frequencies?"

"That is only a rumor." The commander replied in a quick snap to the executive officer of the group. "That is just a rumor."

"When a majority of the men believe it, that doesn't matter. What matters is that we're too public."

"Unfortunately we can't reverse that."

"No. You are right General sir. But what other options do we have?"

"We had a similiar problem with counterterrorism once. We had a good option to fix it."

"What was that option?" The 6th SOG members looked at the General of the Special Forces with curiosity.

"This information cannot leave this room. A unit was formed that was beyond governmental regulations. In addition, said unit remains classified information and its existence is not acknowledged. It had considerable success. We've had something on the table for this unit as well. I do not doubt it would meet much resistance within the Joint Chiefs, the Cabinet, and the Emperor. The problem therein lies with the unit itself. Members will be needed. A facility will need to be procured."

"Understandable. What would be the size of this unit?"

"Chances are it would be battalion sized."

"And what of its operating parameters?"

"Counter-drug operations with an emphasis on covert action. Because they would not be acknowledged by the government, they could be deployed extraterritorially on covert operations."

"What would we call this unit?" Everyone stayed silent for a moment, pondering a name.

"How about Force Tiger?" The General suggested.

The situation in Rome was becoming volatile. Senator Mencius was losing his hold on politics, in part because it was discovered in his own raid on drugs trafficking in the Republic that his own sponsor - Caesarini - was deeply connected into these wild-life thugs. So why would Caesarini lie? Why Caesarini try to root himself out? Perhaps it was because Caesarini was upset at him? He didn't know, but for some reason, the Caesarini holdings had disappeared to India, while a Tuscan winemaker bought out another rival senator to raid the Caesarini estate.

His constituency didn't like his secrecy, and it was showing itself to be a massive problem. He couldn't speak on the floor of the Senate as often, because no one else in the Senate cared to listen to a drug dealing bastard. When he did speak, his rivals reminded the Senate of his sponsors, such that he wouldn't want to speak out of fear for speaking ill harm to them. His power was weakening, and it would only be time before a majority in the Senate vote to ostracize him, to convict of crimes of corruption in the Senate, and likewise to end his career as a Senator.

Then, there came an option. As he was filing through his reports and inquiries, a man dressed in a black suit entered the room quietly and sat before him. He wore a wide-brimmed hat, which covered much of his eyes and nose. Behind it was a pair of sunglasses, offering no window to the mysterious character set before him in his room. And that aside, nearly every other patch of skin, aside from his face, was encased in black leather of some sort.

"Who are you?"

"My good man - I am the only person willing to speak to you."

"Why are you here?"

"Ah, that's not the question. What brings me here."

"That's the same question. It's all politics."

"Ah, but I beg to defer. If I ask why I am here, then I suggest a sense of purpose. What do I hope to achieve in being here. Whereas - what brings me here - that is my justification for having come."

"Semantics - I hate it so much."

"And yet you are the politician and I am not. Such is the irony of life." The man elicited a smile.

"Well, what brings you?"

"Mio amico, I have come from Ravenna to find the justice for an old man. He is a pious man, a righteous man, a good man. He was ruthlessly attacked and assaulted by one of his altarboys, who happened to be a serious criminal - the kind the police would rather shoot and kill than leave to justice to finish off. We killed him, plainly and simply. He offered little resistance, as if it were to prove a point. But you know, the old man tells me that this man came to him with some purpose behind his plot. I didn't understand it at first, but you know - I think it got to me.
"What purpose brings a man to us except for revenge? You know us - we are the family of Italy, and Italy demands justice. And the justice we get is not from your convoluted system of judicators, executors, praetors, and all of the nonsense of people judging and deciding their fate in life. No... the justice we get comes from God. And God does not smile on the justice of men. Hence, I sought out the people who desired my man's death, as well as mine. This search has brought me from Ravenna to Venice to Berlin to Strausbourg, and finally, I am now here, near the end of my trail of crumbs. I'm surprised for a senator that deals with criminal folk that you leave your own trails that lead back to you."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Mencius replied defensively.

"Of course, you do. You just some memory. Caesarini is a man of the family. He is a rotten child, spoiled in the excesses of whatever fervor he deems to be worthy of some crack-ridden job. I'd admit to the same, but my law leads to the Doomanum. So they'd have to deal with me, and as you may not know, they like me, because I deal justice there. So here I say my point. Caesarini wants me dead, and he asked you to do something about it."

"He never asked me to kill someone."

"No, he didn't. But he did ask to send this man to do it for him."

With that, the man pulled out a picture of the dead Lo Vecchio. Mencius did not rermember the face, but he certainly remembered the man. Mistakes were unfolding left and right, and he could feel his own existence slip into non-existence. He didn't want to be here right now.

The man took off his glasses and revealed his blood-red eyes. "I have explained my part. I don't expect you to explain yours. But what I do expect is an answer. Because I now tell you why I am here. Because I am the bringer of justice, and God asks for your own account." With that, he pulled out a PPK, loaded with one bullet in the chamber. He tossed it out to Mencius who looked at it awkwardly. "I would kill you, but you know, I think you know what to do with it."

The man recovered his sunglasses and began to depart the room. As he approached the door, Mencius took the gun and removed the safety. The next shot rang loud and nearly everyone in the office accompanying it was astounded. The secretary came over and passed into Raguso, staring back at the dead Mencius. The secretary nearly screamed, but Raguso gave the only eulogy that day: "Another burdened life goes and joins the dead. May he be at ease with what he had done."

Don Maggiano had long waited for a moment to reconvene the Capi, and with Niccolo out of office for the moment, he felt that now was the perfect time to meet. He sent out black notes, with an indication to meet again in Messina. The time wasn't told, but everyone knew to be there as soon as possible.

And of course, everyone would come except for Caesarini.

It was the middle of the night in the Caribbean Sea. Everything was peaceful and quiet. Normal was the best word that would be used to describe the situation in all of the Caribbean Sea except on one island. La Tortuga Island was an island situated north of Venezuela and it was abandoned except for a small military facility on the eastern edge of the island where an air defense command site was established, which could provide air defense and missile defense protection for Venezuela. The island was a little over 63 mi² in area and that was good enough for what they needed. The air defense command site took up only about a third of the island, which meant that they could use the other two thirds without anybody knowing it. The cover project would be to build a small helicopter field on the island, underneath which would be the Force Tiger facility.

It would be almost as extensive as Zeta Facility was for Force Falcon and it was definitely would be as secret. The helicopter base on the island would be the perfect cover. As excavations were being done for the base, the facility underneath would be dug out and constructed. The helicopters would be flown by special detachments of army pilots who flew for Black Operations Groups and Special Operations Groups. Because the island was only about 50 miles from the coast, it would be easily accessible by boat. Crews would travel to the island on boat and by helicopter.

The base would be built to hold up to ninety-six helicopters ranging from Little Birds and Black Hawks to Anasazi attack helicopters and Super Hueys. Panthers and Bulldogs would be based there as well. At an estimated cost of §95 million, the facility would be state-of-the-art.

Force Tiger had been established for only a few weeks. Their facility was still being constructed so, for now, they opted to take over a small section of Montserrat to do their training, far away from the watchful eyes of the cartel. The facility wasn't expected to be ready until late October 2006 and that meant they would be training on their own, far away from the battlefield, for some time. Their training was mostly in room takedowns, precision shooting, capture and arrest, escape and evasion, and negotations. Some would go undercover as interested buyers. Some would go in as snipers and shooters. Some would be agents trying to get into the actual cartels. They were going to attack this from every aspect and angle they could and when one cartel was knocked down, they would focus their attention on the next one. Since the Florida Cartel was considered the most powerful, at the moment, they went elsewhere, to the Esmeralda Cartel. From there they would see what the situation between the Meta Cartel and the Florida Cartel was. Ideas washed through their heads. Would they incite a war between the two cartels or was that too risky? They didn't know but time would tell.

With all of the Capi in Messina, Maggiano felt that the recent events occurring around the world were troubling enough. However, he finally had the leverage to boot out Caesarini and the troublesome Maria. Of course, there was still Luigi, but he began to feel the worst for his eldest son. He was more happy that Giuseppe was still here, but he would have rather had both sons around the Family. Included in this discussion were the same Capi, and his lovely wife - Maria - with his new protege, Gaston. Giuseppe was also in attendance, holding hostage one of Sparetti's associates, Luciano. Having the whole family around, Maggiano felt that the time was ripe for a good and long discussion without any youthful insolence.

"Benvenuto, mi amici, mia famiglia. E tempi malventi, ma sono molti beni, non?" [Welcome, my friends, my family. It's a troubling time, but we are all well, right?]

Everyone nodded. Maggiano continued in his usual course Italian. "Well, I'm sad to say that Caesarini has officially parted ways with the family, but it does him a worse bidding. We've all had troubles with him, I am certain of that. But you know, we are all here, and we are well. That's what really matters. We don't need Caesarini, as much as he doesn't need us - apparently. I read in the papers the other day that his house was raided by Roman police. And there was also the article about his Senator being involved in numerous scandals, so many that he killed himself to avoid the public shame. We can see what a shady character Caesarini was, and we're probably better off without him.

"Well, we've had our share of problems, and I think we can safely assume operations, as usual. Don Piscitelli - what news from Milan?"

Piscitelli stood up and gave a run-down on his businesses: "I've managed to pull off a profit margin of about 65% from two years back. Competition in wood-working is dying in Milan, but with our extensive networks, we're prospering very nicely. No one else can boast as much a margin as we can, especially crates and boxes - those seem to be in demand always, regardless of the season.
"We're doing rather well for our coke deals. The Imperium hasn't been very active, and while my contacts are careful not to become too embroiled in an actual conflict with the Doomanum, it's been good business. We've probably gained a market of about 5%; a high estimate for that, but regardless, it's growing."

"Bene," Maggiano said. "I love to hear about growth. It's encouraging, and Italy has so many sorrows to drain." As Piscitelli sat down, puffing a Cuban, Raguso stood up with a gentle interruptiong. "Mi dispiace, mio capo." [Pardon me, Capo.]

Maggiano nodded and allowed Raguso to speak. He liked Raguso - he was polite and pious, as always. "I've been running some troubles recently. I didn't realize that the family had had problems with Caesarini, but I had to deal with Caesarini's involvement in my affairs. Two years ago, he sent a murderer to my father's abbey, to lie and wait for an opportunity to kill him and me. I arranged for a few murders, thinking that the family would not approve. But now that I hear this news, I'm somewhat disappointed that this family couldn't have solved this problem before Caesarini went away."

Maggiano nodded. "Caesarini is being resolved. You don't have to worry about him anymore."

"But then who takes up Rome now?"

"I will figure that out soon enough," Maggiano said, motioning to Raguso to be seated. He therein complied and sat. He wasn't interested in Rome, but he didn't like the idea that Rome was open. It was the heart of Italy, even more so than Sicily. But Silvestro did have plans about what to do with Rome, and Sparetti had given him the just the right material for the project.

Alessandro received a notice on his desk from an associate. It was a surprise notice, and as with anything, Alessandro hated surprises. "I don't hear any bombs," he remarked.

"It's got more to do with it than you might think." Alessandro nodded and hung up the phone. He listened attentively as his associate spilled the news. At its conclusion, Alessandro realized that a good deal of network was at risk.

"This government worker knows about DVQ, and he's currently awaiting interrogation. See to it that it never happens. And deal with Michelangelo - he's got loose lips."

In Cotland, the crackdown on drugs had carried on in the silent, and the medias were starting to question the new policy the Rothsky government had started. There had been no new large-scale busts since the incident with the REAF agents shooting the suspects four months ago, and that got the medias buzzing. Opinion polls preformed for TV2 showed that only 23% still had confidence in the new anti-drug campaign, while a whooping 57% believed that it was all just a PR-stunt to gain votes for the election next year.

What they didn’t know was that the shadowy secret services, the Intelligence Service (FO/E) and the Security Service (FO/S) had been reorganized and made more streamlined, and that a lot of former black operations groups and special operations groups had been removed, reorganized or joined into various others. That work had been completed three weeks ago, and since them the newly established 9th Department in FO/E, the special department responsible for obtaining information on organized crime, had been busy collecting information on the drug cartel operating in Cotland. They were assisted by the 2nd Department (human intelligence) and 3rd Department (signals intelligence), and gathered much information. They had much information already three months ago, but they wanted to take it all down in one, devastating blow. By now, they had enough to take down more than three hundred suspects, ranging from low-level dealers to top-level bosses. A large operation was being planned, one that would require personnel from both Hærens Jegerkommando (Army Rangers), Marinens Jegerkommando (Naval Rangers), Forsvarets Spesialkommando (Special Rangers), the Police, REAF, 2nd Department (domestic security) in FO/S, and the Prosecutor’s Office. Even the Birkebeiners, the elite and highly secret elite force responsible for protecting the King would be involved in the operation. They would all execute the operation, which had been codenamed Friele, on the night to the 12th of October. It would span around the entirety of the Realm.

At midnight, Oslo time, the operation began. Hours earlier, the police officers, agents, operators and special agents had moved into position, assisted by every law enforcement agency and military branch in the Realm. Agents and operators clad in olive tactical suits with black tactical vests, helmets and submachine guns moved in buildings and clubs, arresting the subjects. Houses were stormed by operators and agents. During the course of that night, hundreds of people were arrested. Fourty others were shot dead after resisting arrest. More than ten thousand men and women participated in the operation, and there were no fatalities on the government’s side, although some were shot. However, the most spectacular part of the operation was the events that took place in the Norwegian Sea, at the brink of Cottish territorial waters.

The cargo ship Devian, registered in Layartebian Panama, had sailed from Charleston, Layarteb a week ago with a heading for the Cottish port of Narvik. According to the manifest her owners had filed with the Cottish authorities, she carried furniture and miscellaneous goods. In other words, just another one of the many ships moving from Layarteb to Cotland and back. FO/E believed she transported, in addition to the items listed in her manifest, a shipment of the new drug Valkyr for the Cottish market. Therefore, she was added to the list of targets for Operation Friele.

Lurking silently below the waves, the Scorpion class nuclear attack submarine S-526 stalked the Devian as she sailed at a steady twelve knots towards Narvik. The seas were calm, and the night was cold and dark. No one noticed the periscope emerging a thousand meters behind the Devian as she preformed a final sweep. It was 23.46, and in the lockout chamber behind the sail, a team of twelve Naval Rangers got out, dressed in diver suits, with diving equipment on over the tactical equipment and submachine guns that were strapped to their bodies. The water was dark and very close to freezing, but the rangers were trained in this kind of operating conditions and worked quickly. A minute later, two large black rubber objects were rising to the surface as they were filled with air, rangers following closely. They reached the surface quickly and silently. Six rangers got into each of the zodiacs, got out of the diving equipment, readied their weapons and started the specially modified engines. By 23.51, both zodiacs were manned and ready, moving towards the Devian, a thousand meters out. The engines had been modified to give away as little noise as possible, and the rangers were very silent. They carried L101A1 Submachine Guns with flashlights, silencers and red-dot sights attached, with L104A2 Tactical Assault Pistols in the holsters, they too being equipped with silencers.

At 23.59, the zodiacs were alongside the Devian, one on both sides, and the rangers were ready to board. They had practiced this tactic for many years, and knew exactly what to do. Climbing the side was a bit tricky, but they did it and got up. Being very careful to avoid roaming guards, the rangers boarded the ship and got their weapons out. The twelve men would divide into six pairs. Two pairs would secure the bridge, while one would secure the engine room. The rest would secure the cargo hold and rest of the ship. They estimated that a maximum of ten persons were aboard, but they would take no chances.

Using stealth tactics, the men crept along the white-painted metal bulkheads of corridors towards their objectives. The pairs heading for the bridge spotted two guards standing outside, smoking and talking. They carried weapons alright. They had Uzi submachine guns, and from the looks of it, they weren’t very proficient with them, holding them in a clumsy manner while talking. The men preformed the take-down quickly, going for single shots to the head. There was little more than a silent metallic sound that was drowned in the natural noises a ship underway makes. Both bodies were captured before they could fall to the ground to make any noticeable noise, and stowed away inside a closet before the rangers moved on. Finally, they were outside the bridge. Using the encrypted tactical communications equipment, the team leader waited ‘till the other pair was in position on the other side of the bridge before he counted down from three. On “go”, the rangers ripped open the door and stormed in, taking the bridge crew of three by surprise. With four submachine guns trained on the men, the rangers shouted to further intimidate them into doing as ordered.

“GET DOWN! GET THE FUCK DOWN, NOW!”

When they failed to comply at once, one was shot in the knee, the 10x21mm hollow-point round completely shattering the knee cup, crippling the man. With that, they got down quickly.

Throughout the ship, the pairs did their job, detaining the crew. A total of four members of the crew were shot dead, with another two wounded. As estimated, the crew consisted of eleven men, all of them Hispanics. The survivors were all detained.

At 00.18, the pair searching the cargo hold hit the jackpot. Underneath a crate filled with DVD-RWs, the men found a total of ten crates filled with Valkyr, four filled with medical grade heroin, and six with cannabis. That was more than sufficient to effectively sentence the surviving crew members to death.

Radioing in the findings, the team held the ship until assistance in form of a Indefatigable class destroyer came two hours later to man and escort the Devian into Narvik harbour, where REAF agents were waiting to take the crewmembers into custody. They were all identified as Layartebian citizens, and as per procedures, the Ministry of Justice sent a message to the legal attaché in the Layartebian embassy the next morning.

ROYAL MINISTRY OF JUSTICE [RoC]
12OCT2006-0832
ENCRYPTION MEDIUM

Special Forces operators boarded the Layartebian-registered cargo vessel Devian in Cottish territorial waters last night as per article 6 in the Protection of the Realm Act, after having received tips concerning the possibility of the ship being used to smuggle drugs into the Realm. After securing the ship, our operators found a large amount of illegal narcotics in the cargo hold.

The crew, all of them Layartebian citizens, have been detained and will be charged with smuggling illegal narcotics into the Realm. In addition, four Layartebian citizens have been shot dead when resisting arrest. Their bodies will be returned to Layarteb after an autopsy.

We are informing you about this because the vessel in question was registered in Layarteb, and the crew was Layartebian. In addition, we have reason to believe that the drugs originate from within Layarteb.

The Devian incident was but one of the many take-downs occurring in Cotland that night. Operation Friele was certain to have an effect on not only the Cottish drug world, but also suppliers in other parts of the world. Still. While the authorities had ripped away a lot of infrastructure for the drug suppliers, there was still a lot remaining. The war would continue.

Encrypted Communique
To: Cottish Royal Ministry of Justice
Fr: Layartebian Ministry of Justice
Re: Layartebian Prisoners

The Layartebian Ministry of Justice would like to congradulate the Cottish Royal Ministry of Justice for their capture of these dangerous criminals. The Empire wishes only to be able to interrogate the prisoners to learn what we can to stop the drug trade within our own borders. We also wish to obtain a sample of the captured drugs so that we may be able to locate the origins of them. The Empire will not claim recognition to these citizens if they are found guilty and will revoke their citizenship. We do ask for a fair trial as well for these citizens but if they should be found guilty, we do wish for them to be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

The Minister of Justice

Henning was recovering, but not nearly as fast as his life depended or better yet the lives of thousands if not millions. As if the gunshots weren’t enough, someone somehow got word that he knew about DVQ; information that would most surely put a large price on his head. Yet his mental state left any comments he made while battling in and out of conciseness suspect at best. In a metaphorical way, he was a boy crying wolf one to many times. At first, high security was kept around him; he had been accused of killing a high ranking official and had been involved with the recent drug dealings that tore through the streets of Madagascar. Yet, with his ID confirmed, he was given a little breathing room. He surely wasn’t going anywhere and the government didn’t want to scare him by forcing anything on him. At this point all they wanted was answers but seemingly every villain in the world simply wanted him dead.

When talking about villains it would be a crime, pun intended, to leave out Raven. Raven had been keeping busy keeping to the shadows and making sure the bomb got to where it was supposed to go and, in a glimpse of good heartedness, not harm anyone of innocence. When word reached him that Henning wasn’t dead, business had to be finished. Henning provided the link between them and DVQ, or at least Kibwe. His first intentions were to kill Kibwe but his involvement in mafia affairs would make things a little too complicated. He was a good soldier so he’d be spared unless the mafia took him down in which case what was done was done. Raven never got attached to anyone, or better yet nobody got attached to Raven. That’s how it was and that’s how it was going to stay. This mission, however, was too important to be left to anyone. Henning had to die and in a hospital in the middle of Windhoek under guard, although light, would be no easy task.

Kibwe and Nibori were to stay close to the bomb while Raven left Layarteb en route to Namibia. Henning’s days seemed numbered.

The War on Drugs, in Layarteb, had enormous impacts. Cartel members were running scared, accusing opposition of selling them out, trading them away for protection. The Governor of South Eastern Virginia, knee deep in the muck, on both sides of the equation, could only assure the cartels that he was doing his best to protect them. His promises were falling on deaf ears. The government had not grown suspicious of the Governor but he would be in the spotlight soon enough. Grenada had cast him right into the spotlight immediately and he fought off the negative press there, only to regain it with the drug war. Some reporters were so bold as to accuse him of helping the cartels, an accusation which the Emperor personally rejected. It was reassuring but they were out for blood and even the Emperor began to have his doubts. Raids were coming up short and the cartels were having more success fighting each other than he was having against them.

Cocaine and marijuana fields were destroyed as fast as they were regrown and it seemed as if the movements of the 6th SOG were under constant watch. The cartels knew who was coming and who was going and only the Florida Cartel seemed to be out of the business. They were far removed, based out of Cuba and conducting a good deal of business. The fighting between the Meta and Esmeralda Cartels was taking heavy tolls on their business, which the Florida Cartel was all too happy to make up for and reap profits.

At Narvik Fort, the old coastal defense fort that protected the entrance to the coastal city of Narvik, there was activity. Normally, the fort was abandoned and used only sporadically, being available for reservist training and a part of the wartime mobilization plans with its twenty 250mm cannons and recently added missile launchers, but not now. The seven prisoners were all transported to the fort before morning broke in M100A4 MTV five-ton trucks, the two wounded ones recieving only the most basic medical care by a medic before leaving the ship. Inside the fort, they were dragged out, all of them restrained on hands and feet, gagged, deafened with earmuffs and blindfolded, before they were dragged from the courtyard and down into the basements of the fort. Here, an interrogation team from the 2nd Department from FO/E, the intelligence agency waited. The prisoners were all thrown into each their stone cell and left, restrained, blinded and unable to speak while the team prepared.

Four hours later, the first one was pulled out and down a long stone corridor, through a set of heavy blast doors and down another corridor before they entered a dark, cold room. The prisoner was placed on a metal chair before the two men that had dragged him removed the blindfold, earmuffs and gag. He could see nothing but a very bright light shining directly into his eyes, the rest being darkness. He had no chance to let his eyes adjust to normal light. He was confronted immediately.

"Who are you?" a deep man's voice asked matter-of-factly.

"I am a Layartebian citizen. I demand to speak with my embassy!" the man said with a hint of terror in his voice, hoping that the man would do as he demanded.

"Perhaps later. Who are you?" the voice continued.

"I know my rights!"

"Drug smugglers have no rights in the Realm. Who are you?"

"What? I know nothing of any drugs!" The prisoner cried out in shock.

"We found them while searching the ship you captained. Now, are you going to tell me who you are, or do I need to ask my associates to help you remember?" the mans voice said, at which time the outline of a big gorilla of a man appeared in the eyesight of the man. It was enough to scare the man into submission.

"I am Ernesto DeSilva. I am fourty-nine years old and I live in Santiago de Cuba in Cuba, Layarteb."

"See. That wasn't hard, was it? What were you carrying drugs aboard the Devian?"

"Furniture from Falcon City, consumer goods from Layarteb province."

"Nothing from Raef or South Eastern Virginia?"

"Nope."

"I don't believe you. You see, we found a substance called 'Valkyr' in the cargo holds of the Devian. Do you know what 'Valkyr' is?"

"I've heard of it in the news back home."

"Then you know that it's a very bad thing to have in your cargo hold. How did it get there?"

"How the hell should I know?"

"You're the master of the Devian. Surely you know where your cargo comes from. Where did you load the 'Valkyr'?" the voice continued, somewhat annoyed with the answer the man gave. The outline of the gorilla appeared again, scaring the man.

"We loaded it in the middle of the North Atlantic. From a ship called 'Diego's Delight'. She's registered in Guantanamo. That's all I know."

The interrogators didn't believe their own ears. He was actually coming clean, and in the first interrogation alone! They had expected to use at least a day on breaking him. Happy, they continued to question him, keeping the same neutral voice.

"Where were you supposed to deliver it?"

"To a fishing vessel off Murmansk."

"What vessel?"

"I don't know the name. I know only the registration number. It's M-NRKO. I swear to God, that's all I know!" the man exclaimed. He would probably have made the sign of the cross had his hands not been restrained.

"Okay. We'll talk again later Ernesto." the voice continued, at which the gag, earmuffs and blindfold was returned and Ernesto was dragged out. He would be transfered to the nearest REAF facility, the one in Tromsø, later that day and be formally charged with drug smuggling. There, personnel from the Layartebian embassy would be allowed to question him. The information Ernesto had given would be analysed, the relevant parts transfered to the Layartebian embassy within a few hours so they could take whatever actions they saw fit.

The Ministry of Justice was pleased with the information that the Cottish had given and the legal attaché in Cotland was all over the case from the start. They had a list of priorities that included interrogating the suspects, searching the vessel, and trying to figure out what all of this meant. They knew that Valkyr was a popular substance in the world and that the Florida Cartel hit a gold mine when they made the wicked substance. What they wanted to know is where it came from, who gave it to them, and why were they transporting it. They needed details and the more details they had, the more they could put the pieces of the puzzle together.

M-NRKO, or Rodovan as she was christened was a oceangoing fishing boat registered as homeported in Murmansk City, Murmansk, but it was currently listed as being out fishing in the area east of Svalbard. Given the suspicions FO/E had, and the power they posessed in the government apparatus, the Naval Air Station in Longyearbyen on Svalbard was ordered to get a Super Orion in the air to search for the vessel.

Two hours later, the Super Orion was at 600 meters underneath the heavy gray clouds that signalled that the winter storms were coming, looking for the vessel among the vastness of the Barents Sea. From the records, Rodovan was painted blue and white, but she could have been repainted many times since she was registered six years ago. Using the radar systems, the Super Orion looked for anything on the scope, and it picked up several targets. Thus, it could do nothing than to go to each blip on the screen and get a visible confirmation on the vessel's registration code, which they in this case hoped to be M-NRKO. They had already checked seven vessels, none of them matching the description, and the crew was getting tired. They still had fuel for another six hours of searching before they had to return to base for fuel, a fact the seven systems operators in the rear cursed. The Super Orion was new, but the air at 600 meters was cold, and the isolation wasn't the best, and sitting still for several hours stopped the circulation of blood through the body, making the person more receptible to cold.

"Pass på. Kontakt sytten nautiske sørøst." [Heads up. Contact seventeen nautical miles south-east.] one of the radar operators said, to which the pilot acknowledged and turned the aircraft from its eastern course to the south-east. After a few minutes, the Super Orion got within visual range and started checking the contact with its Forward-Looking InfraRed system. After a quick check, one of the operators got a good read on the idenfitication code: M-NRKO. Finally. The good news was passed along, and the crew got to work, notifying FO/E via the base in Longyearbyen while the Super Orion circled the target a few times. Finally, it was ordered to stalk the vessel from a distance and continuously inform the sector command. If it left Cottish territorial waters and was about to enter the territorial waters of another nation, the aircraft was ordered to sink it. The Super Orion was loaded with six Mk.50 Mod 2 Barracuda lightweight torpedoes and two AGM.5/C AMESMs in its internal weapons bay in the rear of the aircraft, and it could easily sink the Rodovan if it was required.

FO/E quickly found out that two Coast Guard vessels, one Svalbard class icebreaker and one Harstad class large cutter was in the immediate area, and ordered them to intercept the Rodovan and inspect her. The Svalbard would reach the Rodovan first, arriving in four hours. The Harstad would join the party two hours after that.

http://www.fisknett.no/images/kvsvalbard.jpg
Svalbard class vessel heading for the Rodovan.

The Svalbard was a 103.7 meter long, 19.1 meter wide Coast Guard vessel with a draft of 6.5 meters and a displacement of 6,500 tons, and being armed with a 76mm ETC cannon, it was more than capable of handling with pirates, drug smugglers and others who threatened the Cottish interests that the Navy wasn't required to take on. Moving at near her max speed of 32.6 knots, she reached the area relatively quickly and established contact with the Super Orion to get an update while her two utility helicopters and an armed boarding party was being prepared. The boarding party consisted of experienced sailors, and being armed to the teeth with shotguns, submachine guns and pistols, they weren't afraid of whatever waited on the Rodovan. As the Svalbard reached the Rodovan, the captain of the Coast Guard vessel spoke over the radio.

"Mike November Romeo Kilo Oscar, this is Coast Guard Vessel Whiskey 3-0-3. You are ordered to heave too and prepare to be boarded for a routine inspection."

That apparently didn't go well with the Rodovan, because it suddenly started manouvering and increasing speed, black diesel smoke bellowing from its smoke stack.

"November Romeo Kilo Oscar, you will heave too or we will open fire! This is your last warning!" The captain said over the radio before ordering to intercept her. The Svalbard headed directly for the Rodovan at ten knots, using an old tactic called "chicken." They hoped that the Rodovan would stop or at least alter course, or else they would get a serious dent in the hull and scratched paint. The Rodovan tried to manouver away, but the Svalbard matched course. In the front of the Svalbard, inside the turret for the 76mm ETC cannon, the sailors were busy loading shells and keeping the Rodovan, or rather its bow, in their sights. At the Svalbard was three hundred meters away, the order to give her a warning shot was given, and the cannon was fired. The 76mm projectile slammed into the water thirty meters ahead of the rouge fishing vessel, sending a spray of water over her bow and superstructure. It didn't seem to help, since she didn't slow down. With that, the captain maintained the course and ordered the helicopters to take off.

The Coast Guard was being equipped with the new H-27/A Delfin helicopter, but they were still being built so the Svalbard only had one of the new Delfins, having an old H-26/C Lynx II for the time being. It was an old design, and not as capable as the newer Delfin, but they could still get the job done. The Delfin and Lynx II both took off from the flight deck and started circling the Rodovan, having general purpose machine guns in the doors. The helicopters both flew directly in front of the bridge of the Rodovan, aiming their GPMGs at it, but holding their fire. They tried to get her to stop. Killing the bridge crew wouldn't do that. Besides, they weren't authorised to sink her.

Eventually, after an hour of constant circling and four more warning shots, each one coming closer to the hull of the Rodovan, her master had had enough. The Rodovan heaved too just as the Harstad class entered the area. With the Svalbard taking up position along the port side and the Harstad taking up position on the starboard side, helicopters flying overhead all the time and the Super Orion also in the air, watching, a boarding party was lowered from the Svalbard.

http://www.odin.no/filarkiv/243658/fig2-1.jpg
Rodovan having been intercepted and stopped.

The boarding party went aboard via a RHIB lowered from the Svalbard, having taken their precautions. They were heavily armed, and the helicopters were flying overhead, ready to give fire support if needed. The boarding party of eight men boarded the vessel and kept their weapons ready, detaining anyone in their sights. Four men were sent to secure below decks while the other four headed for the superstructure and bridge to detain the skipper of the vessel. Everyone encountered were also detained at gunpoint and restrained before moving on. Yelling and aiming their weapons at the suspects helped to stop them.

After ten minutes, the ship was secured and the crew of twenty had been detained and restrained. It had been an anti-climax, having fired no shots since the crew didn't really put up much of a fight. Clearly, they thought they had nothing to fear since they believed the Cots could prove nothing. Aboard, the boarding party had found no drugs, but a few small-arms had been found along with burned paper remains in the mess hall. Clearly, they had tried to destroy the evidence of their criminal activities. It was a setback, but a minor at that. They had them on illegal fishing charges, having discovered too small masks in the fishing nets and more fish than their quota allowed for them to fish. That was in itself a serious economic crime in the Realm, and enough to detain the crew and the ship itself. The ship was manned by a prize crew while the detainees were brought over to the Svalbard, which had enough cells for the crew in its brig. The Svalbard would escort the Rodovan to Tromsø where the crew would be formally charged and further questioned by the civilian authorities.

He arrived at the hospital at 1800 precisely. His footsteps were calm, concerted, contolled, everything driven by impulse machinery than instinct. He walked to the counter, where the nurse attendants were frantically trying to get a hold of the situation. On one corner, the ER was going to explode with three gunshot victims and a man who had been ran over by a drunk driver. On the other side, there was a woman who has been sexually assaulted and beaten with a large metal rod. As the vices continued to pour into the room, one attendant spared some time to allow one to enter.

He turned on his way, with the nurse's instructions to Room 451, the intensive care ward. He took the elevator, a slow trip to the 5th floor [as the first floor was the ER ward]. He vacated the elevator with an absent-minded doctor. He followed him to the restroom and took care of business there, with a thin wire across the neck. If he wanted to, he could have made it messy, but he didn't want the blood to show up. After a minute of a quick struggle, the man fell limp and this assassin took up the doctor's raiments after disposing the body in a closet behind the sinks. The janitor would be well-surprised to open that door, as connected to the door was a latch that would unleash a massive firestorm and perhaps burn out a large section of the hospital in Johannesburg.

Having taken on the appearance of the doctor, he made his way to the room, under the dutiful guard of two policemen. After quickly checking the man's credentials, they let him pass through the door. Once inside, he locked the door and turned off the lights. He reached for the nurse's alarm and cut the wire. He also set up the monitoring equipment to continue their normal function as he disconnected them from the patient's body. And at the last moment, he injected a serum - sphingomyelinase D toxins from spider venom - and let it fill the dose of nearly sixteen lethal spider bites. Having done that, he carefully removed the serum and inserted a counter serum - erythropoetin - to mask the toxin. Given all of the circumstances, the doctors wouldn't care to know what was happening to him until much later, and they would only blame a spider bite for the problem.

He left the room, telling the police officers that the patient was sleeping and not to be disturbed unless a critical medical emergency was imminent. The guards nodded, as they received this warning for the 3000th time, practically. And he left the hospital, taking the slow ride down to the ER sector. He went over to the doctor's car and managed to find his way out to an abandoned cafe in the suburbia of Johannesburg. He met with an associate there.

"Is it done?"

"Of course, it is. I never miss."

"Good. Our contractor is pleased to hear this. He's got the real job for you, in this portfolio." The associate passed the folder to the assassin and let him review the contents. A silent breeze passed over them as the ghettos of Johannesburg shrieked with a horrific cry from tthe pits of its existence. The asssassin looked up and nodded - "It will have to be tomorrow."

"Soon. That's all that I can say. They want him dead, or at least unable to talk. They'd prefer dead."

"He might as well call to Gabriel and ask for a reserve seat on the ride up." The associate laughed, and left in his own car, while the assassin looked over the portfolio again. Today, he had killed Fabian Anderson - tomorrow, he would kill Otieno Henning...

Henning was still in bad shape but recovering nicely. Three bullet holes don’t exactly heal overnight especially when one bullet can make two separate wholes. Unfortunately for the thousands of people in St. Georges he wasn’t able to tell someone of the threat that had loomed, and even when he did manage to sputter out any words about the situation they were dismissed as rambling and nothing more. Now his luck was heading even worse as two men plotted his death.

He lay quietly in his starch white hospital bed drifting in and out of sleep. The hum of the medical equipment gently flowed through the room disturbed only by the occasional voice over the loudspeaker or bustling of keys from the guard outside the room. It was late, about 1:00 am. A cool breeze from the desert air snuck in from the window which was opened only a slight bit. The door slid open allowing only enough space for a man to slip through. He closed the door as gently as he had opened it. The light momentarily hit Henning’s face causing him to twitch unconsciously for he was asleep at this moment. The man’s face was dark and cold, not the usual doctor attending to Henning. He made his way to the machinery and began tinkering, with purpose and haste. He finished his work quite quickly and than moved to Henning’s side. From his pocket he removed a small syringe and injected the unknown substance into Henning’s blood. Suddenly as if mocking Henning the man’s eyes widened he turned quickly, syringe in hand, and made a thrust into the dark. Raven, who had emerged from a dark corner, caught the lunge and moved the arm into a bent position from where pressure along caused the makeshift weapon to drop. The man than twisted his leg tripping Raven to the ground. A small thud escaped as they both hit the floor. The assassin launched an elbow into Raven’s side. Next he tied to throw a closed fist into Raven’s face but with a quick roll his hand only met ground. Raven was on his feet and brought a knee into the man’s chest who let out a small grunt. Attempting to get his knees on the man’s arms, Raven was hit from behind by a flailing leg. The hit put him in range of the assassin’s fists and he was sent backwards by a half hearted right hook. Now it was the assassin on his feet however was met by a double legged kick from Raven which knocked him into a closet behind him. He stumbled to his feet only to catch the syringe in his neck. He looked up to find Raven quickly attending to Henning. The remaining poison left in the syringe quickly sent the assassin into convulsions but not for long, he was dead within the minute.

Raven quickly made his way to Henning hoping only a small dose had made its way to his blood. Still even a small dose could be lethal if not life threatening. Henning was wide awake and staring right into Raven’s eyes. Raven, with all intentions to kill, wasn’t. Henning was breathing heavy, heaving almost, and sweat was pouring down his entire body. His eyes began to roll around and he blinked sporadically. Serum had in fact reached his body and if it didn’t kill him it was about to get messy. Raven had to move fast. The assassin wasn’t quite as dead as thought but he wasn’t happy. Blood was pouring from every pore as he gasped on the floor. Vomit, mucus, and blood exited his mouth as he writhed in pain. Henning began to bleed as well and Raven was quick to patch the holes as best he could. Henning was quickly in wrapped up and set in a wheelchair. Raven exited the room past the guards whose necks seemed a bit off balance. Because of the late night not much was in motion and he made a quick exit. He was outfitted with the assassin’s doctor garments…before the man began to bleed.

He made it to a side entrance just as the alarm went off. Someone had found all the dead bodies lying around and made the entire hospital know about it. A guard quickly approached him, as a sprinting doctor with a man in a wheelchair whose bleeding was becoming intense, was quite suspicious. The guard was dead before he realized it and Raven now had a pistol. What erupted was a firefight. Firing behind him as he ran he made it past the doors and into the street. He quickly commandeered a car from a local and was speeding off into the night. The most dangerous man in Africa who was thought to be dead had just come back to life…and saved someone.

The Timeless Age of Empires: Protecting National Security (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=504075)

My claim to Andaman & Nicobar Islands. It is linked to War on Drugs.

Maggiano met up with Raguso, after the week ended, and the Mafiosi began to return home. He invited him to lunch, with his family, and Raguso knew that he ought not refuse il Capo Supremo. He came alone, and dressed in his typical white raiments, as Silvestro invited him to the table with Maria, Giuseppe, Gaston, and the prisoner Luciano. They were all present to receive the guest. Raguso stepped forward and kneeled by Maggiano's side, kissing the jewels. He then went over to Maria and "French" kissed her. He turned to Giuseppe and passed himi a warm embrace. He looked to the young Gaston and hugged him as well. He looked to Luciano and hugged him too, uncertain about Silvestro's untold promiscuity.

With that, Raguso sat and they began to eat - a simple platter of breaded calamari, vermicelli with mariana sauce and basil, and some breads. Maggiano began the conversation early:

"So, you had to deal with Caesarini's minions?"

"Si. Apparently, long planned - for two years."

Maggiano nodded as he eat a noodle. He paused before speaking again. "Well, it seems to me that you've got reason to look after Caesarini's case. Non?"

Raguso shook his head. "If it's under your hand, I don't wish to steal it from you."

"But I offer it to you. It's quite a generous offer, I'd think."

"Well... I've never liked the bastard. He was the son of a soldati bitch and I'd believe it if he weren't Italian in the first place. I've always had problems with him too. He likes to compete in our business."

"What business is this?"

"He owns the Gioiosi latifundia in Umbria and Latium. He apparently deals in bread and pasti, and I've got an extensive bakery and pastry business. I've also got some fisheries, but I don't make too much money off of these deals. But anyway, Caesarini thought that I was threatening his economic vantage, so he decided to plant a troublesome man in my midst - Lo Vecchio. He started up a rumble over five years ago in Ravenna, and I only managed to win because Lo Vecchio's supporters - including the mob boss - were caught out and I took the first hit. The fight was big enough to pull out the police, but I won them out, saying I was helping them. And I sincerely think that I did help them. Lo Vecchio was a menace, and he was better dead than alive. But apparently, he didn't die. He makes it to my father's abbey and stayed as an altarboy for 2 years, before he tried to kill me and the padre. Well - I wasn't too happy about that, so I investigated it. I found that he went through a lot of sources to get Lo Vecchio into Ravenna safely - both times. Both times, he talked to a Roman Senator Mencius. I wasted him, or aptly put, he wasted him himself. I've connected the dots and I'd like to see Caesarini's business torn apart to shreds."

"Ah, but it's such a profitable venture," Maggiano replied. "Why waste it?"

"But who's going to own it?"

"Well, you share the business. I'd say that Don Raguso take the settlements."

"But I've got Ravenna. How can I manage the two cities? Plus, I don't know half of the people in Rome! How am I supposed to continue the Mafiosi trades? Rome gets at least tens of thousands of coked people!"

"Well, I've got your solution here." He turned and pointed to Luciano. Raguso wondered what he meant by that. "This man is a man who once worked for Caesarini. One of my good men caught him and did a number with him. I've since taken him to be one of my prisoners - but I think that he'd be more useful as a soldati. He'd be yours if you are willing to finish off Caesarini."

Raguso nodded. Just then, Maria interceded with some advice: "You know, it's very lovely when a bird has laid a golden egg. The same bird that feeds you can likewise make you very rich. Caesarini happens to be such a bird - hunt the bird and prosper greatly from it. Consider it a blessing of il Capo Supremo - because it's something that he wants and something that you will want. Why wait to accept it?"

Raguso nodded. He reached to Maggiano's jewels and kissed them all. "Mio Capo, molto grazie. Io sono molto grato." [My Captain, I thank you. I am very grateful.]

Maggiano nodded and they proceeded to finish the lunch. At the end, Maggiano spoke to Luciano and they made the trade of persons. Raguso departed with the prisoner and Maggiano had his mind at ease, knowing that Sparetti would catch Maria first, and Raguso would take care of Niccolo. He wondered about his deals with the Doomanum, whether he should take it into dear consideration. Profits were coming morre slowly, but he didn't want to risk angering the Doomanum. He had made his word - but so far, the Doomanum hadn't done anything. So he decided upon this - if Raguso killed Caesarini first, he would absolve himself of any obligation to uphold their agreement with the Doomanum. After all, that was the reason for their presence - why else would he need the Inquisition to persecute Maria and Niccolo if not that?

He turned to his dear wife and they spoke together.

"How is Luigi?" Maria asked.

"He should be fine."

"That is comforting. Because even though Gaston wishes to stay, I can sense that his hearts longs for home. I cannot seduce a child like I would a man."

"Well, that is perfectly fine," Maggiano replied. "In fact, we shall bring the family to Saint Lazare once again. There he will bring the news and we shall see how things end. I don't think that his mother would refuse coming to Sicily if she knows that she has more freedom here than there. But time will tell all tales."

It had been a long time since Sparetti had seen Emilia - more so now than ever before. Once he had killed Maria, he would return home and marry la Bella Donna, semi-retire from the Mafiosi life. He was tired of it - halfway funneling drugs from wherever to anywhere, and killing people who didn't agree with that sort of lifestyle.

Bbut he still had one last contact to eliminate - after having read, reread, and confirmed reports sent by Michelangelo, his friend trailing the DVQ, and from Maria's own negligence, he was fairly confident that Alessandro was the last stepping stone before he reached Maria and the truth about Luigi. Reading more literature revealed that Alessandro was a familiar name in the Mafiosi community, not only with the Gioiosi clan and the Morelli clans, but even with Maggiano. Likely, he was a prominent assassin turned bureaucrat, which made the situation a little tricky. In any case, Alessandro would be the key to progressing to the next step.

===

Alessandro - at that moment - was contemplating his failed assassin. It was rare that two assassins targeted the same person on the same night. He realized that the noose was tightening around him, and that if he didn't get a grip on it, Maria would... and he didn't like the way that things were turning with that.

It’s interesting just how dark a city can get in the middle of the night. Ironically places hidden in daylight become safe houses for the derelict. It was in one of these locations, as red and blue sirens danced along the darkened buildings, that Raven made residence. Right in the capital of a land where he was most wanted, he lived. The car had been ditched and the only remains after the night would be the charred carcass. Henning was lying in a bed, if you’d call a small cot a bed, in the corner of a dank and drafty room. A small light hung from the middle of the room, flickering from time to time. It cast and eerie glow that illuminated the room only as much as needed…never more, never less. A small leak in the right corner was the only sound; there was no wind, no outside interference. It was a dreadful tranquility.

Henning was, as usual, in and out of consciousness yet this time he could and was feeling pain. The concentration of the venom was so much that Henning could not move; his nerves had been twisted to the point where he could no longer feel outside forces. His air pipe was tight and his brain cells were slowly dying as a result. Blood dripped ominously out of his ears and eyes and nose. A rustling was heard from a dark corner of the room, someone was sifting through something. Henning was in too much pain to even put thoughts together so he simply listened. The light flickered revealing Raven standing over him. Henning stared back suspecting death was soon even more so when Raven revealed a needle. With a deep breath Raven injected Henning who instantly went black.

As Henning slept, Raven went to work. He didn’t like competition and he didn’t like almost being killed. He had killed the assassin, who was good, so tracing him through any ID would be pointless. He would have to work backwards in a sense and they key was the venom. It wasn’t exactly over the counter and thus would have somewhat of a paper trail. Right now it was his only lead, but it would have to make due. He had his plans for Henning and for now he was much, much more useful alive.

He put in a call for his comrades in Layarteb; they’d be back in Africa in no time. The war in Grenada was over, but his war wasn’t.

The War on Drugs wasn't garnering much of a success anymore in the Empire. Recent failed operations, primarily due to surveillance of the 6th SOG meant that the drug lords were aware of upcoming raids before the helicopters and vehicles landed in front of their doorsteps. So far, the past 80 operations to net high profile cartel leaders had all been failures. Drug bosses were on the run constantly now and that was a good thing in that it meant they wouldn't be able to manage their empires too well. This was noticeable when the cocaine and heroin shipments throughout the Empire found themselves at one half the amount they were just months prior. That could be deemed a success but not in the eyes of the public. The public wanted to see apprehensions and they wanted to see burning fields. Burning fields were one thing to get, that was easy, but for every one they burned, the cartels had three more hidden. It was an uphill battle, in the rain.

Operation VENOM, the code name to the War on Drugs was widely public now. It was talked about almost nightly on the news and that was bad. The more frequently it was talked about the less accomplishments meant. If every night some little bit of information was given it just made people feel as if it were going anywhere. They needed to be kept in the dark, for now, until big operations came, which could enlighten their spirits and show them that the government was on top of things and not just sitting around, complacent.

The original mandate for Task Force VENGEANCE was becoming obsolete. The task force was public, it seemed and it needed to be rerouted and reconstructed. An initiative was on the table for its disbanding, which would give way to a new task force, Task Force "VORTEX." VORTEX would be made up of nothing but secret forces. It would include twenty men from the 13th BOG, "Force Tiger," a crew from the Central Intelligence Agency, a crew from the Central Justice Agency, and all the equipment that they needed. Their budget, their operations, their very presence would be classified to the highest level. It would be compartmentalized information, shared only with those who belonged to it and no one else, save for the Emperor, the Minister of Intelligence, the Minister of Justice, and the Minister of the Interior. If there were any leaks they would know exactly who leaked.

That led to something new as well. The Empire had well over 300 cartel members in custody and interrogation efforts were slow and unrewarding at times. Operation VIPER, the interrogation of cartel members, was another resounding failure. Cartel members were adept to torture and to the efforts of the top-notch interrogators and they feared the cartels more than the authorities. The authorities would throw them in jail or execute them. The cartels would execute their families in front of them and leave them to suffer. The repercussions were horrific if they talked and few people wanted to talk and be a stool pigeon. That was what brought on the earliest stages of Operation VIKTOR, one of the most horrific operations to ever grace the presence of the Empire. It was classified just as much as VORTEX was. It called for the use of VALKYR on prisoners for the purposes of interrogation and mind control. The prisoners would be the guinea pigs in this series of tests but it had plans to evolve further, to be used on civilians, unknowingly, to see their reactions. It had been on the table for a while but continually voted down by the Cabinet. Now it was given the approval.

The War on Drugs wasn't garnering much of a success anymore in the Empire. Recent failed operations, primarily due to surveillance of the 6th SOG meant that the drug lords were aware of upcoming raids before the helicopters and vehicles landed in front of their doorsteps. So far, the past 80 operations to net high profile cartel leaders had all been failures. Drug bosses were on the run constantly now and that was a good thing in that it meant they wouldn't be able to manage their empires too well. This was noticeable when the cocaine and heroin shipments throughout the Empire found themselves at one half the amount they were just months prior. That could be deemed a success but not in the eyes of the public. The public wanted to see apprehensions and they wanted to see burning fields. Burning fields were one thing to get, that was easy, but for every one they burned, the cartels had three more hidden. It was an uphill battle, in the rain.

Operation VENOM, the code name to the War on Drugs was widely public now. It was talked about almost nightly on the news and that was bad. The more frequently it was talked about the less accomplishments meant. If every night some little bit of information was given it just made people feel as if it were going anywhere. They needed to be kept in the dark, for now, until big operations came, which could enlighten their spirits and show them that the government was on top of things and not just sitting around, complacent.

The original mandate for Task Force VENGEANCE was becoming obsolete. The task force was public, it seemed and it needed to be rerouted and reconstructed. An initiative was on the table for its disbanding, which would give way to a new task force, Task Force "VORTEX." VORTEX would be made up of nothing but secret forces. It would include twenty men from the 13th BOG, "Force Tiger," a crew from the Central Intelligence Agency, a crew from the Central Justice Agency, and all the equipment that they needed. Their budget, their operations, their very presence would be classified to the highest level. It would be compartmentalized information, shared only with those who belonged to it and no one else, save for the Emperor, the Minister of Intelligence, the Minister of Justice, and the Minister of the Interior. If there were any leaks they would know exactly who leaked.

That led to something new as well. The Empire had well over 300 cartel members in custody and interrogation efforts were slow and unrewarding at times. Operation VIPER, the interrogation of cartel members, was another resounding failure. Cartel members were adept to torture and to the efforts of the top-notch interrogators and they feared the cartels more than the authorities. The authorities would throw them in jail or execute them. The cartels would execute their families in front of them and leave them to suffer. The repercussions were horrific if they talked and few people wanted to talk and be a stool pigeon. That was what brought on the earliest stages of Operation VIKTOR, one of the most horrific operations to ever grace the presence of the Empire. It was classified just as much as VORTEX was. It called for the use of VALKYR on prisoners for the purposes of interrogation and mind control. The prisoners would be the guinea pigs in this series of tests but it had plans to evolve further, to be used on civilians, unknowingly, to see their reactions. It had been on the table for a while but continually voted down by the Cabinet. Now it was given the approval.

Maria - where was she? The one whose pretensions had led Niccolo fumbled operations into a spectacular success - where was she hiding? She was in fact not hiding - instead, she was riding out for Buenos Aires [and Sparetti was following her distantly, hoping to find Luigi in the midst of this mess]. What would prompt her to head to Buenos Aires? Perhaps Africa was no longer safe for her... Alessandro was becoming excessively quiet and a number of the people who worked for her are now dead. In addition, the USB people were becoming more cautious of foreigners, given the large wave of violence striking the population in the wake of the nuclear blast in Grenada - arguably the most devastating event in recent history, dating at least a half-century, if not more. Even as the loss of life wasn't significant, the particular effects it had economically and politically would shift the balance of power from the North to the South - the South where Varsola controlled a massive enterprise of mutually supportive peoples. The October Alliance was hurt by means beyond their effective control, and this War on Drugs was all to blame. One could consider the political position in Layarteb to be even worse than whence they began - and it all benefited Varsola, who sucked the lost interests into their conglomerates.

But then, why would Maria travel here? The story can be saved for another time, as other elements will soon reveal the diabolical nature of Maria's manipulative side. It is the tale of how a wench can manage to turn the influence of the world on its heels and at her own will. 30 years of Mafiosi life has crafted a talented and wretched characters - the likes of which the world will never forget, and yet at the same time, never truly know or appreciate.

She strolling on the airplane, while Niccolo slept. She quickly ventured to the rear of the plane, revealing Sparetti's prize - Luigi Maggiano, bound in duct tape and wrapped like a mummy without limbs. The only holes in his uniform were the two holes for his nose. Imagining that he had not eaten or drunk anything for such a long time was hard, but of course, Maria realized how valuable such a prisoner was - so the mouth was occasionally opened, simply for the convenience of feeding him. The first few weeks were hard to come by, but eventually, feeding time become such a value to Luigi that he never complained, realizing that his survival was better secured if he just shut up. And it worked to Maria's advantage as well - a more complacent prisoner was easier to handle and less likely to stir up trouble.

At that time, several of her personal entourage - all females - were feeding him, at the same time satisfying whatever sensual desires he might have had [Maria understood partitions of the male mind and easily could work to feed it by forcing one of her subservient persons to satisfy those pleasures - something that earned her reputation as a "witch" with Don Maggiano]. She liked what she was seeing, although it was still awkward to witness. She then passed to the head of the group and gave her instructions: "Once we arrive in Buenos Aires, I want you to take his rancid body out to Patagonia. Do whatever you wish to him - but be certain that you receive no calls from me, and only me, you drop his body into the sea. Until then, deal with him as it so pleases you, as long as he doesn't die before hitting the waters. If Maggiano makes no effort to seek an entract - which is unlikely - I want the sharks to dismember his body."

"Si, mia donna."

"Good. Now again, I will not be doing anything particularly necessary in Buenos Aires, but if Maggiano is doing what I think that he's doing, we'll be receiving a reply very soon."

After a week of trial, it was time for the sentencing in what had become known as the Teen Drugs case in the Jamaican courts. The defendants were all present along with their lawyers, looking rather respectable and moved by the seriousness of the occation. Well, all but Nina Storengen that was. Prior to being led away from the jail where she had been kept, she had been given a rather strong sedative, calming her down in an attempt to avoid any further outbursts like those witnessed in the pre-trial hearings. Now, they all just waited for the judge to appear and the sentencing to begin.

"All rise!" The bailiff spoke as the judge entered the court room and banged her gavel. She flipped open a folder.

"Will the defendants please rise," she said as she took a sip of water. "The court hereby finds Jonas Fjeld guilty on all charges, Line Førde guilty of illegal use of illicit substances, illegal purchase of illicit substances, and drug trafficking, Mikkel Rasmussen guilty of illegal use of illicit substances, illegal purchase of illicit substances, and drug trafficking, Tim Quist guilty of illegal use of illicit substances, illegal purchase of illicit substances, and drug trafficking, Nina Storengen guilty on all charges. The court hereby finds all defendants not guilty of conspiracy to aide the Florida Cartel abroad. The court recommends the maximum sentence allowable by law for Jonas Fjeld, that of 50 years with parole after 25 with good behavior. The court recommends the following sentence for Line Førde, Mikkel Rasmussen, and Tim Quist, 20 years with parole after 10 with good behavior. Lastly, the court recommends that Nina Storengen serve 40 years with parole after 20 with good behavior. As agreed upon by the Empire and the Cottish Realm, these sentences will be upheld in Cottish prison facilities. I do hope that you failures thus far in life and your reckless disregard for law, order, and civility be corrected while you are incarcerated. Good day. Court is adjourned." She banged the gavel once more and that was it, it was delivered.

While the sentences hadn't been what the lawyers had hoped for, it had been expected. So too had the harshness of the sentences, but it was to be expected. The Layartebians had made an example of these five teenagers, who were taken away by the baillifs.

Later that evening, a military transport aircraft of the type C-12/J Super Hercules, belonging to the Royal Cottish Air Force landed on Jamaica to transport the five teenagers, now prisoners, back to Cotland. The aircraft taxied over to the designated spot where a motorcade was waiting. Finally, the aircraft stopped, and the doorway was opened.

Sixteen persons stepped out of the aircraft, three of them dressed in olive nomex flightsuits, one of them dressed in a civilian suit, and the rest of them dressed in camoflage battle uniforms with a black armlet with the letters MP stitched into the fabric on their right shoulders, and with red berets. The Military Policemen and -women and the civilian walked over to the Layartebian delegation, where the civilian signed a few papers on the behalf of the Realm and accepted the responsibility for the five teenagers.

Once the papers had been signed, federal marshalls opened the doors to the black Suburbans and dragged the teens out, one by one. All of them were restrained pretty well, with hand-cuffs and leg irons, and with two marshalls on each arm, escorting them over to the waiting Military Police, who took over. Apparently the teens thought that they were home free now, and that they had been saved, but no such luck. The MPs had been given instructions that these five were prisoners of the Realm and that they were to be treated as such. Therefore, when Mikkel said that it sure would be good to go home and one of the MPs escorting him slapped him over the head and shouted, "The Prisoner shall not speak!" in Cottish, their hopes were shattered. Sulking and with hanging heads, the teens were dragged into the Super Hercules one by one and secured in the specially modified aircraft.

In the Realm, air transport of prisoners was a job for the military. While the police and REAF were well respected, efficient and very tough organizations, they were still challenged by the criminal elements. Since they were restricted by laws and regulations, they couldn't always prevent a jailbreak from happening. However, the military had no such restrictions on them, and the Military Police personnel had standing orders to kill anyone attempting to free a prisoner, and they had on several occations. Since most of the criminals were cowards that didn't want to risk their lives, there had been no rescue attempt from prisoner air transports for the past eleven years. The military could also be rougher against the prisoners than the police could, something which helped keep the prisoners in line during the flights.

It was that stone-hard attitude that the Military Police officers had that kept the teens from protesting when they were placed in the relatively uncomfortable seats inside the caged area in the middle of the cargo compartment of the Super Hercules and restrained with more metal and leather, and gagged, blindfolded and restricted of the ability to hear anything thanks to the ear mufflers the MPs placed on them. They protested a little at first, but after a few slaps in the head with the flat palm of a hand, they calmed down.

Twenty minutes after the handover, the prisoners were set to go and the aircraft had gotten its fueltanks topped. They were ready to go. The civilian from the Justice Ministry thanked the Layartebians for the cooperation and promised regular reports about the teens to the Layartebian embassy.

Fourty minutes after landing, the aircraft was set to go, and after recieving clearance to take-off, it did and set a course for Norway. It would reach its destination after three refuellings over the Atlantic Ocean in about twelve hours.

News of the demise and collapse of the Esmeralda Cartel turned everything around for the Empire and its "War on Drugs." People flocked to the streets to celebrate and both the Florida and Meta Cartels shook in fear. The demise of the Esmeralda Cartel was a long story, one that began in Venezuela and ended in Venezuela. The Esmeralda Cartel made the bulk of their money through marijuana, cocaine, and heroin. The marijuana and cocaine was easily traceable and stepped up programs to burn the fields and destroy their harvests took a while to show results but soon cut their production in half and then, to a mere quarter of what it was. With their bank accounts drying up, their funds seized, and the capture of their leaders, the Esmeralda Cartel was forced to consolidate. They turned to the one resource that the Empire had no advanced knowledge about, their heroin stocks, which were stashed far away, on the Andaman Islands. Following tips from interrogations, the Empire deployed its elite 13th BOG forces to the island chain to scout out whether or not the Esmeralda Cartel was using them to supply their heroin trade. When it was confirmed, the Marines were sent in and when it was settled, the Esmeralda Cartel was without a product. Their leaders were on the run and it was a matter of time before they were caught or killed. Over the next few months, the Esmeralda Cartel diminished in size as their leaders were captured and killed by the 13th BOG, forces so secret they could operate within the "safe neighborhoods" that the leaders took refuge in and eliminate them in their own homes and safe houses. Then, on November 3, 2006, the war with the Esmeralda Cartel was over, well over.

Intelligence and 13th BOG elements pinpointed the location of the head of the Cartel. Ten minutes later an airstrike was called in and the 13th BOG team on the cartel leader's tail took refuge and called in the coordinates. It was quiet that morning and the coordinates were relayed to a single aircraft overhead, an F-19A Ghostrider, carrying 250 pound JDAM II bombs. It dropped two bombs on the house, both from an altitude of 40,000 feet, the aircraft never been seen or heard. Both bombs soared through the air and slammed into the house with perfect precision. Collateral damage was kept to a minimum but the cartel leader was dead, very dead. His body would be taken out an hour later and his identity confirmed. Such ended the Esmeralda Cartel and now came the second step, rifling through other documents to find out what connection, if any, they had to the bombing in Saint George's.

As the War on Drugs went, it restored hope for the people of the Empire. The war, which was getting unfavorable ratings, was seen as a success and profitable. Layartebian soldiers who participated would be transferred to the next opponent, the Meta Cartel, based out of Colombia. As far as things went, this was a monumental victory, even if they wanted the drug lord alive...

The C-12/J Super Hercules landed at Sola Air Force Base twelve hours after taking off from Jamaica, having been refuelled three times over the Atlantic. The ride had been a bumpy one, with the aircraft flying through turbulence for the majority of the time. Now, they were finally back home, moving down the tarmac towards the hangars near runway 2-9, a 3,100 meter asphalt runway which was one of the two that Sola maintained.

As the Super Hercules came to a stop and disengaged its four turboprop engines, a number of vehicles rolled up to the aircraft, two Ford E150 vans and five Mercedes S600 sedans, all but one of the Mercedes' were painted in the white paint scheme with the markings that signalized that the vehicles belonged to the Police, and a few military vehicles. The seven police vehicles stopped and sixteen police officers and two men dressed in civilian suits exited the vehicles as the Military Police escorted out the teens. They were surprised to be back in Norway, and still nurtured a hope that they'd be released.

One by one, the teens were escorted over to the civilian police where they were searched by the police officers, their identity was confirmed, and the cuffs and leg irons were removed. The teens got a total of thirty seconds without the irons before their hands were forced to their back and cuffed tightly. Then they were placed on a row, forced down on their knees with ancles crossed. Then one of the civilians stepped up and placed himself in front of them.

"Dere er nå å anse som fanger av Riket. Dere har blitt funnet skyldige i alvorlige forbrytelser i Keiserriket Layarteb, og kan anse dere selv som heldige som får lov til å sone straffen i Riket. Hadde dere skulle sone i Layarteb ville dere mest sannsynlig være døde innen et år. Uansett, jeg skal informere dere om hva som skjer videre. Dere kommer til å bli tatt herfra til et dertil egnet sted der dere skal være inntil vi kan fremstille dere for retten for å ratifisere dommen. Deretter blir dere ført til det fengsel dommerene finner skikket, der dere skal sone dommen. Dere er som sagt ansett som fanger, og det betyr at dere ikke har tillatelse til å snakke, røre dere eller gjøre noe som helst uten tillatelse. Å bryte disse reglene betyr avstraffelse. Dere kommer til å lære mer om dette i tiden som kommer. Det er alt." [You are now to be considered prisoners of the Realm. You have been found guilty of serious crimes in the Empire of Layarteb, and can consider yourselves lucky that you're allowed to serve the sentences in the Realm. If you were to serve the sentence in Layarteb, chances are that you'd be dead within a year. Anyway, I'm going to inform you of what happens next. You will be taken from this place to a suitable location where you shall reside until we can get you before the court to get the sentence ratified. After that, you'll be taken to the prison that the judges find suitable, where you shall serve the sentence. As I said earlier, you are considered to be prisoners, and that means that you're not allowed to speak, move or do anything without permission. Violation of these rules equals punishment. You'll learn more of this in the time to come. That is all.]

With that, the teens were pulled up by a pair of police officers and placed inside one of the two Fords. When all were inside, the doors were closed and the small convoy drove out from the Air Force base and into downtown Stavanger, a fourty minute drive. When they got there, the teens were escorted through the garage and basement into the cells where they would sit for two days before they could be presented for the court. At least they were in Norway, and they wouldn't have any mind-games played with them like they had experienced in the Layartebian prison.

Two days later, the teens were brought before the Stavanger Criminal Court, where the three judges entered in their black robes, and sat down. With that, the rest of the court room, mainly the teens, the defense attourneys, the local prosecutor, and the parents of the teens and a few government officials on the spectator benches in the back of the courtroom.

"Retten er satt. Sak 1106/37892A, Riket mot Jonas Flejd, Line Førde, Mikkel Rasmussen, Tim Quist og Nina Storengen. Ratifisering av dom avsagt i utlandet, nærmere bestemt Keiserriket Layarteb. Har aktoratet noe å tilføye den allerede avsagte dommen?" [The court is in session. Case number 1106/37892A, the Realm versus Jonas Flejd, Line Førde, Mikkel Rasmussen, Tim Quist and Nina Storengen. Ratification of sentence delivered abroad, namely the Empire of Layarteb. Does the prosecution have something to add to the already delivered sentence?]

"Ikke på nåværende tidspunkt Herr Dommer." [Not at this time Your Honor.]

"Greit. Alle tiltalte er funnet skyldige etter tiltalen, og dommen blir da som følger: Jonas Fjeld, du dømmes herved til femti års fengsel med mulighet for prøveløslatelse om fem og tjue år. Line Førde, du dømmes herved til tjue års fengsel med mulighet for prøveløslatelse om ti år. Tim Quist, du dømmes herved til tjue års fengsel med mulighet for prøveløslatelse om ti år. Mikkel Rasmussen, du dømmes herved til tjue års fengsel med mulighet for prøveløslatelse om ti år. Nina Storengen, du dømmes herved til førti års fengsel med mulighet for prøveløslatelse om tjue år." [Okay. All defendants are found guilty as charged, and the sentences will be as follows: Jonas Fjeld, you are hereby sentenced to fifty years imprisonment with the possibility of parole in twenty-five years. Line Førde, you are hereby sentenced to twenty years imprisonment with the possibility of parole in ten years. Tim Quist, you are hereby sentenced to twenty years imprisonment with the possibility of parole in ten years. Mikkel Rasmussen, you are hereby sentenced to twenty years imprisonment with the possibility of parole in ten years. Nina Storengen, you are hereby sentenced to fourty years imprisonment with the possibility of parole in twenty years.] The judge sitting in the center said in a deep, authoritarian voice, having not even the slightest hint of compassion in it. It was because of these five teenagers a riot had erupted in Oslo, the capital of the Realm, costing many hundreds of lives, among them his brother's son. He had no compassion for them, nor did any of the other judges. After a short brake to let the teenagers get used to the idea of having to spend the rest of their youth behind the cold concrete walls of the Cottish prison, he continued.

"Line Førde, Tim Quist og Mikkel Rasmussen, dere skal føres fra dette rettslokalet til Åna Fengsel, der dere skal sone straffen. Jonas Fjeld og Nina Storengen, dere skal føres fra dette rettslokalet til Lerwick Fengsel der dere skal sone straffen. Dere kan anse dere som heldige som ble dømt i Layarteb. Hadde dere kommet dere gjennom sikkerhetskontrollen og landet i Riket med narkotikaen hadde dere uten unntak blitt dømt til døden for narkotikasmuggling. Jeg anbefaler at dere bruker tiden dere har fått til å tenke dere sikkelig godt om, og bli bedre borgere av Riket etter at dere har avtjent straffen. Retten er hevet." [Line Førde, Tim Quist and Mikkel Rasmussen, you will be taken from this courthouse to Åna Prison, where you will serve out your sentence. Jonas Flejd and Nina Storengen, you will be taken from this courthouse to Lerwick Prison where you will serve out your sentence. You can consider yourselves lucky to have been sentenced in Layarteb. Had you made it through the security checks and landed in the Realm with the drugs, you would without exceptions been sentenced to death for smuggling in narcotics. I recommend you use the time you've been given to think things seriously over, and become better citizens of the Realm after you've served your sentence. This court is adjourned.]

With that, he banged the gavel once. With that done, the three judges got up and exited the courtroom the same way they entered, leaving the teens to say goodbye to the parents before they were dragged away by court baillifs, kicking and screaming in Nina's case.

She had every reason to be kicking and screaming. She had been sentenced to serve her sentence in Lerwick Prison, located near Lerwick on the Shetlands, and being one of the thirty prisons in the Realm that fell under the penal category HARSH. These prisons were not a place you ever wanted to visit, but she and Jonas were going to spend the next twenty to fifty years there.

Penal Category HARSH is reserved for the worst of the criminals in Cotland. Here, murderers and other criminals who have had their capital punishments revoked, bank robbers, torturers and drug dealers just to mention a few are incarcerated. The prisoners are locked up in concrete cells below the surface for twenty-three hours per day, isolated from human contact. The only times they are allowed out are during one hour per day when they are given permission to enter the courtyard to get some fresh air. Meals are consumed in the cells. The prisoners are issued one thin foam mattress, a thin blanket and one pillow, which is what they have in their cells. The cells are as earlier mentioned made out of concrete, something which applies for everything inside. The bed is a concrete slab approximately two meters long by eighty-five centimetres wide, half a meter up from the concrete floor. The small toilet is also made of concrete, as is the sink. There are no windows, just a small lamp in the roof which is inaccessible to the prisoner. There is no way of the prisoner ending his own life, as the cells are under 24 hour surveillance from not only the guard peeking in the small looking hole in the metal door every ten minutes, but also from a small surveillance camera in one of the corners which sees the prisoners every move. Penal Category HARSH is for punishments ranging between fifteen years and life, and is considered Maximum Security Facilities.

The other three were a bit luckier, but only a bit. Åna Prison was a Penal Categocy MODERATE facility, meaning that it wasn't as serious as a Category HARSH facility, but it was still pretty bad to go to.

The second category in the Cottish penal system is the moderate. This category is used for prisoners who commit more serious offences, such as for instance drug abuse, burglary, threats and assaulting a police officer. The prisoners are sent to Correctional Facilities, where they are placed into single cells in cellblocks. Here, they have only the most basic of facilities. A metal bed, a toilet and a few wooden shelves to place the few personal items they are allowed to have on. The cell is sealed from the rest of the cellblock with metal bars, but there is a small window in each cell, almost at the roof, allowing for some light to enter the cell during the day. There is a strict ban against talking while in the cells except in the evening between 18:30 and 21:30. Anyone breaking the no-talking rule will be beaten by the guards. Other than that, the prisoners are free to do what they wish in the cells, as long as it isn’t illegal. The prisoners often spend approximately fourteen hours per day in the cells, the remaining hours being spent at the mess hall for the meals, in the courtyard (1 hour per day) or at work. Prisoners in Cotland are often used as cheap labour, so that they do something useful instead of just sitting in their cells doing nothing. The hard work is often so discouraging that it in itself helps keeping prisoners from returning to a life of crime, instead becoming hard-working, law-abiding citizens. This punishment ranges between six months and fifteen years, depending on the crime. Prisoners in this category also have the opportunity to get an education in the prison due to the Governments stance that they can be rehabilitated from crime, and the subsequent wish for the prisoners to become valuable parts of the society after they have served their time.

Within fourty-eight hours, all five would be in their respective prisons, getting settled and learning the prison hiearchy. As far as the Realm was concerned, the case with the teenagers was settled.

The news of the successes against the Esmeralda Cartel reinvigorated the spirit for the War on Drugs. The destruction of the Esmeralda Cartel left a massive opening in the territory covered by both of the remaining cartels. They both knew that they were next but they competed with each other now, brutally in some instances. This opened up a whole new array of problems. The Meta and Florida cartels both began to fight each other much, much, much more. They weren't fighting the Empire so much as they were fighting themselves. Things began to take a turn for the worst, although one enemy was vanquished. Now the people were going to get a real taste about just what two fighting cartels would accomplish.

The news of the successes against the Esmeralda Cartel reinvigorated the spirit for the War on Drugs. The destruction of the Esmeralda Cartel left a massive opening in the territory covered by both of the remaining cartels. They both knew that they were next but they competed with each other now, brutally in some instances. This opened up a whole new array of problems. The Meta and Florida cartels both began to fight each other much, much, much more. They weren't fighting the Empire so much as they were fighting themselves. Things began to take a turn for the worst, although one enemy was vanquished. Now the people were going to get a real taste about just what two fighting cartels would accomplish.

Maria was concerned after hearing the collapse of the Esmeralda Cartel. Time was nearing at hand, and she realized that she was no safer in Varsolan territory than she was in Africa. Sparetti had followed here instead of Alessandro, and now things were at risk for being all lost. News of the meeting Sicily passed her ears slowly but surely, and it seemed certain that Maggiano was never going to build an impasse with her, even if she had his son in captivity. As such, she felt no reason to call associates. The day was tomorrow when they would perform the drop and let Maggiano's line fall a little shorter; surely, he wouldn't mind paying the price only a little to secure Maria's doom, if it was to be that.

Niccolo was pacing himself more often, realizing that he could never return to Rome. It was at an end for them all - the true question now: whether they could or would ever survive the other Mafiosi.

The Royal wedding in Oslo was a joyous occation, and as part of the celebrations and as a show of his pleasure, the King had pardoned roughly one thousand criminals from their sentences, which ranged from between four weeks and nine years in prison. They naturally didn't let out anyone with extremely serious offenses, nor anyone who hadn't shown themselves to be repenting their sins, but still, the Police anticipated a lot of extra work in the coming weeks.

That also applied to the Narcotics Squads that each major police department had. In the city of Bergen on the western coast of Norway, there were reports from both schools and concerned citizens that teenager gangs were getting into drugs. Naturally, this had to stop, and so the Bergen Police Department's Narcotics Squad got to work. The police department had a total of nine police stations within its area of responsibility, and a staff of a total of one thousand, two hundred police officers. Of these, thirty-two were working directly with the Narcotics Squad, operating in four-man teams. It was two plain-clothes officers in one such team, driving around the downtown of the city during the late hours of the Saturday evening in an unmarked blue BMW M3, checking the scene. They were as far away from looking like a police officer as was possible. Hadn't it been for the police badges hanging around their necks under the closed jackets, they could have been anyone, possibly drugdealers.

Spotting a group of six teenagers forming a crowd at the Blue Stone in front of Hotel Norge, the two officers decided it was worth checking out. They drove the BMW down the street, parked behind the ten-story hotel and called for backup before stepping out into the chilly November evening. December was coming in a few days, but there wouldn't be any snow for a few weeks yet, as was normal. Instead, the temperature was around four degrees centigrade with cold rain pouring down.The officers closed their warm, waterproof jackets and wandered over the the crowd, who were oblivious to them.

"Ka skjer?" [Wassup?] One of the officers asked, casually, using the street slang. The teens turned and faced the two, sizing them up. Immediately, the officers noticed that at least four of them were on drugs, which meant that anything was possible. Backup was still a few minutes away.

"Isje så mye. Ke'de du ve?" [Not much. What do you want?] One of the intoxicated teens, a boy aged about thirteen or fourteen asked in a cocky voice, also using the dialected slang.

"Alle har de' bra?" [Everyone's okay?] The officer continued, ignoring the question.

"Japp. Ka e' de' dokkar ve'? Kem e' dokkar?" [Yep. What do you want? Who are you?] The same teen asked more aggressively. In the background, the two officers saw their backup arrive in form of the rest of the team, accompanied by a uniformed patrol. It was time to spill the news.

"De' e' fra politiet." [We're from the Police.] Was all the officer had time to say before three of the teens started running away from the officers, in the direction of the theatre. The backup officers saw this, and started following, badges clear. They followed the teens, who had gotten to the long line of people waiting for a free taxi, shouting out orders for the teens to stop in the name of the law. The crowd tried to block the path of the running teens in an attempt to assist the police, and stepped aside to let the police officers pass as they followed.

It wasn't long before all three had been intercepted and forced into the cold, wet bricked road, where they were searched and handcuffed. The search yealded what the police officers were after. On all three, the officers found user doses of what seemed to be that new drug from Layarteb that was beginning to flood the streets. Cottish law was very hard against crime, and drug-related crime in particular. Anyone using or who was found with a user dose on their possession faced up to two years in prison. Anyone dealing drugs faced up to life imprisonment, or capital punishment if they had been dealing to anyone under the age of 16. Drug smugglers were without exception sentenced to death and executed. All this was common knowledge, both in and outside Cotland. It was a powerful enough incentive for the teens to risk the dangers of running from the law. What was less known however was that the Constitution clearly stipulated that anyone underneath the age of 15 couldn't be held responsible before the courts. This piece of legal writing applied to two of the three, who were thirteen and fourteen, respectively.

Meanwhile, the three who didn't run were being questioned by the police officers and searched for any illegal things. They found another user dose on one, and the remaining two under the influence of narcotics. It was sufficient to bring them in to the station for further questioning, and after having been confronted with the reason, the officers handcuffed them and lead them to the large police van which would drive them the four hundred meters to the police station in downtown.

The van rolled into the police garage and parked near the entrance, followed by the four plain-clothes officers in the Narcotics Squad. They helped take the teenagers out from the van and into the booking area, a concrete room with a large desk and a gruff-looking elderly police officer, the person responsible for the people being held in the holding cells, standing behind said desk. The confiscated items were placed on the desk, and the six teens, most of them now scared shitless, were processed one by one. The officer got their personal information (name, date of birth, address, next of kin) before they were brought into the adjacent room.

Here, two large male police officers with surgical gloves on their hands waited. The floor was made of concrete and the temperature in the room was rather cold, being constantly held at thirteen degrees centigrade, making it rather uncomfortable. Here, the teens were ordered to strip. When they hessitated, one of the officers told them that there was nothing to be afraid of. The female officer that had arrested them was in the other room, and wouldn't get to see anything. That was, unless they had to be forcefully stripped. Those last two words, 'forcefully stripped', was enough for the teens to get naked, at which point they were ordered to turn around, bend over and spread the cheeks so the officers could inspect that they weren't hiding any contraband.

The whole process was probably unnecessary since it was highly unlikely the young boys had anything hidden there, but it was still carried out. Experience had shown that this humiliating (for the person being inspected) procedure had an excellent effect as a detterent for future violation with the law. Since no normal person wanted to go through the humiliating inspection again in their lives, they knew that they had to stay away from getting into trouble with the police again. Hence, nine hundred and ninety-five out of one thousand being subjected to this wouldn't get into trouble with the police in the future. Those statistics were good enough for the Justice Ministry to turn a blind eye to the process and let it go on.

After having stood in the position for ten minutes, the officers inspecting concluded that they hid nothing, and they were permitted to take their clothes back on before they were being taken to the holding cells. Alone in a three by two meter concrete cell in the basement of the police station with no source of natural light, the teens were held there for some time before being collected by the officers for questioning.

It was quickly discovered that five of the six were under the age of criminal liability, which in Cotland was set to fifteen, and thus couldn't be prosecuted. What they could do instead was perhaps even more intimidating and punishing for the kids. They called their parents!

It was half past three in the morning when the phone was finally picked up, and a tired male could be heard in the other end.

"Hallo?" [Hello?]

"God aften, mitt navn er Hans Kristiansen. Jeg ringer fra politiet. Snakker jeg med faren til Bjørnar Røde, født 23/2/93?" [Good evening, my name is Hans Kristiansen. I'm calling from the Police. Am I speaking with the father of Bjørnar Røde, born 23/2/93?]

The voice in the other end suddenly became more awake.

"Det stemmer. Christer Røde. Har det skjedd noe?" [That's correct. Christer Røde. Has something happened?]

"Din sønn har blitt pågrepet av en patrulje nå i kveld. Har du anledning til å hente din sønn?" [Your son was arrested by a patrol earlier this evening. Do you have the time to come fetch your son?]

"Selvsagt! Hvor skal jeg hente ham?" [Of course! Where shall I fetch him?]

"Sentrum politistasjon." [The police station in downtown.]

"Jeg er der om tjue minutter." [I'll be there in twenty minutes.]

"Utmerket. Vi snakkes da. Adjø." [Excellent. I'll talk with you then. Good bye.]

The officer hung up and returned to the kid waiting in his office. He could only imagine the conversation his parents were having right now as the father got dressed in a hurry.

Twenty minutes later, the phone on the officer's desk rang as he was in the middle of finishing the questioning of Bjørnar Røde, the kid who had been the big mouth earlier. He was sober now, but the police officers had documented his intoxication in the form of blood and urine samples, which would be analysed and added to the criminal wrapsheet created on the thirteen-year old. The police officer picked up the phone and was informed that the father was on his way up to the Narcotics Squad's offices on the fifth floor. With that, the officer got up and walked out to greet the concerned father. With his hand extended, the police officer spoke.

"God aften. Hans Kristiansen, politiet. Vi snakkes sammen på telefonen?" [Good evening. Hans Kristiansen from the Police. we spoke on the phone?]

"Stemmer. Christer Røde, god aften. Min sønn?" [Right. Christer Røde, good evening. My son?] The concerned father asked, shaking the officers hand. He had a firm shake, and appeared to the police officer to be a honest, law-obiding man. That only confirmed the officer's theory that there were bad apples in each family.

"Han venter på kontoret mitt. Han ble pågrepet sammen med fem andre ungdommer ved den Blå Stein for noen timer siden. Da han ble pågrepet var han påvirket av det narkotiske substanset 'Valkyr'. Flere av ungdommene han var sammen med hadde narktika på seg da de ble pågrepet. Jeg må informere deg om at din sønn ville risikert opp til to års fengsel for narkotikabruk og muligens medvirkning til narkotikaforbrytelser dersom han ikke hadde vært under den kriminelle lavalder. Vi har konfrontert ham med dette opptil flere ganger, og det virker som om han forstår alvoret i situasjonen, men vi stoler på at du vil sørge for at han virkelig forstår alvoret i situasjonen." [He's waiting in my office. He was arrested a few hours ago along with five other youths, at the Blue Stone. At the time of the arrest, he was under the influence of a narcotic substance called 'Valkyr'. Several of the youths he was along with had the substance on them when they were arrested. I must inform you that your son would have risked up to two years imprisonment for drug abuse and possibly conspiracy to commit drug-related crimes if he hadn't been under the age of criminal liability. We've confronted him with this several times, and I believe he understands the seriousness of the situation, but we rely on you to make sure that he really does understand the seriousness of the situation.]

"Naturligvis. Jeg kan love deg at dette ikke skal gjenta seg. Jeg skal forsikre at det ikke skjer." [Of course. I can promise you that this won't happen again. I'll make sure of that.]

"Det er alt vi ville vite." [That's all we want to know.] The police officer said with a smile on his face as they entered the office. The thirteen-year old stood, looking petrified. He had every reason to be. The father was very angry, and Cottish law didn't bar the parents from smacking their children around in their homes, as long as it was for a good reason. This most certainly qualified as a good reason.

"Da kan du få gå Bjørnar. Husk på hva vi snakket om, og hold deg unna det dritet i fremtiden. Greit? Vel hjem." [Then you're free to go Bjørnar. Remember what we discussed, and stay away from that crap in the future. Okay? Have a nice trip home.]

The teen only nodded as he was brought out by his father. They exited the area, and were out of the police officer's hair. Now he just had to finalize the report, something which would take another half hour, and he could be on his way back out on the streets. The night was still young...

December 2, 2006 - 09:00 [EST]
Governor's Island, Layarteb City

"Alright. Please. Let's be seated and get this done. The reports of the Yucatán are largely true. Violence within Tizimín and Peto have become completely out of control. This is so because the War on Drugs has eliminated the Esmeralda Cartel. We expected this. Rivalry between the Meta and Florida cartels in the Yucatán, which was fully under the finger of the Esmeralda Cartel has been completely suppressed. Why? That is because there are two cartels inside of the Yucatán that are fighting each other just as much as the Florida and Meta cartels."

"Yes sir. That is quite correct. The two cartels are based out of Tizimín and Peto and are called, Mayan and Metnal, respectively. Both of them are strong but only within their own territory. They're ruthless with each other and I can't begin to describe the carnage that we're facing down there." The Minister of Justice stood and spoke. "Our efforts against the Meta and Florida cartels were, sadly to say, uneffective. We defeated the Esmeralda Cartel by seizing their heroin supplies and working to eliminate them from the ground up. We're trying the same approach to the Meta Cartel. It isn't turning out so well." As the Cabinet meeting progressed, gunmen from the Mayan Cartel were moving into Peto with a van full of explosives. They drove towards the market of the town, which was packed with children and women, shopping on the Saturday afternoon. This was war and the Metnal Cartel was in their way of total domination of the Yucatán.

The traffic was thick and they pulled through the still wrecked city, parking on the street, right next to a bus stop. Their brakes squeeled as they came to a stop, turned off the truck, and climbed out of the cab. They smiled at each other and walked into the market, heading away from the vehicle, a remote control device in the passenger's hand. The market was crowded on this warm, sunny day and they had a tough time moving through the crowds quickly but they certainly did, pushing people out of their way as they walked. When they got about 400 meters from the van, they ducked for cover in a shop, which was around the corner. The two men stood in line for coffee when the passenger pushed the red button, on the small radio detonator.

The signal left the coffee shop and passed through the market at light speed. Inside the van, there were two beeps and then BOOM! The van, a 4,000 pound piece of shrapnel, turned into millions of fragments, some as small as a finger nail, some as large as a tire. The fragments tore through the market at speeds in excess of 5,000 meters per second, tearing through anything in their path. Inside the van were eight 55-gallon drums full of ammonium nitrate, weighing a total of 3,600 pounds, a powerful explosive device that detonated at 5,270 meters per second. The bomb was relatively simply made from military grade explosives, stolen during the Yucatán war.

The explosive force was well over 1,000 pounds of overpressure, killing 388 people instantly. From their wounds, another 280 would die. In total, another 600 would be wounded, the bomb blast powerful enough to destroy most of the market and two shops that were in its immediate vacinity. The carnage would reach the Cabinet meeting just before it ended. The War on Drugs was definitely beginning to take its civilian toll and all to do one thing, knock out the other cartel to get more turf, more power, and more influence. Killed in the explosion were at least ten cartel members and the family of another, his wife and son being only 18 feet from the van when it exploded.

The Yucatán state was a nightmare. The drug lords within it were powerful but only in their territory. Because of the wars and the isolation of the Yucatán following the Summer 2004 revolt, the military and police had little, if any, influence. Car bombs and kidnappings were daily news down there. Violence was escalating way out of hand and the Emperor was prepared to place the entire state under martial law, a move that could, potentially, damage rapport within the Empire itself. Martial law had been declared on a few instances but only for cities or towns or small areas and only in response to a terrorist attack or something else, something that was often never mentioned, outright. Declaring martial law in the entire state would rekindle all the hatred and sentiment that fueled the Summer 2004 revolt. The Emperor wasn't too fond in fighting another war down there. The Yucatán had been notoriously tragic, much like Kaliningrad but, unlike Kaliningrad, the Emperor managed to keep a hold of the Yucatán. He was working on gaining the rest of the peninsula from the Empire of Neuvo Rica but that was a lengthy process that would be determined by the outcome of the Varsolan War, which was, thankfully, coming to an abrupt end.

When Andrew Hunt stepped off the Layarteb Airways Boeing 777-200LR in Layarteb City, he never expected that his findings would be so popular. He had flown nearly 11,000 kilometers from Kabul to Layarteb City, on a gruelingly long, 12.5 hour flight and he was wired when he touched down on the main runway at Layarteb City IAP. Because of the free trade agreement between the United Federation of Eurasia and the Empire, commercial air routes were able to take the shortest possible paths. Citizens traveled between both countries with little problem and trade was higher than ever. Only a few weeks earlier, Premier Nasir bin Abdullah al Assad of the Eurasian Federation had met with the Emperor in Layarteb City. Amongst the many agreements was a promise and pledge by both leaders to assist the destruction of illegal drugs being imported and exported between their two countries and the world. That pledge was about to be fulfilled.

Andrew Hunt was, on the outside, an ordinary man, in good shape, who needed a shave. His beard was thick and his business suit fit him well. He strode through the terminal at Layarteb City IAP and picked up his bags, a pair of duffle bags. It was there that he was met by a man, dressed as another ordinary man. He held up no sign and gave no indication that he was waiting for Andrew other than when he and Andrew shook hands. "How was your trip?" The man asked.

"Good. It was a long flight back."

"I can imagine. We're talking twelve hours?"

"You got that right."

"We're due in the office in an hour. Do you have your findings ready?"

"Yes." From there, the two of them exited the airport terminal, exited the main area, and entered the parking lot, where the man and Andrew climbed into an ordinary sedan. It was painted green and they drove away from the airport without raising a single eyebrow. Thirty-two minutes later, they were pulling into the parking garage of the Ministry of Intelligence, the man flashing his badge on the way in, Andrew doing the same. The man was Benjamin Hasad, a man whose ancestry went back to the Eurasian Federation but who was a second generation Layartebian.

Both of them walked up the Ministry to the sixteenth floor, where they barely had a moment to take a breath before they were asked to take a seat inside the secure conference room. "Gentlemen. I trust that you have what we need?" The man at the head of the table asked.

"Yes we do. I've had a whole air trip to plan." Andrew responded, pulling his laptop from his bag. "If you allow me a few minutes to set up?"

"You'll have ten. We aren't quite ready ourselves yet."

"Very well." Andrew went to the podium in the rear of the room and hooked up his laptop ports to the data cables on the podium. The data cables served two purposes. They first allowed the image of the laptop screen to be projected to the main screen in the room. They also served to monitor the laptop, to make sure that nobody was doing any espionage. More men filed into the room and a total of eighteen people, six women and twelve men, were inside of the room when the meeting began. "Alright. If you'll please be quiet. We'll get started." Andrew felt the power of his position as the director began recording both video and audio. Every sound and movement inside the conference room would be on tape. "As you are aware, I was sent to Afghanistan, in the Eurasian Federation to investigate this man." He put a picture on the screen.

http://www.theforsakenoutlaw.com/Graphics/Nation-States/Role-Playing/War%20Against%20Drugs/faysal.jpg

"His name is Faysal Abd-Al-Malik Behnam," he articulated the long name. "He is a warlord and controls most of Oruzgan province, in southern Afghanistan. The provincial capital is Tarin Kowt. For statistical purposes, the province is 22,696 square kilometers or 8,762.975 square miles. There are about 650,000 people in the province with 7,000 of them within the city of Tarin Kowt. The city is modern but I wouldn't compare it with our cities.

"As customary with the Eurasian Federation, the government maintains a strong hold over the city but the rural areas outside of the city limits are in the hands of the warlords. Faysal controls most of the territory in the Oruzgan province. He has a big army and though they're not technologically advanced, more of a band of guerillas than anything else, they have a good amount of money and they are loyal.

"Faysal is connected directly with the Florida Cartel. He is their main supplier of poppies, with which they make heroin. He exports tons and tons of it each month, enough to supply some 72% of the Florida Cartel's poppy sources. This is what makes him a target for us. Our campaign against the Florida Cartel is succeeding but slowly. If we can cut off their poppy supplies we can make a lot of headway against them." He took a sip of water and continued, shifting the slide to some photographs he had taken around the city and in the rural areas. "As you can see there is a presence of his fighters within the city. In the countryside, they have a strong hold. They have checkpoints at countless roadways and a lot of heavy weaponry. I observed heavy machine guns, up to fifty caliber. They have a good amount of assault rifles, rockets, grenades, and even a few lightly armored vehicles.

"The destruction of Faysal and his warlords serves both our and the Eurasians purposes. He is a lawless warlord who opposes the Eurasian rule and exports crimes throughout the province and inside of Tarin Kowt. He is probably the single most significant source for crime within the city and his destruction will eliminate crime, almost entirely. His destruction will cripple the Florida Cartel and reduce their income significantly, making them weak and easy to destroy.

"Unfortunately there is a price. Our involvement in this operation cannot be, under any circumstance, disclosed. We must be doing this unofficially and the credit must be given to the Eurasian government. If it comes out that we were involved, their credibility in the region could be shattered and harmed, which would create another dozen Faysals. We cannot have this happen at all. It is my recommendation that we deploy a small force to the city of Tarin Kowt, to work hand-in-hand with Eurasian forces. I believe we should deploy two teams of the 9th Special Operations Group, eight men in total, in conjunction with a unit from ISA." The director looked around and noted the agreement on the faces of those present.

"How do you propose that we conduct this operation?"

"We cannot become overly involved or else our involvement will become known. We must support the Eurasian forces with intelligence. ISA can use powerful telemetry devices to pinpoint the location of Faysal and his commanders, something that is very difficult for them to do. They can direct Eurasian forces for strike missions. I have become aware that Faysal has been very tricky to find and rightfully so, the area is covered with mountains and very unfriendly terrain."

"Then why are we deploying Special Forces?" A woman asked.

"To serve as protection and to conduct some level of reconnaissance and attack. These men are trained to be invisible and we can use them for missions."

"So long as they remain low profile?" She continued, satisfied.

"Yes." The meeting went on for another hour but in the end the director moved the concerns upwards, eventually reaching the Minister of Intelligence. He briefed the Emperor and the Cabinet the next day and hours later, the deployment was authorized. It was given the name 'Operation Rising Water,' meant to allude to the fact that the water would be raising on the Florida Cartel. The eight men from the 9th Special Operations Group, named "Ghost Recon" were deployed through civilian airliners and they took up residence in two of Tarin Kowts hotels. The ISA team would deploy differently, landing at a Eurasian air base with their 16 man team and their equipment, which included radio telemetry devices and a single airplane, a small and modified Learjet 80, which could fly high over the ground and conduct ELINT operations. And so it would begin...

Killswitch Engage IV: Ghost Wars

Just hours after the E-21C Learjet 80 landed at the Tarin Kowt municipal airport, it was being prepared to take off again. It had been refueled and the pilots did a quick lookover of the aircraft, which was there, under the guise of an aviation safety project, ingeniously designed between the Eurasian and Layartebian authorities. The four men that climbed into the Learjet looked like nothing more than normal men, carrying small briefcases, inside of which was a sophisticated laptop that could be plugged into the plane's various internal ports. From there, two of them could do some amazing things. The Learjet would fly its orbit pattern at an altitude of 37,000 feet, so high that it couldn't be seen from the ground and, on the ground, it resembled a normal Learjet. Its tail registration and markings made it look like a normal airplane too and tracing it would find a host of information on it, legitimate information that hid its true nature. Once it was in flight, they could lower and extend various antennae that would allow it to track electronic signals and communications, primarily cell phones. They had the unique ability against cell phones too. If the battery was left in the cell phone, they could remotely turn it on and do so without triggering the phones lights or beeper, in such a way that it could emit a low-intensity signal, just enough to get a fix on its location. That was just one of the things they could do. They were able to listen in on every signal they wanted to, and they would be making good use of that feature.

The E-21C Learjet soared down the runway and into the black sky of the Afghani night as they took off on their first mission. This was just a calibration mission but they weren't going to be just calibrating their equipment. The ground personnel that came with their unit was sitting inside of the hotel room, which was eeriely quiet, with a portable radioset, something small but with one purpose, to transmit test signals, with which the Learjet could fine tune its equipment with and it could do so within thirty minutes. The transmitted signals were on special frequencies, frequencies not often monitored and since it just transmitted, it was quiet, the signals being nothing more than radio waves. They soared up to altitude and slowed down to a mere 330 mph, conserving fuel, enabling them to stay in the air for hours upon hours upon hours. They would be in the air for four hours total, flying an orbit pattern first around the city while they calibrated the system and then heading over the mountainous areas to the north of the city, where Faysal was hiding, to see what they could find, to listen to what they could hear. Luck would have it that, on their first night, they picked up a decent communication.

Maggiano didn’t expect to hear from Sparetti so soon, but he was more surprised to find him standing his garden in Corleone. He was smoking a Cuban cigar, no doubt a souvenir from his voyages. But having seen Sparetti, he wondered about the others that surrounded him.

“Luigi, dov’é il?” he asked. [Luigi, where is he?]

“He is safe and sound – in the back of the car in front of your estate in Messina. I came here alone.”

“Si… E Maria? Morta o non?” [Yes... And Maria? Dead or not?]

“Of course. I did it cleanly – Niccolo apparently committed suicide before I could touch the son of a bitch, and I had to deal with Maria’s company. It was almost too simple.”

“E?” [And?]

“It’s done. Maria is gone; Luigi is home. Everything is as it should be.”

Maggiano nodded. He stopped pruning his roses and sat down on a nearby chair. Sparetti willingly came forward and kissed Maggiano’s jewels. “Sparetti – I know when someone isn’t happy and when someone is absolutely elated. And I can tell you one thing; you aren’t any of them, which means you’re hiding something.”

“I want to go home to Emilia. I’ve tried calling her several times in Venice, but she’s stopped answering the phone. I want to know what’s happened to her.”

“I’ve had her watched – she is doing fine.”

“Then why doesn’t she answer?” Sparetti yelled.

“Sparetti – this is my garden. In my garden, sensible men do not yell. Capiscono?”

“Si.”

“Well,” Maggiano continued. “Emilia moved from a district in Venice to the seabord on the Adriatic. It’s about 20 miles south of where she used to live. She writes beautiful poems, about waiting and chastity. She’s a lovely girl – if she’s not working at the library, she sits at the plaza reading some books. She loves Alighieri, doesn’t she?”

“If she moved, why didn’t she tell me? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I knew that it would distract you. But now you know she’s okay, and you can go see her.”

“Si, mio capo. Molto grazie.” [Yes, boss. Thank you very much.]

“Don’t mention it. If you have no other business, I have some flowers to trim.” With that, Maggiano gave Sparetti his leave and let him on his way. Unknown to him, Sparetti did hide secrets, secrets that would haunt him. He spoke of the dead Maria – cleanly in his words. The truth was more unrealistic and savage. Niccolo did commit suicide – but his reasons were dark. In fact, the last moment of the Gioiosi is a dark tale, which the light shall soon slowly reveal. Indeed, his primary reason was Emilia, but that was not the whole truth.

Vicenzo is more the savage than he imagines – how he found Luigi, how he destroyed Maria, how he mutilated them before torching the evidence. And these dark secrets will haunt him. And as the tragedian once spoke, “Whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad.”

[ooc: This is the first post of the next part in the series of the Cosa Nostra storyline - the first part ends with the death of Maria Gioiosi... ]

Killswitch Engage IV: Ghost Wars

When Andrew Hunt stepped off the Boeing 777 back in Afghanistan, he smiled. He was an analyst, a field analyst, and he felt comfortable and at home not when he was at home but rather when he was in the field. Afghanistan was definitely a field he wanted to be in and the threat presented by Faysal was enough to make him personally request that he be in charge of this operation. For someone so young in the Ministry of Intelligence, it was an assignment he would have never dreamed of getting but his record was exemplary and he presented his case so well that the director of operations looked him up and down, smiled behind his cloud of cigar smoke, and, in a deep but loud voice, said, "If you get killed I'm going to personally make sure that your body is lost in transit back to the Empire. Now get out of here and make me proud." He took a chance and he wasn't going to regret it either. He had Andrew dropped off at the airport the next day and he made sure that the driver handed him a brown envelope.

"The director of operations desires that you not open this envelope until you land at your destination and are safely inside of your domicile."

"I understand." He whisked it away into his briefcase and fifteen hours later, he was landing in Tarin Kowt. He took a cab to his apartment complex, a small one but it was a safe house he could trust. He entered the apartment, which was furnished, an apartment that was a safe house for the Eurasian intelligence and now for him. He checked it quickly for bugs and for cameras and found that it wasn't bugged, something that he was proud to find. "Trusting aren't they." He muttered to himself as he plopped down on the sofa. "Alright." He opened the envelope and his eyes widened. Inside of it was a small, white envelope, inside of it over $10,000 that he could exchange at a local bank. The director of operations was careful not to give him shingrots, those could be traced but rather dollars, the international currency, with bills that were registered to forty-seven different places in twelve different countries. The mission dossier was inside as well and he began to study it, flabbergasted at the intelligence that they had on Faysal, lying around probably. The mission was simple in that it didn't require the apprehension of Faysal or his goons but rather their extermination. It also stressed the fact that this operation, though it was being conducted with the approval and knowledge of the Eurasian government, was a black operation. No information would exist linking the Empire to the operation and none should ever get out, or else it would be his head.

[OOC Note: All speech in this post is Cottish, but I don't feel like translating it.]

The arrest of the teenagers in Bergen a week ago hadn't been without result. They had managed to get six teenagers off the streets, and they had gotten the names of two suspected drug dealers, both of whom were suspected of dealing to children below the age of sixteen. They had both been observed in the vicinity of schools in Bergen earlier, but that in it self wasn't sufficient cause to start an investigation. However, now that they had signed affadavits from people who had claimed to have bought drugs from them, a criminal investigation was opened. Dealing drugs in the Realm of Cotland was punishable by death by hanging, and especially dealing to children. Therefore, the Police took this seriously, and responded accordingly. Two teams from the city's Narcotics Squad were ready to take them both down in their homes.

According to Cottish law, the Police didn't require warrants to enter the home of a suspected criminal or to arrest said person, as long as they had probable cause that could be proven in the court system. With an okay from the prosecution's office, the officers had decided that they had sufficient cause to take action. A team of two investigators, backed up by four uniformed police officers were in position outside the apartment of the first of the suspects, who lived in the student home at Fantoft. It appeared that the student was paying his rent through dealing drugs. Education in the Realm was free of charge in the mandatory education, the secondary education and the Universities, all of which were owned by the State. Private education institutions existed, but they weren't paid for by the State.

Two uniformed officers accompanied the two investigators while the other two officers covered the back entrance, just in case the suspect made a run for it. The P99 standard issue pistols the police officers were equipped with were still in the holsters, but with safeties off. If the suspect made any bad moves, he could have a 10mm round in his thigh within seconds. Making sure everything was ready, and with the police identification cards hanging around their necks, the lead investigator knocked the door. The lead investigator was a woman who at age fourty-five had been in the Police for nearly twenty years, and had made it to the rank of førstebetjent, making her the highest-ranking police officer in the group. Therefore, it was only logical that she was the one who did the talking.

A few sounds were heard inside, someone making their way down the hallway perhaps, and a few seconds later, the door opened to reveal a nearly naked man in his early twenties, the hair ruffled, his face expressing irritation with being interrupted in something important. That would most likely be sex, since the man had a blanket wrapped around his waist with a bulge in the crouch area. The police officers took no heed of it though. After all, they were professionals, and this man was a suspected criminal.

"Jan Reitan?" The førstebetjent asked in a determined voice.

"Yeah, that's me. What the hell do you want?" He asked, his voice having a tone that sounded arrogant, as if he was above the letter of the law.

"We're investigating a criminal case, and your name came up. Mind if we come inside?"

"Yeah, actually I do mind. I'm busy." He said and started turning to get back inside. The other investigator, a young man in his late twenties grabbed him by the arm and dragged him back outside. More precisely, he slammed him up against the wall next to the door and went up in his face immediately, saying in a quiet yet ominous voice, "I don't think you understand the severity of the situation. Do you think we came by for a cup of coffee? For your information, you're under arrest on the suspicion of selling illegal narcotic substances to minors. You have the right to remain silent, and if you don't shut the fuck up, we will use everything you say against you in court. Because this is going to court 'cause this is a hanging offense we're accusing you for. Therefore, I strongly urge you to use your right to get a fucking lawyer, 'cause you're gonna need one. Now, do you understand the severity of the situation and your fucking rights?"

The man just nodded, strangely pale, making the younger investigator release him and push him over to the two uniformed officers, who handcuffed him an held on to him while the two investigators entered the dorm room. Inside, they heard a female voice.

"Jan, I'm still in bed....!"

The two investigators drew their pistols before proceeding into the room. It wasn't a large apartment, with nothing more than a decent-sized room and a small bathroom with a shower, with large windows and a balcony that overlooked the southern parts of Bergen. As they entered, they found a young woman in her late teens lying naked in bed. She was apparently startled by the two people who entered with pistols aimed at her, but she did as ordered when told to get out of bed with her hands over her head. It was clear that she didn't have any concealed weapons or anything on her, so the førstebetjent told her to get dressed, still having weapons trained on her.

While the førstebetjent handled the woman, the other investigator started checking the dorm room. On the desk next to the bed lay an open laptop, some books which indicated that the resident studied medival languages, and a backpack. Opening the backpack, the investigator found what they had been searching for. Taking out the contents, he showed it to the lead investigator, who had handcuffed the woman and taken her out into the corridor after having arrested her for suspicion of assisting in drug-related felonies. The investigators were pleased with the bust. From the looks of it, they had gotten about three kilos of Valkyr, distributed into user doses. That in itself was enough to send the person to the gallows, but what they found when they searched the laptop was even more astonishing. Mr Reitan had taken careful notes of his contacts, with lists of who he had sold to and how much, who he bought his stuff from, and where it originated. From the looks of it, they had taken Valkyr which originated in the Layartebian stronghold of Cuba, more precisely a farm sixteen kilometers south of Havana.

While the two were taken back to the police station for interrogation and processing, the evidences were registered and bagged. The Valkyr would be destroyed when the trial was over in six months time, and the laptop would be carefully scrutinied and checked for more information. It would turn out to be a massive break in uncovering the drug hierarchy in the western parts of Norway.

The next day, a communique went from the Justice Ministry to the Layartebian Embassy in Oslo for further relay.

To: Justice Ministry, Realm of Cotland
Fr: Ministry of Justice, Empire of Layarteb
CC: Layartebian Embassy, Oslo, Cotland
Re: Drug production facility

To the person responsible for the counter-narcotics operations in Cuba.

During a raid yesterday in the city of Bergen, Norway, our investigation team discovered information indicating the presence of a narcotics production farm at a position approximately sixteen kilometers due south of the city of Havana, Cuba. It is believed that this farm produces vast amounts of the narcotic substance known as 'Valkyr', and that it is responsible for the export of drugs to among other the Realm. Due to our joint war against illegal narcotic substances, we formally request that you investigate this information and, should it prove to be correct, destroy it to prevent further import of narcotics into the Realm and internally within the Empire. The Realm is more than willing to assist in the destruction of said farm, should our assistance be requested or required.

The Cottish communique was received well. The Ministry of Justice had tabs on the farm already but the operation there was so well done that they had no real evidence linking the farm to a drug operation except for the flow of traffic into and out of the farm during the wee hours of the morning. When the final piece of evidence came in, albeit from the Cottish, the raid they had in the planning suddenly got the green light. That raiding party was stationed in Havana and consisted of sixteen men, eight from the DEA and eight from Force Tiger, who were, to the DEA, more DEA agents. Only they knew their true identity and they saddled up inside of the DEA station in Havana. Armored vests were strapped on, pistols were holstered, TAC radios were hooked onto their vests, ammunition was stowed, badges were hung, and armored helmets were fitted. They would be attacking the compound from four points, four men per point, and they were going to be hitting the place hard, very hard. All of them M43A1 Submachine Guns, armed with sixty nine millimeter rounds ready, thirty per clip, two clips attached to each other. For sidearms, they were carrying M56A1 P99 Pistols. Flashbangs, concussion, fragmentation, and smoke grenades were hanging from their vests as well and two men carried M76A1 Tactical Shotguns, powerful enough to turn any person into nothing.

Their UH-95 Super Huey helicopters, sat on the roof and picked off with the eight men inside, hanging off the edges, weapons hanging out, for all to see. It was definitely visible to the cartel members watching the DEA building. Word went through the ranks of the cartel instantly but who knew their target. To fool their enemy, they headed east, in the opposite direction of the farm, climbing up to 5,000 feet. Up there, they were much smaller to see from the ground and they banked hard only four miles away from Havana, well out of range for the watchers. Then, they headed straight south, eventually turning west and then coming in to attack the compound from its southern side. A mile out, they dropped rapidly to an altitude of 200 feet. They were moving at well over 120 mph when they soared over the farm and put down on either side of it, DEA agents and Force Tiger flooding out of the helicopters, weapons shouldered. They passed through the fields without seeing anyone, a bad sign, and then hit the main house on the farm, which was, as they suspected, a serious drug lab. The living room stunk of meth and the basement stairs led down, right to the factory below, which was, occupied and in session.

Tarin Kowt, Afghanistan, The Untied Federation of Eurasia

Tarin Kowt, was a small town compare to other major cities in Afghanistan like Kabul. It wasn’t build up, a few paved roads and some modern buildings mostly around the small airport. The locals of the city and rural areas much like all of Afghanistan kept to themselves and didn’t like outsiders that much. If one was an outsider it was best to keep a low profile and not draw attention to oneself. Afghanistan one of the most tribal regions within the federations, because of that Afghanistan had hands off policy within the Federation, they were allow to keep to themselves as long they did not rebel against Eurasian government, paid their taxes, service in the Eurasian arm forces and abide by Eurasian Laws. In return, the Eurasian Government invested a lot into the infrastructure of Afghanistan and provides the region with free education to help improve the stranded of living for the region. Which was showing signs of progress in most areas of Afghanistan expect certain pockets like Tarin Kowt where the warlords made any progress impossible to happen.

Two Eurasian Intelligence Agents, both were Afghan Persians. They were dress in local clothing and had breads to blend in with the locals. They only went by their first names, the oldest was Uthman who was in his mid 40s and the other agent was Omar who was in his late 20s. Both were experts in the field of cracking down on drug producers. They made their way thought the streets of the Tarin Kowt, In till they reach a apartment complex, where they knew had a contact from Layateb to meet with. They went inside the apartment and stop in front of their contact door and knock on the door and begun to speak in Farsi and the exchange went as the following

Eurasian: I'm here to deliver a package.
Layartebian: Who's it from?
E: The Tehran Research Institute.
L: Very good. Where do I sign?
E: we need to see identification.
L: Its inside come in for a minute.

With that the two agents enter the apartment and begun the meeting.

Killswitch Engage IV: Ghost Wars

"I'm glad you could meet me here and soon. We have a lot to discuss. Before we begin would you like anything to drink? Tea? It will be a while." He continued in Farsi, a briefcase sitting on the couch, his briefcase. He kept his pistol on his hip visible so the agents could see it and know that if this was a setup, he would react. He was an intelligence agent after all and, first and foremost, his survival was his priority. His pistol was an M77B1 Tactical Assault Pistol, a nine millimeter, weak by most standards but ammunition was cheap and easy to come by, no matter where you were. He returned to the living room and sat down. "Faysal. He's my priority here." He began.

The two agents nodded to the offer of tea and listen closely what their Layartebian counterpart had to said and Uthman replied “ We have keeping a close eye on Faysal lately…we are just waiting for the right moment to take him and his lackeys in one strike…but the problem is …he never is with all his lackeys at once…which makes harder on us to take him out.”

Killswitch Engage IV: Ghost Wars

"Faysal, if he's like most war lords and drug runners, is an elusive man. We've had considerable trouble, initially, tracking our own drug lords but in time we managed to catch them. We have methods that have since been refined greatly in our wars with drug cartels in Colombia, Venezuela, and Cuba. We will use the same methods here, against Faysal. He will be caught and, though I know you are hoping for a single strike, the possibilities of one is very slim. Using our methods though, we'll know if there is a meeting as such. You see, we listen to their communications and we can track them through it. That's the purpose of our aircraft and it is flying right now, calibrating its systems.

"So tell me. What can we look forward to, with regards to Faysal's methods, men, and organization?"

Omar answer the Agent Hunt Question

“Faysal’s methods are different when compare to your nation drug lords…he doesn’t use modern technologies.. We noted that he uses old time proved methods like using pigeons to send coded messages to his commanders or at times short wave radio…he avoids using phones because he knows he’ll be tracked by us. As for his organization its decentralize and estimate to have 1400 men working for him as soldiers or hit men and he has a number of “farms” in this area that grow his drugs of choice, his hit men normally strong arm the farmers into growing puppies and etc.”

Killswitch Engage IV: Ghost Wars

"Well that will, undoubtedly, make him more difficult to track. We will though. Shortwave radio communications can be listened to and perhaps some of his hitters have cellular phones or use landlines. Pigeons are couriers we aren't going to be able to track, well, no, the latter we can, only if we know who they are. We will break the code though. As far as their 'farms' go, we are going to be able find those just as well. This is going to take time. I cannot promise instant results." He took a sip of his tea. "Alright. We're going to have to coordinate this effectively and efficiently. Maps. Records. Communications logs. What can you have readily available for me? I will need to see what you have, to coordinate our efforts. I'm in charge here of the Layartebian detachment so all requests, motives, and situations will be going through me and I'll be working with you on this problem. We are going to need to find out what is what here and we are going to make sure that we don't repeat ourselves."

Omar nodded and said” All the information that you need will be made available to you, all you have to do ..is just ask for it and we're supply it to you.In due time…we shall take down this threat to both our nations..”

Killswitch Engage IV: Ghost Wars

"Yes we shall." Andrew pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket, written in Farsi. "This is what I need, to start with. It asks for backlogs of communications you've monitored from Faysal, maps of the region, sighting reports, and any information on his distributors." At the same time, the EC-21C Learjet 80 was recording and listening in on a shortwave radio transmission between two men, originating north of Tarin Kowt. They listened intently and recorded what they heard, while, at the same time, trying to triangulate their position. "We also need to know if you have any voice analysis on Faysal or his organization. We need to know who we're listening to when we listen." The Learjet banked and listened more and more.

WARNING! The following post contains a graphic description of an execution, and may be offensive. If you find this offensive, stop reading NOW! This post is unsuitable for anyone below the age of 18, so stop reading if you're under 18. I am in no way responsible for any consequences of reading this post.


The trial of Jan Reitan had started approximately one month after his initial arrest, and with the impressive amount of evidences against him, the sentence was unquestioned. In the Realm, there was but one punishment for criminals who dealed drugs, and to children to boot! Therefore, when the tribunal of three judges entered the courtroom the day after the decision had been made - Jan Reitan had been found guilty of violating article sixty-two f in the Criminal Code, namely dealing illegal narcotic substances to underage citizens - few were wondering what he would be sentenced to. He had consequently denied co-operating with the police, and he had maintained his innocence throughout the trial. The lead judge banged the gavel as the judges had made themselves comfortable in their high chairs. They wouldn't be seated for long though.

"Be seated. This court is now in session." The judge said, then pulled out some papers. "The Realm versus Jan Reitan, case number 57472-M06. The defendant has been found guilty as charged, and we are to conduct the sentencing. Before we proceed, does the defendant wish to make a statement?" The judge asked, looking at the defendant with a stern look over his glasses, which was resting on the tip of the elderly mans nose.

Reitan shook his head to his lawyer, one of the best defense attourneys available in the Realm, paid by the defendants father, who was a rich supermarket chain owner. He had managed to dismiss a few of the evidences, but none of the crucial ones had been dismissed, namely the drugs found in his dorm room, the computer that explained in detail his business, and a few testemonies from children who had purchased drugs from him.

"Very well. The defendant will stand."

When Reitan and his attourney stood, the judge continued.

"Jan Reitan. The court has heard your case and reviewed the evidences against you, and have reached the conclusion that you are indeed guilty as charged, as described in further detail yesterday. The court has deliberated the reactions the Criminal Code permits us to give, but in a case of such a magnitude and seriousness, the court sees no other option than to sentence you to the harshest punishment allowed in the law. In accordance with articles fourteen and sixty-two j of the Criminal Code, and supported by the Royal Decree of the sixth of February, nineteen sixty-four, this punishment is death by hanging. In accordance with the Royal Decree of the nineteenth of December, two thousand and one, this sentence is final and cannot be appealed. This court therefore unanimously sentence you to death by hanging until you are dead, dead, dead. May God have mercy on your soul. This court is adjurned."

With that, the judge banged his gavel once more before getting up and leaving along with the two other judges. The sentence had been exactly what the press and the spectators had guessed, and in accordance with Cottish law, the sentence would be carried out within a week. The defense attourney explained this to Reitan as he was being escorted out from the courtroom and down to the cells in the basement. Meanwhile, the wheels were set in motion.

Reitan was brought from the holding cells in the basement of the courthouse to the prison where he would be executed later that evening, and after a two-hour drive, he sat in his cell, which measured two by three meters and contained nothing but a filthy matress in the corner of the concrete cell. There was no windows, no way of figuring out what time of the day it was, only a naked lightbulb in the roof that was turned on 24/7. Everything he owned had been confiscated, and he sat in the cell wearing nothing but a woolen off-white jumpsuit. He was visited by his parents the following day, but that was all the interruption from the solitary confinement he was in.

Two days later, a priest came in to pray with Reitan and give him his last rights, but Reitan refused, partially because he didn't believe that he would be executed, and part because he didn't believe in God and eternal salvation. The priest took notice of this, but they still had a short conversation before the priest left. That evening, Reitan got something different to eat instead of the normal tasteless porridge that was served morning, lunch and evening. He got some roasted chicken, potatoes and a little salad to eat. Deciding that they had finally decided to feed him proper food, Reitan ate the food and then went to sleep. He was therefore very disturbed when the door opened and two uniformed guards came to fetch him late that evening.

After being handcuffed, Reitan was escorted through the facility down a long, naked corridor, devoid of other life than him and the two guards that escorted him. After a walk that seemed to last forever, the group passed through a number of heavy iron doors before finally entering a room where there was a single desk with an ashtray and a newspaper lying on. The only other thing in the room was a large bookcase. The guards indicated for Reitan to have a seat and to read the paper, offering him a cigarette which he graciously accepted.

After about ten minutes of smoking and reading the paper, the door to the room opened again and a man dressed in a civilian suit entered.

"Jan Reitan?"

"Yes?"

"I am the warden of this facility, and it is my duty to inform you that His Majesty has chosen not to exercise his right to spare your life, but rather to let justice be served. The sentence will therefore be carried out, immediately."

With that, the bookcase was opened to reveal a secret room inside with people standing inside, waiting. It wasn't that that Reitans eyes rested on though. It was the thin noose that hung from a hook in the roof, over what appeared to be a trap door. By now, he realized what was happening, and the guards had to force him up from the seat and into the room, having a firm grasp on both his arms, leaving him no choice than to move forward.

As they entered the room, the people inside fell quiet and just watched. The priest from earlier, a few men in uniforms, a man Reitan recognized to be a member of the prosecution team, his defense attourney, one of the judges and another man in a civilian suit. They all stood at the entrance of the secret room, there to witness the execution. At the noose, which appeared to be made of some sort of steel wire - it was actually piano wire, another man stood, dressed in a black jumpsuit without markings, wearing black gloves and a black hood, giving no one any way of identifying him.

The guards placed Reitain over the trap door and kept him there while the warden read the order to carry out the execution for Reitan, and the reasons for which the courts had decided that his life was to be taken. It was quickly over with, and then it was time for the actual execution. The hangman took the noose and placed it over Reitans head after having placed a black hood over his head, tightening it while whispering, "Don't worry lad. It'll be quick." After that, he stepped back and the warden asked for any last words. Reitan had none, so then the priest started saying Our Father's Prayer. Reitan actually joined in, having found religion in the last five minutes. In the middle of "Thy Kingdom come", the hangman pulled the lever that opened the trapdoors. Reitan suddenly disappeared, free-falling down. However, just as his head had cleared the trapdoors, the piano-wire tightened and sliced through the skin, severing the head from the body thanks to gravity in one bloody mess. The hangman had been correct in that it would be quick.

As the noose went loose, the men knew that the execution had been carried out, but they still had to confirm that the man was dead. One look at the body and the head that lay on the ground two meters from the body in a pool of blood, and the confirmation was given. Now it was up to the clean-up crew, criminals sentenced to life imprisonment without the possibility of parole, to collect the body, wash it of blood, place it in the simple white casket and clean up the mess underneath the gallows.

Four hours later, the body was released to the family, and with that, the Realm had ridden itself of yet another drug dealer. The streets were at least a bit safer for the children.

OOC: Not so bad I would love to put him through the pressure chamber.

“Very well…the data will be send to you within the next few hours or so… and as for the voice analysis..that would take some time..yet, rest assure we will get it to you.. “ said Uthman

Killswitch Engage IV: Ghost Wars

"Very well. Are there any other concerns that you might have for me while I am on the subject? If not, I would like to rest. It's been a long flight and a lot of time beforehand." He finished his tea and waited for the two agents to say something, otherwise, he was prepared to "go to bed," which was his own way of clearing them out so that he could talk, directly, with the Ministry of Intelligence, 12,000 miles away over a secure satellite phone.

The two agents nodded and Uthman said” No that would be all for now…we have to meet some other contacts in the area…shall we meet again tomorrow same time?”

Killswitch Engage IV: Ghost Wars

"Best that we keep these as infrequently as possible. Let's give it four days. Same time. Perhaps a cafe. I will contact you with details."

[ooc: If you're going to kill him painlessly, might as well take advantage of other methods that leave less evidence...]

Sparetti was in Venice, seeking out Emilia. He was following Maggiano’s directions to her house, which was a comfort to know that she was still alive. Of course, things were turning out the way that they were turning out to be: Maggiano had his family, Niccolo and the Gioiosi were done, and Sparetti was in Italy once again. Of course, his vineyards were somewhat empty since he left, but they were still functioning. It was something that he felt was worth leaving aside to verify that his old relations were also well and alive.

He tracked the house to a small community, nice and cozy. He could see every reason for Emilia to come here; it fit her personality very well. He examined the whole neighborhood carefully, to ensure his steps weren’t being followed. Reason hit his mind that his kind was of the sort that brought destruction, and if he ever loved anything, he loved Emilia. If she were die at the hands of some madman, he would hunt that man to the ends of the world, slaying the family of his family until there was no one left even to remember the man who killed his love, save himself. The coast appeared clear.

“Si? Si? Chi c'è?" [Yes? Who's there?]

“Signorina Morelli alla casa è?” [Is Miss Morelli at home?]

“Non, lavora adesso. La viene di solito alla casa a 5:00, dunque ritorna poi tu vuole vederla.” [She's at work. She usually comes back at 5:00, so return at that titme if you want to see her.]

“Si. Si. Grazie, mia signora.”

“Si...”

He glanced across the street at a small restaurant, and thought that it would a worthwhile wait there. He checked his watch – 1549. He could wait for just a little over an hour and see if Emilia was alright.