NationStates Jolt Archive

Excerpts from the journal of Matthias LeCroix:

…Today, little of note. Slept. Rose at sunset. Ate little. Went out in search of our man. Found nothing…

…Fourth slaying reported this morning. Read about it in the evening papers. Decided to investigate the scene of the crime. Light police presence, as per usual. Snuck past a few napping cops. Murder fits the modus operandi of the Slasher. Belly sliced open. Still, something odd about this one…

…Couldn’t sleep all day. Was bothered by what I’d seen. Something doesn’t fit. Will return this evening to investigate further…

…Found the area patrolled by more cops than last night. Was a trial getting in. Worth it. Cuts were too jagged. Unusually sloppy for a serial killer. Practice makes perfect?...

…Attempted to return. Found the building closed off. Victim has been moved…

…Visited the morgue. Body set for cremation. Apparently nothing further to gain from examination. Cops don’t want to waste their time. Found personal effects. Pictures, a ring. Nothing unusual. Kept one photo…

…It doesn’t fit. Nothing fits. Spent the day thinking. Police declared the victim the fourth in a string of murders by same killer. Few leads. I am at a loss. Nothing fits…

…Perhaps? A stretch, but perhaps. Too convenient...

…The cuts were too jagged. Too messy. Practice makes perfect. Too much haste. Practice makes…haven’t slept for three days. Losing my focus…

…Identified the place where the photo was taken. House on Mont du Sacre Cour blvd. Abandoned. Broke a window to get in. Found a journal, more pictures. Read two pages. Diary is apparently that of a young girl. Will continue tomorrow, after sleep…

…Her parents died two decades ago. Lived with her uncle. Abused? She would be about twenty today. Will continue reading tomorrow…

…Slept today. Dreamed dark thoughts. Brain won’t stop working. Girl was definitely abused. Uncle was a factory worker. Not a butcher…

…Things coming together in my mind. Will not sleep until the puzzle is complete. Returned to the house. Didn’t enter. Met a young girl on the way home. Couldn’t stop picturing her with a knife in her hands. Continued reading. Uncle was teetotaler….

…Finished reading. He lives at 77th. Leaving now to pay a call…

…Room was vacant. He’s dead. Same body. Jagged cuts. Makes sense now. I will find her. Practice makes perfect…

…Name: Elizabeth Nielson. Listed in the phone book. Sloppy. Jagged cuts. Hasty planning…

…Guessed wrong. She was eighteen. She did like I would have. Was it justice? She knew, though. All the time she knew about him, what he did. Why stay silent? Actions speak louder, though. Found her in the bathtub. Pills and gin. I left the journal. Kindred spirits…

…but then, who would bother to read the journal of a madman? “It is a tale, told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” Perhaps, though, there is something to be heard amid the cacophony…


The sun rose over Esborg, and the night hauled itself, sweating and grunting, off of its unwilling conquests. The alleys brightened, still echoing slightly from the nocturne of whimpered cries, diseased groans, battered voices.

Everywhere they came out from their havens, the innocent and the damned alike, walking among each other like lovers after a drunken one night stand, unable to look each other in the eye.

It was a short walk to police headquarters from the home of Chief Alan Harper. He stepped through the glass doors, and removed his hat. For the first time he looked up, over the rows of desks, many of which were empty, a testament to chronic staff shortages, even here at the heart of law and order.

“Good morning, chief.”

He looked up. The young man sitting at his desk did not look up as he uttered the greeting.

“The commissioner’s in your office.”

He groaned, and began heading in that direction. Indeed, there was someone waiting for him. A tall man, younger than he, but with hair equally gray, stood looking through the window. This man turned as he heard the door open.

“Good morning, Chief Harper,” he said, smiling politely. The man’s entire face was a mask, thought the chief. Bastard politicos. Never did a day’s work for a day’s pay in their entire wasted lives…

“Commissioner Creedy,” he nodded.

The Commissioner paced over to Harper’s desk, and pulled a small plaque out from where it lay beneath a disorganized pile of documents and folders. He studied it idly.

“You had quite a night last night, I’m told. Half of Malcolm Smith’s gang rounded up in less than half an hour. Congratulations”

Harper acknowledged his commendation with a nod.

“Unfortunately,” Creedy continued. Harper raised an eyebrow. “there won’t be enough evidence to charge the majority of the men you brought in.”

The words fell flat. Harper’s straight face bowed into a scowl.

“What do you mean there won’t be enough evidence,” he said, ejecting each word from his mouth like a piece of rotten meat.

“The Crown Prosecutor sends his apologies,” continued Creedy.

Dilettante. Fucking dandy, silvertonguescum

Harper wanted to vomit; to fly across the room and tear from the face the pompous lips that held the disgusting smile. He wanted to scratch the eyes out of that pompous skull with a letter knife; cock his .38 and paint a Pollock with Creedy’s brains.

He leapt up. It took every remaining ounce of his rapidly crumbling will to keep his hands from flying towards his pistol.

“We spent 3 years putting together the evidence we’d need to bust these bastards! I spent 3 years of my life begging for a warrant, and now you want to throw it all away? Sixteen of the most dangerous men on these streets, men wanted for doing things you couldn’t even imagine in that pampered little head of yours, sixteen of them are behind bars thanks to me and my men, and you want to let them go?!”

He stalked towards the bureaucrat, whose eyes widened. It was fear. The stink of Harper’s rage was filling his nostrils.

“Wait just a minute!” shouted Creedy. Harper halted, a mere foot away from the man he wanted to tear limb from limb.

“I understand why you’re angry,” he continued, raising his hands. “You have to believe that. But if we locked up everyone you and your men suspected of being involved in criminal activites, half of this city would be behind bars!”

“As well they should,” snorted Harper.

“Now it’s exactly that kind of attitude that’s the problem with law enforcement these days! Christ, Harper. Sometimes it’s hard to distinguish the boys in blue from those vigilante psychos prowling the alleys. You swore to uphold the law, and if you recall, the law states that suspects are innocent until proven guilty. As it is, you haven’t given me enough to do that, so whether you like it or not, we have to let these men go free.”

Creedy’s eyes narrowed and the bureaucrat stared straight back into the steel eyes of the cop.

“That’s all I have to say. If you can get me the evidence I need, we’ll haul them all back in and throw them away for a lifetime.”

Harper was still breathing heavily. He was struggling to accept his fate; let everything fall and recognize, as he had so many times before, that the system was never going to let him give this city the justice it deserved.

“That’s all, Harper. Good day.”

The Commissioner straightened his tie and walked out, leaving Harper standing there, staring through the window behind his desk.

There was a short knock on the door.

“Come in,” he growled.

“Sir,” came a meek voice. Harper turned. A young detective stood in the doorway, holding a file.

“Sir, I figured you’d want to hear about this.”

He handed over the file. Harper opened it, and scanned it, his mind elsewhere. Suddenly, his eyes widened. It was a newspaper clipping.

…three members of Malcolm Smith’s notorious gang recently released on parole were found murdered, their bodies tied to a streetlight across from City Hall, covered head to toe in what appeared to be wrapping paper. A note stapled to one of the corpses read…

“To Esborg. Love, LeCroix.”

---------

OOC: Saint Delecroix is a small principality. As is evident, the capital city of Esborg is wracked with crime, most of which goes unpunished due to police staffing shortages and a government that is more concerned with protecting the rights of the accused than seeing justice served. As such is the case, numerous citizens have taken on the role of vigilantes, serving their own violent breed of justice to those who would harm the innocent. The conflict is escalating between these private soldiers of the law and the criminal underworld, largely controlled by the mobster Malcolm Smith. Smith masquerades as a folk hero, donating portions of his ill gotten gains to the poor in order to encourage them to turn a blind eye to his criminal enterprises and his violent methods of business.

Step into the role of vigilante, cop, crime lord, government official, private investigator, or anything else you can think of. This RP is as open as they come. Enjoy.

NAME: Zhukov, Antonin Vasilevsky
AGE: 32
HEIGHT: 6’2”
WEIGHT: 190 lbs
EYE COLOR: Brown
HAIR COLOR: Black
KNOWN ALIASES: Seth Romanov, Aleksandr Dzerzhinsky
OCCUPATION: Consultant to Danegeld Security, Inc.
KNOWN CRIMES:
-Two counts of public intoxication (5/14/03)(3/28/04)
-Grand larceny (11/5/04), sentence commuted
-Assault & battery (7/14/05), served two years
SUSPECTED ACTIVITIES:
-Suspected enforcer in the employ of Thomas Olsen
-Suspected of involvement in Grace and Juarez murders
-Suspected of association with 21st Street drug dealers

Commissioner’s Note: Let’s let this one sit for now. Hopefully the murder evidence will give us something on him. We’ll let him work up some more heat before we take him.

* * *

Antonin Zhukov tossed down the paper in disgust and threw his cigarette down on the damp sidewalk, grinding it in with his boot. The headline: “TO ESBORG, WITH LOVE”: Three Enforcers Found Killed and Wrapped Outside City Hall. "Fucking vigilantes," he muttered to himself, resuming his walk down Florin Avenue. Esborg was a pit of a city, trying desperately to hide its own nature: like a burn victim attempting to clumsily cover her scars with excess makeup. Almost funny, in a pathetic sort of way. Disgusting.

He retrieved and lit another cigarette as he walked, turning automatically when he got to the bar: he'd been to Erik's literally hundreds of times, and years of habit allowed him to walk there from any of his haunts literally without thinking. Heading straight for the bar, breathing deep the smoky odor of cigarettes and joints, the enforcer nodded to Erik the barkeep. Erik grinned back, puffing out his massive chest as he boomed good-naturedly to Antonin, "Well, look at this motherfucker! New coat, huh?"

Antonin grunted an affirmative, to which Erik roared back, "I thought you'd spent all your money paying off the fucking pigs!" At this, Zhukov scowled. The police were expensive; paying off officers to secure his 21st Street investments was costing him more and more every year. Therefore, Antonin Zhukov did not like police jokes. And so he replied coldly, "I thought you'd spent all your money down at the Hole," (referring to the infamous gay bar, the Hole In The Wall). Erik's smile immediately slipped away. Silently, the big barkeep handed a beer to Zhukov, who then turned to look at the football game, taking a drag on his cigarette as he did so.

Erik grumbled as he went about his business, cursing under his breath, and in general becoming irritating enough that Antonin felt compelled to growl, not taking his eyes from the screen, "You're not a fag, Erik. Stop bitching." Draining his beer, Zhukov rummaged through his pockets for some cash and tossed it on the bar as he set down the empty bottle and left without another word. Erik and the other denizens of the bar were used to his behavior; sometimes gregarious, sometimes silent and irritable, Antonin Zhukov was not a simple man, but they put up with his mercurial nature, because it was best not to get on his bad side.

He knew people.

* * *

It was a short walk from Erik’s to the dirty, seedy apartments of 21st Street. This was hardly the most notorious area in Esborg, but the street was well known for its varied drug dealers. They were independent; that is, they weren’t affiliated with any gang, but their connections were good enough, and the laws of Saint Delacroix were lax enough, that it wasn’t difficult to get one’s hand on any kind of drugs. They all carried weed, but most had specialties of one sort or another. Anders the hippie, for example, was the man to go to for shrooms and acid; Constantin carried a seedier variety of coke; and Mark, who worked entirely out of an apartment rather than advertising on the street, dealt purer cocaine and heroin. They were an eclectic collection, but they all had two things in common: all of them did well off their trade, and all of them paid off Antonin Zhukov.

It was a years-old arrangement: Zhukov had showed up one day and declared that the dealers would be paying him from now on. They had not taken kindly to that; he had offered to simply buy them a beer and talk it out, but the dealers were not used either to annexation or to generosity, and reacted unfavorably. They attempted to beat him; instead, three of them received broken bones while he escaped, and that very afternoon, Zhukov had returned at the head of a band of Thomas Olsen’s thugs. Olsen was one of Malcolm Smith’s most powerful capos, with quite a few police in his pocket, and one simply did not cross him. Zhukov again explained, somewhat less politely this time, that they each would be paying him a percentage from now on. They acquiesced. Reluctantly, at first, but the bratva, or ‘brotherhood’, as Zhukov had dubbed his dealers, had turned out to be a profitable venture for everyone. Zhukov, with his powerful contacts, had kept the heat down on the dealers, and put them in touch with some old buddies of his back in Russia, which to them was worth the percentage they were paying. Everybody won.

Zhukov expected this to be a lean week, comparatively speaking. “Fucking vigilantes,” he growled to himself yet again. When three of Smith’s men were killed and bound to a fucking streetlight right outside of City Hall, the customers understandably got a little nervous. The note didn’t help either. Some psychopath (or worse, an idealist) had snapped and was apparently killing off gangsters. Bad times. There had always been idealists in Esborg. Usually the solution was simple: bullets tended to cure up the malady with minimal aggravation for everybody. But lately, there seemed to be more and more of them, yelling outside City Hall, harassing and insulting the capos and the more obviously crooked officials…and occasionally doing stupid shit like killing three enforcers, wrapping the corpses, and binding them to a streetlight.

To avoid attention, the dealings always took place in Mark’s apartment, chosen for its convenience, seeing as it was right there on the street. As Antonin climbed the steps to the apartment building’s second floor and smelled the telltale odor of marijuana, he smiled faintly. In such troubled times, business as usual was relaxing. Knocking on 208, he waited a few seconds, listening to the tramp of feet to the door and the laughter of the dealers inside. The door was answered by Mark, whose bloodshot eyes confirmed Antonin’s suspicions, who laughed and slurred, “Zhukov, what’s up, man? Come on in, come on!” Antonin followed the man inside, not bothering to take off his coat: his dealers were good company, but he didn’t have time for weed today. In and out.

In the apartment’s main room, Anders was lighting a piece as Constantin simply chuckled. Pointing at Antonin, Constantin yelled, “Hey, Zhukov! Have some, bro! Fuckin’ Golden Kush, man!”

“Nah, not today,” Zhukov replied nonchalantly. He put on a stern look and continued, “I’ve got business.”

“Ahhh, big fuckin’ business,” said Anders, busy making smoke rings as he handed the piece to Joey the speed dealer. “You tryin’ to buy, man? I got an ounce of shrooms and I’m trying to find some buyers.” Zhukov shook his head, keeping his hands in his pockets. “You want your fuckin’ money, then,” the hippie muttered, digging in his pockets for the wad of hundreds. Removing the rubber band from around it as the other dealers, six in all, rummaged around for their weekly payment and handed the money to Antonin, who accepted them all with a grin. Raising the massive wad of bills to his brow in a mock salute, Antonin winked at them and said, “Another good week, gentlemen. Later,” before striding out of the apartment, putting the bills in his oversized money clip.

In the hallway, his cell phone buzzed. He liked to keep it on vibrate: Antonin hated when phones went off in movie theaters, or anywhere else, really, and preferred to keep his silent. Putting away the money clip as he hurried down the stairs and out onto 21st Street, he looked up at the gray, cloudy sky as he retrieved his still-buzzing cellphone. He had a text message.

From: Mr. Olsen
3:04 P.M.

Meet @ my office stat

Without further ado, Antonin Zhukov hailed a cab and headed off to meet with Thomas Olsen.

* * *

“When the stars threw down their spears
And water’d heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?”
-William Blake, The Tyger

Excerpts from the journal of Matthias LeCroix

…To be fair, it was a tad overblown. I suppose I let my taste for the dramatic get the better of me. Regardless, it got the point across. City Hall, the hive of corpulent bureaucrats, thieves, and murderers needs to understand that there are still a few of us who are willing to give back to our city…

…A man died today in an alleyway, huddled behind a dumpster foaming at the mouth. Had it not been too late, I wonder if I would have helped him. In another life, perhaps, but I could not keep myself from wondering: ‘what sins have led this man to this place?’ What business is it of mine to cheat another man of a death he brings upon himself. Nature’s is, after all, the purest justice of all. This city is too far gone to give it the benefit of the doubt…

…The face of the dead man: blood, mucus, saliva crusted on his nose and dribbling down his chin. It continues to haunt me. I cannot explain why…

…Headline: Drug Related Fatalities Reaching Epidemic Proportions. Visited the home of a junkie I knew once. Hurt him until he gave me a name. He gave me three. ‘Bratva.’ The Three Stooges is, I believe, more appropriate. I will pay a visit to the 21st street tonight…

He sat sipping his glass of water, a newspaper folded on the counter in front of him. He sat there, hiding in plain site. Anonymity was a priceless gift. The privilege of having no connections, no one who knew your face, no one to finger you in a lineup or buy your sole for a gram of white powder. In an infernal city, that was heaven.

He unfolded the paper again, and began reading an article on police staffing problems. The citizens were too afraid to stand up for themselves. How could they be expected to stand up for anyone else? Well, most of them were, anyway.

“Anything else, mister? More water?”

The sarcastic whore standing behind the counter looked scornfully at the empty glass and the man holding it.

“No, that will be all. Thank you.”

He replied blankly, and left a few dollars on the counter before stepping out into the gathering dusk. All the stench of fornication and abuse that poured from the open windows of low rent apartments dripped down the back of his throat. 21st street. Not a violent place. The men who owned its residents tolerated no murder. Ironic, he thought.

The lights were off in the window of the apartment. He ascended the steps, and found 208. At his knock, there was no answer. The lock was easily broken. Inside, the place was apparently empty.

Then I shall wait.

Mark had only stepped out for a few minutes. A contact of his had refused to come to him, and had insisted on meeting discreetly a few blocks away. Noticing the broken lock as he opened the door, he felt a surge of cold fear. His instincts told him to turn around and head back downstairs. After a moment of standing there, sweating with dread, he opted for another approach. This would prove unfortunate.

He drew the .38 revolver he kept on his person at all times and stepped into the dark apartment. Flipping on a light, he found things exactly as he had left them. A few grams of cocaine sitting uncut on the coffee table, a bowl sitting on the counter. He walked towards the kitchen, and almost shouted as he saw the man going through his refrigerator.

“Who the fuck are you!?”

He leveled his .38. The man turned, and eyed him casually. It was a half second before Mark was on the ground, his revolver kicked beneath the refrigerator, his eyes staring helplessly upwards at the stranger whose foot rested on his throat, ready to crush his adam’s apple with a little pressure from the heel.

“You can call me Mr. LeCroix.”

The name flashed through his head. A pang of recognition.

“Holy shit,” he muttered. “You’re that nutcase with the wrapping paper!”

LeCroix sighed.

It seems I’m destined to forever be ‘the guy with the wrapping paper. I knew that was a mistake.

“Look man! You can’t do this! I’m protected! If you try and rob me, man, every hood in Smith’s gang will come after you. You’re a fucking dead ma-!”
LeCroix pressed down on the man’s throat and his protests turned to muted gargles as his hands wrestled with the ankle.

“So, you pay Mr. Smith then?”

It was an interesting revelation. LeCroix had known that the dealers must have been paying someone for protection from the police and the other smaller gangs, but he had not expected that protection would come from someone so high up. He decided to press the issue, with his foot.

As the man began to turn blue, LeCroix lifted his heel to allow him to speak, albeit with difficulty.

“What the fuck’s your problem? Just take the goddamn money! It’s on the desk in the other room.” he gasped. Still, there was fear growing in his eyes and his talk of robbery was now more a mad hope. He could already tell the man was here for something else.

“How much, exactly do you give him?”

“20%, every week.”

“Indeed.”

This amount was far too small to be going to the Smith gang on the whole. The 21st street operation was sizeable, but it was still small time. Too small time to warrant direct involvement from Malcolm himself. LeCroix judged that the majority was going to someone else. A smaller figure in the gang. A lieutenant, or an enforcer seeking bread money.

“And, who exactly collects this money?”

“Fuck y-“

Again, the heel came down. Again it was lifted.

“This guy. Works for one of Smith’s lieutenants. Olsen’s the lieutenant. I forget the guy’s name.”

“You pay him every week and you don’t remember his name?”

Mark was getting very nervous. A knock came at the door.

“Yo, Mark, you there? Man, your lock’s all busted!”

LeCroix took his foot off the man’s neck, and at the same time drew a silenced nine millimeter from his coat pocket.

“Who?” he asked softly.

“Who is it?” shouted Mark.

“Fuck you! It’s Constantin!”

The sound of the door opening. The footsteps drew close to the kitchen. Constantin’s head appeared around the corner.

“What the-”

His head snapped back and he collapsed. Mark screamed.

“What the fuck man! You just shot him!”

One down.

LeCroix leveled his pistol at Mark. He noticed that the crotch of the man’s pants was now damp.

“Holy shit! Alright, fuck. Fucking psycho! What the hell do you want? Jesus Christ, don’t kill me!”

“Calm down. Besides being a piece of human scum and a peddler of potions of death, you know certain things and, apparently, certain people. This is of value to me.”

“Christ, you’re going to fucking kill me…” whispered Mark.

“I’d like you to try to remember the name of the man you give money to every week. I’d like to speak with him.”

Mark was sweating now. Perhaps there is honor among thieves, at least in a few rare instances, for now he was very seriously debating whether to refrain from selling out a man who he did not particularly like, at the expense of his own life. He was sweating. The silencer of the pistol burned as it came down on his forehead.

“Pretty please?” asked LeCroix. He cocked the hammer.

“Antonin Zhukov.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

LeCroix shrugged and pulled the trigger, covering his face with his hand to keep the blood from spattering it.

“Holy shit!”

He looked up. Anders was standing there in shock. LeCroix aimed and fired a round between his eyes and he fell beside his companions.

LeCroix stood up and wiped down the pistol, before putting it back into his coat. He looked back at the three dead men. It wasn’t as satisfying as it had been. Small time criminals never were, but they had killed people with their powders and potions and herbs. Therefore, they had had to die. He walked towards the window, and climbed down into the alleyway, and blissful anonymity.

Excerpt from the Journal of Matthias LeCroix

…This city is infested with a cancer, and it is dying. We have tried every other form of therapy, and still a new tumor develops every day. I have made it my mission to do what no one else is willing to do: to cut out these cancerous parts and hopefully save the rest of the body. Even a very small tumor will grow bigger, and kill us all if not removed….

"High on a throne of royal state, which far
Outshone the wealth of Ormuz and of Ind,
Or where the gorgeous East with richest hand
Showers on her kings barbaric pearl and gold,
Satan exalted sat, by merit raised
To that bad eminence; and from despair
Thus high uplifted beyond hope, aspires
Beyond thus high, insatiate to pursue
Vain war with heav'n."
-John Milton, Paradise Lost

* * *

Thomas Olsen was not the most subtle of men. Officially the owner of several businesses, including a restaurant chain, two nightclubs, and a shipping outfit (your cliched capo occuptions), it was one of the worst-kept secrets in Esborg that he was one of Malcolm Smith's chief lieutenants. The thugs at his nightclubs and that prowled the wharves whenever his ships were docked were rather obvious; so obvious, in fact, that Olsen could conceivably have been unable to make himself more clear by spelling out "I AM A CAPO" in the sky with fireworks. Their scarred faces, the odor of sweat and cheap weed, the bulges in their clothing above their shoulder holsters: these little hints were as good as banners to those who had eyes to see them.

Ironically, it was only the very dullest or most ignorant who wondered why Thomas Olsen was so ostentatious: anyone with any intelligence at all admitted it didn't matter. The man was richer than God, and had enough cops, lawyers, port authority officials, and private investigators in his pocket to make sure he had all the cards and his enemies had none. It was as if he had placed all the evidence on a shelf, complete with labels and all the information, and then cut off the hands of anyone who wanted to reach it. The few crusaders of Esborg were, conventional wisdom said, powerless against him, and he didn't mind showing it.

The cab had dropped Zhukov off at Fixation 21, the trendy, upscale nightclub that was Olsen's unofficial headquarters. He had a sizable lounge, an office, and even an apartment on the second floor, guarded by his enforcers, and conservative estimates put the amount of cocaine in his Holy of Holies at roughly a kilo at any given time. Antonin stared up at the facade, done in black marble with what appeared to be chrome used to contrast. "Pile of shit," the Russian grumbled as he walked past the bouncers, who nodded in greeting to him.

Of course, the club was empty, and Antonin wasted no time heading upstairs, subjecting himself to being patted down by Olsen's hefty bodyguards. Clenching his jaw in anger at being roughly groped by men the approximate size and build of bears, Zhukov waited for them to gruffly wave him through. Pushing past them, the Russian opened the double doors to Olsen's sanctum himself. The scene beyond was one of impressive opulence: the floor was centered around a pit, several inches lower than the rest, where leather couches faced a massive plasma television, with a Persian rug beneath and various modern art pieces displayed on illuminated pedestals around the room. Glancing blankly around at the decor, Zhukov moved to the back, where an ebony door led to Thomas Olsen's office.

* * *

"Let me have men about me that are fat;
Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep o' nights.
Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look;
He thinks too much: such men are dangerous."
-Julius Caesar

* * *

Thomas Olsen was a heavyset man, a professional fighter in his youth, and although he had gained fat and lost speed, he still had a bull's neck, a ruddy face, and an aggressive demeanor. Short, Nordic blond hair perched closely atop the broad skull, out from which peered two piercing, cruel blue eyes, eyes that saw everything in terms of profits, losses, and timetables. A mobster's eyes. He stood from the leather chair behind his desk as Antonin walked in, smiling broadly and holding out his hand to shake. "Zhukov. How the fuck are you?"

"Doing well. Just collected over at 21st," Antonin replied, smiling in return and shaking the proffered hand. Olsen gestured to one of the chairs in front of his desk, and Zhukov sat.

"You want some coke?" Olsen inquired, for all the world like a middle-class man offering a guest a beer, indicating a small box on the desk. Zhukov held up hand in polite refusal. Shrugging, Olsen helped himself with a tiny spoon, casually snorting a gram up each nostril. "Well, to business, Zhukov," he rumbled. "You've been doing a great job so far. By and large. The Juarez hit was a little sloppy. The Commissioner charged me a lot to keep some of that evidence buried."

Antonin shrugged. "Couldn't be helped. The fuckhead tried to stop me. I couldn't avoid leaving a few traces."

Olsen simply stared. "Was the fucking mutilation necessary?"

Zhukov paused, and thought about it for a second. "I got angry."

The capo stared for a bit longer, then leaned back and frowned. "Well, at the very least it threw off the profiles. You don't have a history of murder. Sure as hell not a history of psychotic butchering." He leaned forward again and folded his hands. "That's not what we're here to talk about, Zhukov. I got another job for you. There's this cop who works by the docks. Thinks he's a fucking crusader. I want an example made."

Zhukov raised an eyebrow. "What's the pay?"

"Ten thousand."

"Consider it done. Info?"

"My guards have the information; habits, address, the usual list. Have fun with this one. But not too much. Definitely don't mangle him, or they'll connect this to the Juarez case." Antonin said nothing in reply, simply stood, grinned, and slipped a pair of Aviators out of his pocket, donning them as he walked out. Few things were as fun as messing with an idealist.

Bump, courtesy of Saint Delacroix (the mods have to approve his first 10 posts and there's no point waiting a day for a bump).

We are looking for more involvement, so if you're interested, write up a character.

The information was fairly extensive. Olsen’s men had clearly been watching the guy for some time now. Once you had a name, it was the work of minutes to get the other basics: address, phone number, email. But this wasn’t a phone tree. The odds were pretty fucking low that you would ever need to call the man you were going to kill. What professionals wanted most of all was habits, and that took time. You had to watch a man to pick those up. Maybe he took a long, relaxing bath every Friday night, for example: all you had to do was toss his electric razor in the tub with him, and the job was done.

But then, professionals needed habits because the type of jobs you needed professionals for needed them. Professionals were for the tough cases, the ones under police protection before testifying or the ones who had bodyguards around them 24/7, and you needed to know habits at times like those because you had to be able to predict when the mark would be alone.

This job certainly didn’t qualify as anything tough. An idealist he might be, but the mark was just a cop, and a low-level one at that. Probably barely able to afford his townhouse, and certainly not able to afford any kind of home security. It was the simplest thing in the world for Zhukov to park his car a few blocks away, walk up on foot, enter an adjacent alley and climb over a brick wall that led into the target’s garden. Picking the lock on the back door, he entered noiselessly, and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw there was no pet. Pets were the worst: if you killed them, the mark noticed their absence and knew something was up. And if you didn’t, they yapped up a storm. Guessing that the mark would be back from work in an hour or two, Antonin located the master bedroom, found the closet, and closed himself inside.

* * *

Thomas Olsen grunted with exertion as he slammed the 230-pound barbell back onto its rack. Wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, he sat up and strode over to the corner where he’d left his things. Ignoring his towel and cell phone, he grabbed his bottle of water and took a few gulps. He was about to walk over to the free weights when his phone started buzzing. Growling in irritation, he picked the phone up, flipped it open, and barked an angry “Yes?” into the receiver.

“Mr. Olsen?”

“Who the hell else would it be?”

“It’s Creedy. I have some bad news.”

“How bad?”

“Depends on how much you care about a certain Mr. Antonin Zhukov.”

“He works for me. Nothing beyond that. Get to the fucking point.”

“I understand he controls the dealers down at 21st. They’re dead now. At least the three biggest ones are. All of them shot. One body in the middle of the apartment with minor contusions on the throat, two in the doorjamb with identical bullet wounds in the forehead. Forensics thinks that the last two walked in on the dead or soon-to-be-dead body of the first and got hit before they could react.”

“Sounds like Zhukov’s problem to me.”

“Normally, I might agree with you. But three dealers at once is highly unusual. And the perp was good. Only three shots fired, all of them placed in exactly the same spot, causing instant death. Which means whoever it is calm, collected. You can’t make that kind of shot if you’re nervous. All of this leads us to believe it’s this LeCroix guy who’s been biting off pieces of Smith’s outfit.” Creedy paused, as if waiting for Olsen to say something, but the capo remained silent. He went on, “Now, the fact that he hit these three dealers specifically is important. They’re all connected directly with Zhukov, which suggests that he is the next target. If this pattern continues, it suggests he’s working his way up the chain of command. Which means he’ll make Zhukov talk, then kill him, and move on to you.”

“Bullshit. Nobody’s going to come after me.”

“Believe what you want, Mr. Olsen. I’m just giving you fair warning.”

The line went dead.

* * *

Sergeant Jakob Sorengaard had had a long day. There was no such thing as an easy day for a straight cop in Esborg. Half his colleagues were on the payroll of one or more of the gangs, most notably Malcolm Smith’s, and those that weren’t outright crooked were either apathetic, content to be paid from time to time to look the other way or to probe a rival gang, or fearful, knowing what would happen to their families if they crossed men like Smith. Logical men would never have set out to do good works, as he did. Logical men kept their heads down at best, and at worst traded their virtue in for the money that crime brought. Justice was gasping out its last breath in Esborg, but Jakob intended to apply the defibrillator. That didn’t mean he had a real plan, of course. But he knew a little about psychology: he had to start the ball rolling, stand up for justice. He would have to make himself look invulnerable no matter what the gangs did to him, although hopefully they would not take much notice at first.

He walked up the steps to his townhouse and unlocked the door, smiling a little as he opened it and walked inside. His very own home. Some day, when Esborg was free again, he could afford to have a wife and children. He could see them now, gurgling happily in a cradle, mobile spinning overhead, waving their toys around in that jerky way infants had. His smile widened. Someday.

Walking upstairs, Jakob went into his bedroom. Taking off his uniform, he tossed it on his bed, and was about to go wash his face in the bathroom when he heard a noise from behind him. A creak. Someone had opened the closet. Jakob whipped around with lightning speed, lunging at the figure behind him, who was raising a gun. Time seemed to screech to a halt.

A single shot went off before Jakob could grab the man, sailing through the flesh of his shoulder, missing the bone, and burying itself in the drywall on the other end of the room. He ignored the stabbing pain, grabbing his assailant’s wrists and forcing them up. Distantly he noticed the weapon was silenced; the pistol coughed twice as two more bullets tore into the ceiling. Twisting his grip, Jakob managed to send the pistol spinning away, and immediately began pummeling his assailant.

“You fucking bastard,” the other man hissed. “I’ll fucking kill you. I’ll fucking kill you!” Abruptly his attacker broke free of Jakob’s grip, ignoring the blows that rained upon him, and with a flash, began punching Jakob in the chest again and again. The policeman gasped with shock: that flash had been a knife. The other man was stabbing him. Jakob tried to fight back, tried to grab the wrist that was slashing down on him again and again, but already blood loss and shock had slowed him. The attacker grinned savagely as he easily fended off Jakob’s feebly flailing arms, already moving sluggishly as if underwater. Laughter filled Jakob’s ears; the man was laughing. Again and again the knife buried itself in his torso; he must have been carrying thirty stab wounds by now. And in the blink of an eye, as if a switch had been thrown, the attacker turned to his face, slicing and cutting and stabbing and sawing. Jakob screamed in agony as the attacker cut out first one eye, then the other, and finally, mercifully, slipped into death.

Antonin stood as the cop stopped breathing. There was blood all over his hands and his face, and the floor was a crimson mess. His knife hung loosely at his side as he stared down at the mangled body. He seemed to remember Olsen telling him not to mangle the body. Oops. But the man had hit him. He shouldn’t have done that. Why couldn’t people just die when it was their time? The cop had deserved it, every single stab wound. On the other hand, he thought to himself, looking down at the unrecognizable face, Olsen would be furious. He wouldn’t understand. And the cops would connect this hit to the Juarez job. Same style. Zhukov turned and went downstairs, going out the back door, out of the alley, and beginning the walk to his car. It was time for him to go.

* * *

To: nocturne101@yahoo.com
From: TOlsen@yahoo.com
Re: Personnel

Creedy called this afternoon and told me that the dealers on 21st Street got hit, possibly by the same LeCroix guy that tied up your enforcers at City Hall. He thinks this means LeCroix is going to find Zhukov and make him talk, then move on to me. I happen to think that’s pure bullshit, but I’m not taking a chance with a psycho like this LeCroix. I think I have a solution.

My other sources among the pigs tell me that Zhukov pulled off the hit on the cop. But he fucked it up; the mark is cut up worse than a piece of deli meat, and the cops can’t deny that this was the same style as the Juarez hit. Zhukov is getting sloppy if not crazy. So my thought is I’ll send him to take out this LeCroix character. Zhukov will probably die, but if he’s looking for LeCroix, there’s a good chance LeCroix will be forced to kill him outright and stop working up the chain of command. And hell, if Zhukov manages to take out LeCroix, that’s another problem solved. Win-win. Let me know if you want anything else taken care of.

Some certain lines of work have a decided lack of morals, due mostly to the nature of the work itself and not the individual doing the working. Right and wrong were two sides on the same coin, and much like heads or tails, meant little without context.

The mercenary occupation was one of the aforementioned lines of work, the values of right and wrong often being assigned by the guy with more money or more guns, and that was usually the same guy. After walking the streets a few times at night and seeing what he'd seen, he'd decided that the same guy who hired him wasn't the same guy who really ran shit around here. That would make about as much sense as shooting yourself in the forehead to kill the guy behind you.

The 'he' and 'him' aforementioned referred to Dekker Bray, an American-born soldier of fortune who'd made quite a name for himself in his chosen industry. His resume was impressive, a few highlights of which were his extensive operation expertise in hotspots like Angola, the Congo, Sierra Leone, Afganistan, Iraq, Serbia, to name a slight few in addition to his years with the US military, first with the US Marine Corps as a member of Force Recon and later in the US Navy as a member of the celebrated SEAL Team 6. The pricetag for his services wasn't cheap, but it was pocket change compared to the one on his moral code, well beyond six figures.

He'd been hired, at no small expense, by the Esborg police department to train its officers in small arms, tactics, and what he liked to call 'defensive techniques'. Bray's specialty had always been close-quartered combat, preferring anything from short assault rifles, sub-machine guns and shotguns down through pistols, knives, and his own body. A registered instructor for the Marine Corps MCMAK fighting style, Bray was also well-versed in Krav Maga, Sambo, and certified to teach Muay Thai at a professional level. His unique skillset had made him a perfect candidate for teaching law enforcement officers, and Esborg PD had been the first to recognize this, hiring him to teach in their recruit academy.

They'd given him accomidations in an apartment downtown, and while not a lavish place, it did give him access to a well-equipped gym and a good selection of dining opportunites for his down-time. He'd started small with the rookies this morning, running through point-shooting from the holster before moving into the 'failure-to-stop' drill and ending with handgun marksmanship up to fifty feet from the target. By the end of the session the recruits were reliably making hits on a steel plate from the full distance before they moved on to their more mundane legal classes.

Not a bad day's work, all things considered. While it was getting late, Bray still hadn't hit the gym yet and he knew he wasn't going to sleep well unless he did. After stopping off in his apartment to change and lock his sidearm away in its case, Dekker made for the lower-most floor where the fitness center was located, immediately throwing himself into some heavy cardio before moving into a back and bicep routine roughly forty-five minutes later. As far as dimensions went, Bray was a beastly-looking individual. Standing roughly six-foot-two he wasn't exactly tall, but his two-hundred and forty-five pound frame gave him a menacing look and enough power to muscle his way out of a situation if it was demanded of him. Versatility had been key to making him the mercenary he was today, in terms of both conditioning and expeirence. He wasn't about to let himself slack off any, even with this fairly cushy assignment as a firearms and tactics instructor for some local-level police force.

The workout ended an hour and a half later and Dekker celebrated with a protein shake in front of his laptop, browsing the Association of International Mercenaries website under his secure name and password. While commonly used by governments or national militaries and police forces, private citizens did have access to the website itself, and that meant terrorists, criminals, and all sorts of undesireables were able to hire some of the best mercs in the business, should their pockets be deep enough to convince them to do so. Dekker was one of those rare few who didn't work for terrorists or anything of that sort. Most of his contracts were with the UN these days. His brother, however, had made most of his money working for the Russian mob. While he didn't approve of Jackson's career direction after the Army, he couldn't argue with the money the man had made either.

Currently he was the only AIM-backed merc in Esborg or its parent nation but that could change pretty quickly, his brown crew-cut and blue eyes apparent in the only mugshot that appeared when he clicked on his current location. Dekker shut the laptop with a few concerns bouncing around in his head as head downed the remainder of the shake and made his way to the shower. As rampant as crime was in this city he wouldn't be surprised if he came across a brother merc on the other side of the law. There were some rough characters under the listings, the sort of guys with no morals and enough greed and skill to make life for Esborg's citizens even harder and make law enforcement next to impossible unless he got directly involved.

While Dekker considered himself a good man, he knew he had done some pretty bad things over the years, but those bad things had been done to worse people. He justified it using the whole 'breaking eggs to make omlets' method. Those guys deserved what they got, at least a dozen times over. Their faces, however, did appear in his nightmares occasionally, though most of the time he was reliving the deaths of his comrades, guys he'd known for years and done innumerable contracts with, guys who'd attended his son's birthday parties, and whom Dekker had been to weddings, graduations, and christmas dinners for their families as well. They WERE family as far as he was concerned, better than any he'd ever had. He'd also been to every single funeral, and that began to wear on you before the first one was even over.

Shaking off the painful past, Dekker stepped into the shower. Maybe a little steam and hot water would clear his head, but if that didn't work there was always the bar...

OOC: If you're in need of another villian send me a TG and I'll get someone from that website I mentioned earlier. I've got quite a few.

NAME: Qassem, Salah Saad
AGE: 42
HEIGHT: 5’3”
WEIGHT: 153 Lbs.
EYE COLOR: Green
HAIR COLOR: Black
KNOWN ALIASES: Alhambra
OCCUPATION: Unknown. Vanished several months ago.
KNOWN CRIMES:
-No past convictions
SUSPECTED ACTIVITIES:
-Connected to at least three and at most twelve cases of multiple murder in five countries
-Suspected in four kidnappings
-Suspected in the slaying of three Saint Delacroix detectives and a suspected gang enforcer

Commissioner’s Note: This guy's a former cop who went rouge decades ago. Qassem is a freelance professional not associated with any gang or organization. No one's really sure what side he's on, but he's known to be a heavy hitter.

~

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

Vincent Swinger pounded his fist into his subject's ribs as hard as he could, causing the man to spew blood in every direction; a splatter of red landed on Vincent's tie.

"Fucker! This is a Versace, motherfucker...just bought it last week, and now it's fucking ruined. Alan, hand me the bat, will you?"

"Sure thing, detective." A tall, sunken-eyed man in a long black overcoat lifted a hefty wooden bat from the backseat of the Mercedes and threw it to Vincent, who caught it expertly. It was a grisly scene; the unfortunate man receiving the beating was tied to a chair in the middle of an near-empty warehouse, obviously with no means of escaping. A third man wearing a fedora and sunglasses leaned against a crate smoking a cigarette, watching his comrades senselessly smash the bat into their powerless victim.

"Enough, boys. We don't want our lovely little prize to be too damaged when we hand him in. Besides, we still need to find out where all that money went. "

Vincent shook his head dubiously. "I don't know, Dom. Harper's gonna be pissed when we tell him we found the crook, but not the cash. I mean, he's not that dumb, is he?"

Dom shrugged casually. "I'm sure he'll be happy to have this punk dragged in with or without the money. Besides, do you really want to hand over a briefcase with fifty thousand in it over to the Esborg police department?"

"The department that we're a part of, you mean?" Alan interjected sarcastically, shaking his head as he pounded a fist into the head of the aforementioned 'punk,' who by now was nearly unconscious. "Speaking of money, where the fuck did you put the briefcase? We haven't even started, you know...wait until we get to the cutting."

The man in the chair was young, perhaps twenty-five at most, a low-level enforcer and messenger boy in the vast Esborg criminal underground. He had been charged by his superiors with transporting a briefcase of cash to a lieutenant, a task he had clearly failed miserably at. He spit a couple more teeth out as Vincent delivered a glancing blow with his bat.

Alan laughed sadistically as he pounded the kid's face in. "Boy, for a dumbass punk you are sure one tough motherfucker. Still, me and my friends really don't have time for this shit, so just tell us where you hid the stash and maybe we'll even let you go, see? There's no need for-"

Twang. Alan's remarks were suddenly cut short as a crossbow bolt flew out of the darkness and pierced his skull, dropping him instantly. Vincent and Dom drew their pistols in a flash, pointing in random directions fruitlessly. Twang. Another bolt flew through the air, striking Dom squarely in the chest. Shouting a string of curses, Vincent fired wildly, hitting nothing but air. The gun soon clicked empty. Twang. Vincent dived for his life, th bolt narrowly missing him, and picked up the heavy bat, trying to find his opponent's position.

A rush of wind and a shine of metal suddenly revealed itself as a short, dark figure flew across the warehouse, heading straight for Vincent. Vincent saw his enemy was wielding naught but a tiny scalpel; he snorted derisively as he swung his weapon. The man dodged with catlike agility and, in one motion, disarmed Vincent before slicing his jugular. The detective fell to the floor gasping for air as his throat gave a few feeble sprays of blood.

The kid in the chair, still wheezing blood from his beating, laughed cruelly as he saw his tormentors fall before him. Grinning with what few teeth remained in his mouth, he struggled to untie himself as his savior pulled his arrows out of the bodies of the other two detectives.

"Fucking nice, man...who sent you, Olsen? Shit, I've never seen anyone move like that. Fuck, dude!" The man stared at the kid for a moment before withdrawing a Mauser C96 from a jacket holster and firing a bullet in between his eyes. Sorry, kid. I don't deal with people as low as you. Don't fail in your next life, and maybe things will turn out different.

Alhambra sighed as he glanced around the warehouse. Law enforcement just wasn't what it used to be. At least now he had the attention of both the police and the underground. The question was which one would hire him first?

Too many damn bodies for one day.

Alan Harper covered his nose with a handkerchief as he stepped through the front door of Sergeant Sorengaard’s townhouse. “Young Jakob’s getting good and ripe in here,” grinned the detective lieutenant accompanying him. Harper shot the man a venomous glance and the smile vanished from his face.

Harper stepped into the kitchen where a young detective leaned against the counter scribbling in a notebook; the same young detective who had delivered word of the vigilante LeCroix’s exploits the previous day.

“What do you have for me, Torbenson?”

The young man, caught by surprise and obviously flustered, shot to his feet, prompting a smirk from the lieutenant standing with Harper.

“Sir, the back lock was picked. We think the killer came around through the garden.”

“You think?” corrected Harper. “We’re going to need definitives here, Torbenson.”

“Sorry sir. The killer entered the back door after going through the garden. It seems he then went upstairs to Sergeant Sorengaard’s bedroom and attacked him with a knife. Cut him up…pretty bad.”

Bringing up the subject of the victim visibly turned Torbsenson’s stomach. Harper nodded and patted the young man on the shoulder.

“Alright. Good work detective. We’re going upstairs to get a look at the body.”

“Sir?”

There was a look of apprehension in the young man’s eyes, fearing that he would be expected to accompany them to that dreadful scene. Harper smiled.

“It’s alright, son. We can find the way ourselves.”

Torbenson was visibly relieved as the Chief and the lieutenant started off towards the stairs.

“Fucking amateur,” sneered the lieutenant, looking over his shoulder towards the young detective. “You should’ve given this to someone who can hold on to their lunch in front of a body.”

“You shouldn’t talk yet, Andrews. I hear this one’s quite a sight,” replied the chief, handkerchief back over his nose as they approached the door to the master bedroom. The stench had become unbearable. In front of the door a uniformed officer waited.

“Here to see the body, sir?”

“Yes. Come to pay our respects to the Sergeant,” murmured Harper. The officer leaned over and turned the handle, burying his nose in his hand as he opened the door.

Sweet Christ…

The lieutenant’s eyes widened a moment before he doubled over and vomited all over the carpet. Harper took a step into the room, and noticed the congealing puddles of blood on the floor. The walls were splashed with it. So was the door.

Bullet in the wall; 2 in the ceiling.

“Sorengaard fought back,” said Harper to himself. “Look where it got him…”

In the center of the room he lay contorted, his face unrecognizable. One of the man’s blue eyes lay not far from his head. The other had rolled under the armoire, and was invisible. The rest of him was slashed and diced like a lump of butcher’s meat.

Harper walked back out into the hallway, where the now very pale lieutenant was waiting. The chief smirked at him and continued back downstairs, where he found Torbenson waiting.

“You…saw it?”

“Him. Saw him,” corrected the Chief. “Yes, I did.”

Harper walked towards the back door, motioning for the detective to follow him. He stepped outside, and lit a cigarette, glad to be away from the smell.

“The Juarez case 2 weeks ago,” said Harper. “Remember it?”

“Vaguely, sir. I wasn’t on that one, replied the young detective.

“Similar. Same sort of wanton slashing, mutilation.”

“Do you think they’re related? A serial killer?”

Harper didn’t reply, but pensively dragged on his cigarette.

“We questioned the neighbors on either side,” said Torbenson. “Two of them distinctly heard screaming.”

“Did they hear any gunshots?” asked Harper.

“Erm, no sir,” replied Torbenson, confused. “The victim was killed with a knife, not a gun.”

“True, but there are three bullets buried in the walls of his bedroom, which leads me to think that the assailant was looking for a cleaner kill. Sorengaard was a cop. Juarez was a muscleman for a small time organization. There’s no relation between the two. But their murders.”

Harper fell silent again.

“Sir?”

So he’s a professional. Or he was.

Harper looked over at Torbenson, as if just noticing him.

“Start searching this whole block for bloody footprints, discarded clothes, anything the killer might have discarded. And get ballistics to analyze those bullets in the wall.”

“Yes, sir.”

Harper was already walking towards the front gate. His expression was hardening. Things were coming together in his head. Sorengaard had been a good officer. He would have gone far. The mutilation, whether accidental or not, had been a good mask for the fact that his murder had been bought and paid for.

Dead crooks and dead cops, all in the same night. Equilibrium. The natural order of things.

He checked himself. This was not natural. There could be no even balance between the right side and the wrong side of the law. Someone had killed a police officer last night; a good police officer.

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

LeCroix scaled the rear wall of the townhouse, lithely and quietly. Below, a pair of officers stood guard by the back door, the light from their cigarettes the only visible sign of their presence. LeCroix was not a smoker, and so he remained completely invisible as he slipped through the bedroom window.

It was quiet. The house was empty.

Just me and you, he thought as he knelt beside the tarp that now lay over Sorengaard’s corpse. He lifted it with a long, slender finger. The light from a small flashlight pierced one of the ever staring eye sockets. The tongue lolled from the open jaw.

LeCroix let the tarp fall and stood, but not before glimpsing a loose eye staring at him from under an armoire. He picked his way across the bloody carpet to a desk at the far end of the room. Shining his flashlight, LeCroix scanned the several papers spread out across the desk. Most were routine, uninteresting policeman’s homework. However, buried under a pile of old dossiers was a single sheet of notebook paper. The handwriting was barely legible, but it wasn’t hard to tell that it was a list of names. LeCroix pocketed it, and opened the desk drawer.

Inside a Glock 19 acted as a paperweight for a white envelope. LeCroix reached inside, and feeling around, pulled out a small notebook; a journal of sorts.

“Kindred spirits,” he whispered to the corpse.

February 3rd, 2008-

I am convinced that Smith’s operation is at least twice as large as the organized crime department is estimating. The sheer amount of product we seized today proves that our friend Malcolm not only has the balls to buy in bulk, but is also running a large, sophisticated transport and distribution operation. Think about it: ships with foreign flags registered under false names, a fleet of delivery trucks with fake plates, and 20 kilos stored in a single location…

LeCroix’s brow furrowed. He picked up a document from the desk that he had skimmed earlier, and put it down again.

Sorengaard wasn’t a narcotics officer. Also, he hadn’t been around long enough to be working high profile cases. Make a note of that…

He went back to the journal, flipping ahead a few pages.

February 23rd, 2008-

The look on that rat bastard Olsen’s face was priceless when we dragged him in on racketeering. None of it’s going to stick, but Christ did it feel good to watch him sweat when we read him the charges…

May 3rd, 2008-

Went down to the docks again today to check out that freighter again. It was clean the first time, but I’m sure something’s up. Somebody hassled me when I tried to board it. Told them I’d get a warrant and come back the next day. I can guarantee you it won’t be there. The harbor cops are worthless. Crooked to a man

May 4th, 2008-

As I predicted, the ship was gone when I came back. Figures.

LeCroix skipped ahead a few pages, and began skimming, but was interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the hall. He closed the drawer, pocketed the journal, and was gone.

----------

Known Drug Dealers Murdered in Another Wave of Gangland Violence

Vigilante to Blame for Triple Homicide?

Malcolm Smith scoffed at the twin headlines, tossing the paper aside in favor of a glass of cognac. The television news was no better. All conspiracy theories and fearmongering.

Blind bastards. A man kills in public, leaves his victims in the open like a cat, and he’s a media sensation.

“It’s getting to be an epidemic, Charles,” he said in a soft, deep voice; smooth as silk on the ears. “Maniacs in the street, killing people for no reason. It’s hard to do business anymore with all of these distractions. Thomas just sent me an email. He thinks our associates on 21st street were murdered by this LeCroix fellow.”

Smith chuckled.

“Considering recent circumstances, that’s not that wild an assumption, Mr. Smith.”

Charles looked up from the television news, perched in a stuffed armchair in the sitting room of Smith’s luxurious uptown apartment. Smith sipped his cognac and nodded.

“It’s true. It’s true. We can’t discount any possibilities. Regardless, he’s cooked up a plan to kill two birds with the same stone, and I’m inclined to let him put it into action.”

Just then, the phone on the desk began to ring. Smith reached over and picked up the receiver. A moment later he put it down, his expression quite suddenly sullen.

“I tell you, Charles. This is really getting out of hand…”

Charles looked over, concerned.

“What is it, Mr. Smith?”

“Three detectives who had brought in our man for a little impromptu questioning were found dead. Crossbow bolts.”

“Shit. When will these nuts crawl back into the holes they came out of.”

“The saddest part is, two of the officers were being paid by Olsen.”

Smith fell quiet, finishing his drink. He set the glass down and walked over to the window, looking out over the pre-dawn darkened city.

“It matches his style, you know,” said Charles, matter of factly. Smith looked over his shoulder.

“Whose?”

“This Alhambra character. He’s been dormant for awhile. He does that every now and again. Likes to come back with a bang though. Kill a few people here and there and wait for work.”

Smith nodded.

“Then you’ve dealt with him, before?”

“I met him once, several years ago before I was affiliated. He’s a bit strange, but his work’s always been excellent.”

“Sounds to me like he and this LeCroix would get along swimmingly…”

“Well, funny that you should mention it. I was thinking, perhaps we should put him on the payroll. If this LeCroix isn’t found in an alley or arrested soon, we could send our very own nut after him.”

Smith let out a good natured laugh.

“It’s a thought. If Olsen’s plans don’t pan out, perhaps we could. Does he have a phone number, or do we summon him with black magic?”

Smith grinned at Charles, who chuckled in turn.

“He tends to get in touch when he’s looking for work.”

“Fair. Then let him. Perhaps he’ll be useful. If he’s a liability, then we can deal with him. Besides, what’s one dead package boy anyway? Between friends, that is.”

Dekker's nightly ritual usually ended with him stripping his sidearm, a heavily tweaked M1911A1, down for cleaning. The weapon was made by Kimber, one of the premiere manufacturers of such weapons back in the US, the stock designation calling it a 'Kimber Custom Gold Combat RL', but it looked nothing like the picture on the website other than that it was a full-size 'Government' model with a five-inch barrel. Dekker had first had the weapon hard-chromed, giving it a soft white glow and ungodly rust resistance after the frame under the trigger guard had been undercut to achieve a higher hold on the gun. The barrel had been scrapped in favor of a new Bar-Sto match-grade model crowned to eleven degrees, held in place by a Kart barrel bushing and spring cap. The grip safety had come factory standard as a 'memory bump' model with an extended beaver tail since he'd ordered it that way, making it easier for those who shot 'thumbs high' to activate it. He'd left the Commander-style ring hammer alone, but replaced the sear with a match-grade model from Wilson Combat. All the small parts were left the original black KimPro finish, to include the grip safety, manual safety, extended slide stop, and two-hole match-grade aluminum trigger. The final modification was to add a set of Ghost Ring night-sights with tritium inserts and have the slide flat-topped and serrated to reduce glare. The pistol already had a 'speed chute' beleveled magazine well for swift reloads, even under stress, and he'd left that in the standard finish as well. Kimber also polished the feed ramp on every pistol they produced, making the pistols feed properly with hollow-point ammo. The grips were custom-made, African Ceylon Ebony inlaid with a silver SEAL emblem. While a bit flashy for a combat piece, it wasn't overly so. The grips were hidden by his hands most of the time and he hadn't had the chrome polished so it didn't 'bling' like his brother's matched nickel-plated Springfields did, and his also didn't have gold accents or engraving.

The pistol had been with him since he'd left the SEALs, and had spent most of its life in a thigh holster covered in mud, silt, or sand. Despite that, it had always been there when he needed it, which was more than he could say for nearly all the women he'd ever been with, to include his son's mother. A traditionalist, Bray's 1911A1 was chambered in .45 ACP, since he preferred to only have to shoot someone once. The magazines were Wilson Combat Elite models, holding eight rounds each.

His old friend fully cleaned and lubed, Dekker slapped a magazine back into place and chambered a round, setting the weapon aside on the nightstand. He had others in the room with him, but they weren't loaded. As a rule, he always brought along a small arsenal. The stacked cases in the corner contained a Heckler and Koch G36C assault rifle, an MP5N from the same company, and a Benelli Super M90 shotgun. His usual kit sat next to it, a Dragonskin vest from Pinnacle Armor laden with mag-pouches and his newest item, a ballistic face mask he'd had painted to resemble a terminator-esque skull missing the left side of its face, since he'd picked up a nasty scar that ran down over his left eye nearly to his chin and began in his hairline. There was another, less brutal-looking scar running at an angle across his right cheek.

The first was from shrapnel during his first tour with the SEALs in Grenada, the second from a bullet graze or a knife, he never could remember. The rest of his scar tissue wasn't quite as visible, a grim compliment to the few tattoos he'd aquired over the years.

Dekker slid into bed, wanting to be ready for the next day's training sessions. Those would require him to be alert, and no amount of Monster or Red Bull could make up for a good night's sleep...

OOC: a good guy with a anger issue

NAME: Becker, Leopold
AGE: 32
HEIGHT: 6'-5"
WEIGHT: 215lbs
EYE COLOR: Green
HAIR COLOR: Brown
KNOWN ALIASES: None
OCCUPATION: Detective
KNOWN CRIMES: None

Commissioner’s Note: Leo is a honest man and has high moral standards, he compared to Frank Serpico and Ness, a untouchable cop. He is willing to do anything to bring crooks to justice.

Apartment #34, 21st Street

Leo lays in bed, he was wondering if this city was going to change, Most of the cops were on the pay and he wasn't. He know that something had to be done, and was willing to do it. Looking at the clock, he got up and got dress for a another day at work. "I wonder what crap going to happen to day." he said to himself in shower. After that, he put on his suit and his gun and looked at today's paper. "This guy might help, but I hope he knows what his up to." He got into his BMW and drove to the station, he was in the organized crime unit and this was he hope just a average day of work.

OOC:

Could I have a big Antigran Police Detective thingy on holiday? Police think he'd be useful, is allowed in?

OOC:

Could I have a big Antigran Police Detective thingy on holiday? Police think he'd be useful, is allowed in?

OOC: It's fine. No need to ask, really.

OOC:

Ooh, yes. Just wanted to try out my new epic massive revolver that folds out of his hat.

Will edit into bio later.

No sooner have I signed up for this than I have to pull out.

Ah, well.

Happy RPing, all.

OOC: In keeping with the leisurely pace of most good character RPs, I'm waiting for Warmaster to make his next post before I continue, so no need to fear thread-death this early in our saga. I'll take this time to welcome you all to the thread. The intro posts all looked absolutely magnificent. Any concerns, ideas, etc., feel free to TG me. Looking forward to some great RPing.

The thread is still very much open, so anyone who's interested in joining simply make your first post. Out of character introductions are unnecessary.

His flight into Esborg had been uneventful, and he hated uneventful. Chaos was the spice of life, his life at least, but that was all he really cared about. He'd killed a few too many people to feel any other way. The cab driver was going to be next if he didn't quit shooting him sideways glances in the rearview mirror...

"You got a fuckin' problem, asshole?"

His remark was sudden, loud, and forceful, like just about anything Tyson MacManus did. The cabbie, startled, snapped his eyes back forward and fixated them on the road...

"Uh, no sir, nothing at all..."

A devilish, toothy grim split Tyson's face...

"That's what I thought, dickhead. I ain't payin' you to gawk at me. Drive me to the fuckin' Fixation 21 club and shut the fuck up or I'm going to crater your fuckin' face. Eyes on the fuckin' road, jerkoff. Jesus..."

The cab driver's behavior wasn't uncommon, MacManus' favorite haircut was a clippered mohawk, bald on the sides with a reddish-brown hue. His cold, unfeeling eyes were a vicious green, and usually the last thing his victims saw before they suffered internal hemmoraging or fatal brain damage from being beaten to death.

As far as mercs went, Tyson was pretty unique. A former Ranger with rage issues bordering on psycosis, he'd spent about as much time in the brig as he did in combat until his CO finally had enough and had him discharged. Already having all the perks of being a felon without actually having committed a felony, MacManus quickly racked himself up a nice roster of assault charges and got himself locked away for several years. Once on the inside, he fell in with the Aryan Brotherhood, who recruited him for his impressive talents at hurting people. Tyson wasn't a very big guy, standing roughly 5'10" and weighing about 170 lbs, he wasn't what you'd expect to see when someone described a chow hall brawl and some guy named MacManus kicking the shit out of four or five Mexican Mafia members by himself, unless you took into account that he was 170 pounds of pure muscle and a hardcore freerunner.

After serving his time, Tyson found work with the Brotherhood on the outside as an enforcer, collecting on debts owed and performing some contract murder work before finding AIM on the internet. Since most PMC's wouldn't hire convicted felons, it was his only option, and even then they kept him out of the really high-paying listings. Only the clean-cut assholes with years in the biz and no criminal record made the top of the listings, and even after seven or so assassinations carried out for the UN he still hadn't made it any higher than mid-list. It was one of those things he thought about when he was slamming someone's head into something harder than the human skull, trying to trigger that berserker rage he made such effective use of.

The driver stopped in front of the Fixation 21 club, tenatively mentioning to Tyson that they'd arrived. The merc exited the car and threw a wad of paper currency into the open drivers' side window...

"Keep the change, dickwad..."

He knew there wasn't enough there to cover the fare, and he didn't really care. He also didn't care that he looked nothing like the sort of usual customer that the club was meant for. Dressed in a black T-shirt showcasing two hands, one flipping the bird and the other pointing outward, held tightly to his chest by a simple combat harness colored olive drab, one could already guess that this guy really didn't care about how he dressed. The harness held nothing besides a pair of Benchmade punch daggers, one on either shoulder with the grips facing outward. The pants were a faded pair of woodland-pattern BDU's, bloused into a pair of jungle boots laced with jolly-roger patterned laces he'd found at some alternative store.

Add in the full sleeves that ran down both arms and the fingerless gloves, plus the quarter-inch mohawk, Tyson looked like he'd be more at home in a heavy metal club, and truth be told, he would. Then again, the guy who'd requested that he fly all the way out here didn't own a heavy metal club, he owned this ritzy shithole. Thankfully, there were guards posted outside and he didn't need to enter to see if he was in the right place...

"Either of you fuck-heads know if Thomas Olsen's in there? I got business with him..."

The two men eyed him oddly, as if he'd just declared that he was indeed Elvis Presley, returned from a thirty-year cosmic voyage aboard the starship Enterprise where he'd toured every corner of known space and enjoyed numerous fried space-bananna sandwiches with Kirk and Spock...

"Apparently his current cleaner is a little too set in his ways..."

Tyson yanked a rolled newspaper he'd picked up in the airport from the small of his back where he'd wedged it in his harness, the headline saying something about the murders of a cop and a small-time enforcer being somehow linked. He showed the two bouncers the headline before tucking the paper away again...

"I'd suggest one of you retards make a call or some shit, let him know I'm here..."

While a cocky motherfucker, MacManus wasn't stupid. Both of these guys had to be packing, judging by the suits they wore, cut wide in the shoulders to accomodate something in a shoulder holster, of maybe one of those nice MP5K's. He also knew that his results were stellar enough for his past employers to tolerate his eccentric mannerisums, and he was willing to be that Mr. Olsen would follow that trend after Tyson proved that he knew how to murder people and get away with it...

To: libertad44@danegeld.com
From: TOlsen@yahoo.com
Re: New Job

More work for you. I've had some bait laid out for our vigilante friend at 3100 Raspell, and I want you to hang around there tonight and remove him when he arrives. Mr. Smith himself wants you to take down the rogue; he thinks you've proven yourself capable of it, and I agree. Let me say that you can expect to retire early on the money for this. Don't let us down.

* * *

"That cocksucking son of a bitch."

The remark was loud, and angry, and carried to every corner of the coffee shop where Antonin Zhukov was eating a hitherto-enjoyable sandwich. The customers and the cashier alike stared at him in surprise, quickly turning away at the stormy look of rage that was stamped across his features. Zhukov tossed the half-eaten sandwich back down on his plate, and strode out without another word. Olsen was such a fucking prick. He didn't bother looking again at the email; he knew it would just make him angrier.

What the fuck did they expect? LeCroix had already killed his fair share of Smith's muscle. Now, without any information at all about the job, he had to kill the man. Olsen hadn't even told him what he'd be paid, just a vague promise that it was a lot. "Fucking ridiculous," he growled. He'd accept. Of course he'd accept; that wasn't the point. If he refused, Smith would immediately consider him a liability, and he could expect to be dead in two weeks.

But, fuck it, he didn't have to be happy about it.

* * *

Thomas Olsen leaned back and smiled as he pressed "SEND" on his handheld computer. Pouring himself a glass of vodka, he let himself enjoy the feeling of a job well done. Zhukov, in all likelihood, was as good as dead. Who knew, though; maybe he'd cut LeCroix's hamstring or get in some other lucky shot, take the psycho out. Hopefully they would both die, but he would settle for one or the other. Smith would be happy, either way.

A knock came at the door. Thomas Olsen did not like people walking in on him.

"What?"

The door to his sanctum opened, and one of his door guards walked in, shutting it behind him before announcing, "Some prick is outside. Kind of a short fella, but he looks like he'll burn the place down if we don't let him in. I think he's lookin' for a job."

Olsen stared. Plainly the man was either arrogant or an idiot. Most people did not ask for employment in the mob when there was a psychopath murdering enforcers, apparently untouchable by the police. And only cocky bastards or dumb fucks walked into Fixation 21 and asked Thomas Olsen himself for a job. But he had time. There were no shipments that needed managing, no officials he needed to visit, not at the moment. And he supposed there was at least a 5% chance this guy had earned the arrogance (assuming it wasn't idiocy) he was displaying.

"Send him in."

He leaned back in his chair and took a gulp of his vodka. This had better be worth his time.

* * *

3100 Raspell Avenue. Bad place to be, by anyone's standards, whether you were there on Malcolm Smith's orders or not. A very bad place to be when you were hiding in the apartment, in a closet adjacent to the only bedroom, the stink of a moldering corpse filling your nostrils. Zhukov bore it stoically, but apparently Olsen and Smith's idea of bait was to kill to occupant in cold blood and hope LeCroix showed up to poke around.

I swear to God, Zhukov vowed to himself, if I stay here through this fucking stink all night and LeCroix doesn't show, I'm moving back to fucking Russia.

He'd wondered, before secreting himself in the closet, if maybe it was foolish to try the same trick twice. But this wasn't the movies. If it ain't broke, don't fix it: no need to hide himself in the goddamn ceiling or something fancy just for style points. Zhukov rather doubted Mr. LeCroix would stop to admire his stylish refusal not to repeat the tactic he used on Sorengaard.

For about the ninth time he checked that his pistol was loaded, that the silencer was on securely, that the safety was off. He hadn't been this nervous on a job since...ever. Antonin prayed it wasn't getting to him. The next few hours would determine whether he lived out his days in luxury, or whether he'd be found somewhere unsuitably public, with something along the lines of "A present for Esborg; from LeCroix, with love" written in his own blood on a note he'd be clutching in cold hands. He shuddered.

Keep it together, Zhukov. Long night ahead of you.

OOC: Sorry, a little bit hurried; I start work tomorrow and I wanted to do it tonight.

Name: David Curtis
Age: 27 (?)
Nationality: Unknown, employed by STDI within the Commonwealth (my country)
Weapons: 1 P239 .357 pistol, Stealth Recon Scout .338 rifle, flash grenades and specialty 'dispersal' grenades
Personality: No-nonsense, he believes in the phrase 'need-to-know' and usually takes assignments with that in mind.Quite amiable in nature, he is also bitter about his current employment but unable to find a way out.
Short bio: Secretive of his origins, there is evidence of David's enlistement in the military at an early age. Certain slips of the tongue mention the North Gate War, though if he fought in it, David would be far older than his official age of 27. He began working with STDI several years ago as a private operative.
http://i154.photobucket.com/albums/s255/jillvalentine24/Leon_Kennedy.jpg

ic:

Systèmes Techniques de Défense Internationaux (STDI) HQ, Osuis City, CFUS

Filing past the Suits of the officer, David caught quite the eye in his jeans and worn jacket. Men like him rarely visited with the Boss, and even rarely met with him in person. But he was used to that; being in the military, it was normal not to know the higher ups...shaking his head, David took the elevator to the top, the security guard eyeing him and the bulge from his jacket. But his ID checked out, and the rent-a-cop let David through. From the top floor, he had to wait in the lounge, standing impatiently as he studied an expensive artpiece that looked like a three year old's drawing. The secretary finally told him he could go inside, and David wasted no time.

"Mr. Curtis," Deveraux, CEO of the company greeted him, "Have a seat."

"I'd prefer to stand," David answered as he stepped forward.

"That wasn't a request," Deveraux said, rising a bit from his chair. David took a seat and he continued. "Have you heard of a city called Esborg? It's in a small principality called Saint Delecroix."

"Can't say I have," he answered, pretending to be interested in the ornate tiling.

"Well, they have a crime problem, as it were, and we would like to help...alleviate it." There was a slight chuckle afterwards that made David uneasy. "As a representative agent, you'll negotiate a contract with the Chief of Police...one Alan Harper. He's so pressed for manpower, he'll jump at the chance."

"And if he isn't the jumping type?" David asked.

"I'm sure someone in that town will require our 'special' services," Deveraux chuckled.

Police HQ, Esborg

Crap, how'd I get into this one?" David asked, staring at the building. With a shrug of his shoulder, he walked up the steps, stopping the first officer he could as he asked to speak with the police chief.

ooc: STDI is basically a private military/security corporation.

OOC: This all feels very Sin City to me. I like it.

NAME: Devereaux, Angelique Marianna
AGE: 10
HEIGHT: 4’2”
WEIGHT: 57 lbs
EYE COLOR: Blue-Gray
HAIR COLOR: Dirty Blonde
KNOWN ALIASES: None
OCCUPATION: Prostitute
KNOWN CRIMES: None

Waiting. Waiting was the hard part. Waiting for the right moment, waiting for the opening, waiting for the mistake they always made. A child. That's what they saw. A golden-haired angel, like a little china doll, so fragile, so soft, so breakable. Sometimes, she would even pretend to be just that. She'd paint a picture in her mind. Her mother and father were rich and happy. They would take her to the park, and she would play on the playground. And then she would need to go to the restroom. She was a big girl now, so she would go alone without telling them first. After all, it was only a few feet from the playground. She would be done and back before they knew it. Little would she know, there would be a grungy old man waiting behind the door. He would grab her from behind, placing a hand over her mouth so she couldn't scream, and he would lock the door before dragging her into the stall.

Of course, the fantasy generally shattered at that point. It wasn't that her clientelle didn't generally fit the bill. It wasn't that the postulated event had never happened, minus the rich parents. It wasn't even the fact that wad of bills she received half the time instead of a sweaty hand over her mouth. It was the fact that a hot spurt of blood across your face is likely to shatter any fantasy. She always seemed to get some in her mouth. She wasn't sure why. It just seemed to always happen. She had to be careful about that, she knew, especially with the ones who really were grungy. They might be sick. She always gargled with hydrogen peroxide afterwards, just to be sure. She had seen some of the older girls that got bad sick after being with a really grungy guy. She really didn't want to get sick like that.

It was the grungy ones that usually opted for that silencing hand rather than a wad of bills. Point in case, three am, at the park on the west side. It was just down the street from city hall and the police station, across the street from a court house in fact, and here was a grungy old man. She had been sleeping on one of the benches for a change of pace. Normally she spent the night in her hotel room, but tonight she felt like hunting. So she had picked one of the park benches near the restrooms and waited. She could hear the large clock that fronted the court house tower clonging out the hour as he dragged her towards the restrooms. She kicked and squirmed, screaming against his hand. If she didn't, he might suspect something. She only struggled until he kicked open the door and dragged her inside. From there she settled for falling limp and crying.

It was an old song and dance. She had been performing it for the last two years, after all. Back to the waiting, though she knew it wouldn't be long now. This one was polite enough to go the faux-friendly route, promising her that he wouldn't hurt her if she didn't scream, that it would be over soon, and sooner if she just cooperated. She gave him the big scared eyes and just nodded. He picked her up and set her on the edge of the sinks, feeling his way up her legs beneath her skirt. That was her cue. He never saw it coming, and even if he had, he probably would have thought nothing at it. After all, how many people who see a fragile little ten year old girl about to slap them expect said ten year old girl to have a razor blade clasped between her fingers?

She backhanded him across the throat, porcelain sliding over rubble as her hand met his flesh. He reared back, hand set to smack her senseless for daring to go back on her word. He paused, hand still cocked for the smack. He realized something was wrong. She simply watched the blood begin to seep from the red line across his neck, a bubble forming and popping over his windpipe. That hand he had prepared to lay the bitch slap of doom on the poor "fragile" little girl made its way in slow, ponderous motion towards the peculiar sensations coming from his esophagus. His hand came away covered in blood. She met his gaze as his eyes widened, and gave him her most angelic smile, raising a hand and give a cute fingerwave goodbye.

It was then that he heard the sudden snarl. He spun around, gurgling, hand clasped against his throat and blood stubbornly continued to seep out. His eyes nearly bulged out of his head at the sight of what now faced him. Nearly two hundred pounds of pure timber wolf muscle took a menacing step towards the grungy man, lips pulled back in a snarl to reveal inch long fangs that more than backed up the deep bass rumble that came from its chest. The man would have screamed if he were still able to. As it was he simply flailed in the general direction of the wolf and then attempted to scramble for the door. Unfortunately, the wolf was not very impressed and snagged his ankle between its crushing jaws. A single snap of its head was accompanied by a loud popping sound from the man's leg and another gurgling attempt to scream. The girl hopped down from the counter. She walked over to stand over the man, looking down at his frantic, upturned face.

"You shouldn't try to hurt little girls," she lectured, waggling a finger at him. "It's not nice."

The wolf gave a snort of seeming agreement then tore out the man's throat without further ado. The girl sputtered and spit. She had gotten blood in her mouth from the spray. With an exasperated sigh and a roll of her eyes, she popped into the last stall to retrieve her bag, pulling out the bottle of peroxide and swishing the bitter liquid around her mouth until it no longer ran red when she spit. She hopscotched her way over the body and spreading blood pool to the door, her lupine companion following suit, large paws stepping delicately around the viscous puddle. Once outside, she headed over to the fountain in the center of the park. Time for a bath. It was one of the few things she enjoyed about sleeping in the park.

She spent a good hour splashing about in the fountain with the wolf, laughing and generally having fun. Afterwards, she changed into fresh clothing from her bag. Her stomach rumbled. She sighed again then twined her fingers into the wolf's fur and followed the tug against her hand as he trotted off towards the main road. They were headed towards one of the all-night diners that peppered the city. As they traveled the still busy streets, one might notice a few oddities about the relationship between girl and animal. Her hand never released its grip on his fur. He stopped at the curb of each street, glancing left and right prior to leading her across. She never once looked in any direction other than straight ahead as they walked. They reached the diner after a ten minute walk.

"Hey, hey, Angel!" came a booming, good natured voice as the door jingled open. "What're you doin out this late, honey? Keepin outta trouble?"

"Just takin Tyler for a walk, Mr. Raphael," she replied as the wolf guided her to a booth. "Yes, sir, I'm keepin outta trouble."

She did not hear his nod. "You want the usual, dear?"

"Yes, please, and can I have chocolate milk this time, pleaaaaaaaase?" She gave him her cutest pout, adding a flutter of eyelashes to complete the picture.

Mr. Raphael chuckled. "Alrighty, hun. Just this once though."

She giggled. He said that every time. Mr. Raphael shouted back an order to the cook, and in short order he placed a plate before her. He gently guided her hands to a set of silverware and a cup full of chocolate milk. She took a big whiff of the plate's contents, sighing contentedly. Three eggs, scrambled with cheese, french toast, and sausage patties. Her favorite. She knew Mr. Raphael had set a steak on the floor for the wolf as well. She devoured the food hungrily, eating as noisily as any ten year old will when unsupervised by a responsible adult. She left a few bills on the table for Mr. Raphael then allowed the wolf to guide her home.

The hotel was only a few blocks from the park, not quite run down, but not in the most outstanding state of repair either. The stairs creaked alarmingly with even the slightest weight, the elevator was always broken, the wallpaper was peeling, and there was always the smell of mold and urine, but it was cheap and relatively safe. She went about the hygiene rituals instilled in her back when she had parents then crawled into bed, snuggling against the wolf. She dreamed of days when she could see clearly. They weren't nice dreams.

MacManus cracked his neck a few times in either direction, pleased that he'd been allowed inside but not outwardly showing it...

"About fuckin' time... Excuse me..."

He brushed past the doormen, walking with his usual cocky gait towards the elevators and hitting the highest floor on the number pad, which wasn't a number but a letter, and that tended to irk him the slightest bit, but at least he got to punch it with a single knuckle. The doors closed and th elevator went upwards, giving him a moment to reflect.

Reflecting for Tyson MacManus was typically a rerun of his latest hit. In this case, it was a house full of retard suburban drug dealers. They had been moving in on a little section of territory the Brotherhood wanted to keep drug-free. It was mostly a favor for some of his old friends back in the organization, but then again he grabbed enough coke from the decent-sized dwelling to keep him higher than any planet of his choice for the next few weeks. He wasn't an addict, but he did enjoy all sorts of drugs, mostly coke and weed but he did do the occasional hit of acid. Anyway, back to the reflecting...

The house was on a hill, a little ironic considering what was going on inside, but then again what was about to go on inside was a lot worse. Tyson had spent the night in the bushes outside the large house observing the party within. The usual rich-boy bullshit and drinking games followed with enough drunken sex to make his own line of wild girls videos and put those other two fuck-heads out of business. Early the next morning he made his assault.

Using his considerable agility Tyson reached the second floor window-sil and pulled himself up onto the small crown-molding before taking a quick peek inside. One of the wanna-be drug pushers was taking an early morning piss. Tyson let him finish, not out of dignity but he really didn't want to beat a man to death while he was holding his own junk. He was a fucking psycho, not a pervert. Clad in his usual get-up, along with black face-paint and a set of fingerless gloves, the T-shirt was blank this time as well. He'd also spent about an hour the day before burning his fingertips smooth with an iron, they were still a little tender but that just made him more prone to violence.

Punching through the glass he caught the man behind the ear, sending him to the floor as the flushing toilet covered most of the sound of the breaking glass. As the over-muscled frat-boy hit the tile floor with a ringing headache Tyson reached over and unlocked the window, carefully opening the window before stepping in and finishing the job with a silent neck-snap. While he wanted to beat the guy's head against the tile floor until his skull cracked but that would spoil the surprise for the rest of them. He did, however, get quite the break.

As he was standing again, someone opened the bathroom door in front of him. It was one of the blonde bimbos he seen earlier through the windows. Her eyes widened in surprise, but luckily for her the Brotherhood forbid the killing of women and children. He simply punched her in the throat before she could scream then yanked her into the bathroom by her hair before throwing his arms around her neck in a textbook sleeper hold until she went limp and he dropped her to the floor. He muttered something to the tune of 'dumb bitch' before moving on down the hallway, kicking in the first door he came to to find a scene that would be more at home at the end of a porno movie. The guy in question jumped up from the bed at the sound of the wooden door splintering, grabbing an automatic from the bedside, a Glock 17 if his memory served. He didn't quite get the chance to fire the piece, however. Tyson was already coming at him through the air with a flying haymaker that caught him across the temple and floored him. Tyson snatched the pistol from his falling hand and flung it as hard as he could into the face of the brunette lying in bed as she came up to scream. The metal slide of the pistol cracked her straight in the face and sent her back in the bed with her face in the pillow while Tyson got down to his favorite part:

The beating...

He began his work on victim number one with a stomp to the head before dropping a knee on the way down to the back of the neck, posting up again and raining a series of punches down on the man's skull, throwing every ounce of weight behind each blow. The man quit struggling after the fifth hit, allowing Tyson to spend the next thirty seconds pounding his face until his nose was little more than a bloody crater and Tyson's hands a bloody mess.

With his one good beating done for the day and a nice berserker rage worked up, he still had a house to clear and today was shaping up to be a good day. For good measure, Tyson snatched up the Glock from the bedside and hammered the girl in the bed on the back of the head again. She didn't move much anymore. He dropped the pistol and went back out into the hallway to continue with his killing. They were really making this too easy on him. The doors were all lined up in a row, facing a railing and below was a nice foryer. Tyson smiled, pleased. The next door was already opening, probably because he'd kicked the last one in. The man put a Beretta in Tyson's face, and Tyson snatched the barrel, turning it sideways out of reach of the man's trigger finger before pulling the arm that held it inwards and coming down with his right elbow since both of his hands were holding the pistol this asshole had just tried to kill him with.

The hammer-quality blow to the man's temple got him to release his grip on the weapon so Tyson could backhand the fuck-o with his own gun across the face before throwing it across the room and stomping the man's neck in short order a half-second after he hit the carpet. Another stomp for good measure and then he moved on to the quivering woman standing in the corner with a bedsheet held up in front of her. Tyson stuck a finger out at her as he walked towards her, before backhanding her across the face and into the wall where she slumped down in the corner and didn't move. He was slightly pissed that the sheet hadn't moved any, but he didn't have time to peek at anything.

There was one more door before the master bedroom. Tyson kicked in this door, too, hitting the wall with enough force for the knob to put a hole in the drywall. Standing in the corner was another of these assholes leveling a shotgun at him. This wasn't good on any level. Then again, the dumbass was walking towards him with the boomstick held at the hip like some sort of stupid action movie. Tyson snatched the barrel and shoved it into the wall before head-butting the guy in the face repeatedly before driving a knee into his balls, grabbing him by the throat on his way to the floor and treating his head much like the shotgun barrel and smashing it against the wall until he found a stud behind the drywall.

Using the reinforced wood as an anvil, Tyson shoved the unfortunate guy's face into it and kicked him harshly into the back of the neck, snapping his brain stem and effectively killing the retard. He hadn't used his punch-blades yet, and he wasn't about to. This was a gangland-style hit, and he'd go about cleaning up his mess here in a second after he dealt with the final asshole in the master bedroom.

Exiting back into the hallway and carefully opening the master bedroom door, Tyson took a quick peek inside to find another blonde asleep in the king-size bed and the sound of water running in the bathroom. He entered and looked left to see what had to be the lead shithead staring at him. Their eyes met, locked, and then the guy's eyes drifted towards the pistol on the bedside table. Tyson pointed at him, smiled, then walked towards the weapon, a nice shiny chromed-out forty-four magnum, probably a Smith and Wesson if he had any sense or watched a few too many Dirty Harry movies. He picked it up, leveled it at its owner, smiled again and then flung it across the room before charging the guy with a flying knee, sending him staggering backwards through the glass shower door as Tyson rebounded off the far wall to land on the dazed drug-dealer and drive his thumbs through his eyes, then proceeded to hammer the screaming man's head against the shower floor until his shrill death-wails fell silent and his cranium gave way.

The shower floor was a mess of blood and brain matter as Tyson got to his feet. The girlfriend was up and moving now, and coming at him with a punch. Tyson grinned again as he effortlessly caught her fist, twisted it around until it became downright painful for her wrist before kicking her legs out from under her and putting her on the floor. Not breaking his stride, Tyson walked calmly over to where he'd thrown the hand-cannon and grabbed it from the carpeting, feeling the familiar if somewhat distasteful feel of a gun in his hand. He looked back, somewhat surprised to see the girlfriend on her feet and aiming some sort of hold-out piece at him. Thing was, she wasn't more than two feet from him now.

Why did they always get close? That was the million dollar question, and it was because they were scared, or some shit. They must also be stupid, since he reached out and caught her around the wrist again, this time pulling her in close and shoving the muzzle of the large revolver into her forearm before pulling the trigger and shattering her forearm. Understandably, she dropped the gun and dropped to the floor to curl into a ball before Tyson kicked her sharply in the side of the head for good measure. He grabbed her gun from the floor, clasped it tightly in her hand, and fired a round into the bathroom wall. She didn't seem to like that too much, but fuck her, he didn't care.

The round in the wall wouldn't prove anything concrete, but again Tyson didn't give a fuck. It would keep the cops guessing about what actually happened...

The elevator binged, signaling that he was at the floor he wanted. The time to remember was over, the time to act was now. He stepped calmly off the elevator, a slight grin pasted on his face. It was the look of a man who knew he was a vicious killer and took pride in that fact...

"Mr. Olsen I presume?"

His customary greeting to the man who would be employing him was less arrogant than his dealings with most other people, since he actually wanted something from this individual...

"My name is Tyson MacManus, from AIM. It seems your current contract killer sucks at his job..."

Tyson threw the rolled-up news paper towards Olsen's desk...

Name: Luc Thierstegaal
Height: 5'11"
Weight: 200 lbs.
Age: 32
Hair: Black
Eye: Gray
Known Aliases: Luc Thompson, Lawrence Thompson, Lucas Ti
Occupation: Drug dealer, gun runner, fence
Known Crimes:
-Receiving stolen goods
-Possession of illegal firearms
-Possession of forged travel documents
-Open warrant in The Community for desertion and possession of narcotics with intent to distribute. ($10,000 reward if returned alive)
Bio: Born to the nomadic people in the northeast of The Community (colloquially referred to as "The Men with Bloody Hands"), Luc was exiled from his group after burning down the leader's trailer at age 14. He moved into the capitol city of Esmund, where he performed odd jobs for low level criminals before being captured by the authorities. After three years in the labor camps, he joined the Siapian Merchant Marine, where he became involved with a sophisticated smuggling sydnicate known as The Rice Connection in reference to the group concealing their materials inside food aid shipments. His operations netted him a small fortune, however a well-placed informant forced him to abandon a cache of drugs and jump ship. A warrant has been issued for his arrest and The Community has asked foreign countries for assistance in bringing him to justice. Believed to have active ties with The Rice Connection and was believed to have been sighted in Esborg.


The metallic snap of his zippo lighter could be heard as Luc lit his cigarette. He carried a satchel over his shoulder, as he talked into a cell phone. "Listen, I got the package, no problem. How're things back home?" He listened to the caller on the other side of the phone as he fumbled with his key ring, turning the heavy bolts on the door to the pawn shop on 21st street he had bought under a fake name. Pulling a mass of wool sweaters and blankets from the package with his hands while he clutched the cigarette in his mouth and his phone between his ear and his shoulder. Placing bowls on the tables, he held the sweaters over the bowls and began massaging the fabric, and noted the number of pills that filled the bowls.

"Thanks again for the x, but the local goons here have their own dealers. Seriously, most of 21st street is being protected by some dirty Russian." he walked back into the kitchenette in the back of the store, where he opened the small oven and looked at a cookie sheet filled with passports for Saint Delacroix and Siap. "I've tried to keep my skag deals quiet, so they haven't come by asking for money. Those .45s you sent me last week went like candy. The dealers here are sampling their own merch, pluc the cops are getting greedy and the local goons are getting antsy plus all the vigilante action, so I think I'm going to need some more hi-res hardware next week." he took a drag on his cigarette, and turned when he heard a bell chime in the front of his store. The plexiglass cases advertised to all potential customers a variety of weapons, from blades to smaller firearms (the bigger ones were kept elsewhere) as well as a smorgasbord of goods filched from area residents by junkies. Luc tucked his own customized .45 hardballer into his waistband and his Beretta .32 into a folded up newspaper he was carrying. He was on good terms with most of the customers, but occasionally some junky would get a wise idea. "Oy! Can I help you with something?" He shouted to the front.

(OOC: Apologies for the short post. I am tired and lazy at the moment)

[OOC: God, these are long posts. I'll try and participate somehow, though...]

Name: Kathryn Calloway
Age: 37
Height: 5'6"
Weight: 125 lbs.
Eye colour: Blue
Hair colour: Dark brown
Known crimes: Drug dealing, assaulting police, drug possession, ordering beatings.
Suspected activities: Pimping. Pandering obscenity. Murder. Rumoured to be the chief source of narcotics in St. Delacroix. Little evidence exists against her, mainly because she appears to have no major connections to other organised crime outfits in Esborg.
Commissioner's note: Considered armed and dangerous. Rarely seen without a weapon of some sort, from a machine pistol to a military-grade assault rifle. May have military training of some sort.

---

Kathryn woke up from her restless sleep at 5:30 AM and looked in the mirror. The stress of life in Esborg had aged her more than she cared to admit - helping the citizens of the conflict-wracked cesspit escape the horrid realities of crime, poverty, disease and squalor that dominated the city, but knowing she was helping people escape, if even for a short time in the arms of a prostitute or in the haze of LSD or marijuana, was rewarding enough for her. She was still uneasy about having to have a man's legs crushed with a sledgehammer last night, but the man was going to inform on her to the police and shut down her entire operation, and she had to show she was capable of brutal violence without resorting to actually having anyone killed. It wasn't really in her nature, violence. No, she would generally rather talk things out, but some people weren't open to discussion and in a society where people who simply helped people alter their consciousness were persecuted and even killed, this was a matter of survival.

The first thing she did upon waking was to grab the .357 Magnum under her pillow. Who knew who might want to ambush her, who might break in and have her on the ground face down in a pool of her own blood before she could run to her weapon? The numerous, less altruistic drug dealers in the area who stood to lose profits to her cheaper, homegrown, and uncut bud or the ergot fungus she carefully cultivated under her bed on old rye. The police who didn't understand or care that she was merely helping those who came to her wanting an escape. The religious people who felt that drug use and pornography were sins. Any number of these people had reason to want her dead, and that wasn't counting the odd burglar who might come in wanting to steal her meagre possessions and maybe get some nonconsensual sexual action in the process. Not that she was especially attractive or desirable - the hard life and constant stress made her look about 50 years old when she was really only 37.

Kathryn did not live well - living well tended to attract unwanted attention in these parts. She lived in a studio apartment with a small bed, washer, and a small fridge with a microwave crudely bolted onto the side. Nobody would suspect the modest hovel of a single woman of being a lab where she grew pot in a closet or ergot fungus under her bed to make LSD... or kept a first-aid kit and coat hanger for performing back-alley abortions, one of the few crimes she'd committed and not been suspected for. She sat in her apartment today - it was a relatively easy day for her; she had two new people wanting LSD and a pregnant young girl wanting an abortion before her parents found out and threw her out of the house.

As crime bosses went, she wasn't a bad person. She was not the kind to go out and casually order a hit on someone for epic lulz. Her "ring" if it could be called that were three prostitutes and one enforcer slash drug dealer whose job it mostly was to go out and sell her drugs and find new clientele and only secondarily to threaten, beat, or in extreme cases, murder those who threatened the operation. She genuinely saw her illegal abortions and drugs and prostitution as helping people - she refused to cut her drugs with unsafe substances or recruit child prostitutes for ethical reasons, and saw her abortions as protecting young girls from the consequences of their ill-thought-out actions (or worse, rape) and thought she was an asset to the community.

She sat on the bed in her apartment and waited for her abortion patient to show up...

Dekker pushed the slide-stop back into place on his pistol, then racked the slide several times to make sure everything was in place before slapping a full magazine into place and racking the slide again to chamber a round before ejecting the magazine and sliding a replacement round into it before slapping it back in again and flipping the manual safety into place.

It was late, but a walk was in order. Dekker shrugged an old shoulder holster onto his broad back, then slid the pistol into the holster itself. Over the shoulder-rig went a leather jacket to hide it from passer-by. He didn't want to flash a forty-five automatic to just anyone. He figured he'd stop by the police station for a bit and check on things for tomorrow. In a few minutes he was back out on the street, walking at a brisk pace in the cool night air, passing enough hookers to fill a few brothels with ease and apartment complexes that would be more at home in the slums of a much poorer nation. The station wasn't too far away, he was there within fifteen minutes.

Walking through the front door and nodding to the desk sergeant, he noticed something odd. Or rather, someone odd. The guy talking to the desk sergeant screamed 'merc' at him, and he sure as Hell wasn't AIM...

"Excuse me, who are you?"

He didn't like other mercs stepping on his turf, then again he could use an assistant instructor. Thing was, he didn't want any run-of-the-mill gun-for-hire working with him. Those guys were profit-driven and didn't have any sort of moral compass. Cops didn't need to learn how to defend themselves from guys like that...

(OOC: With more to come shortly.)

LeCroix perched on the edge of a sofa. His fingers worked over the leather cover of the notebook he had taken from Sorengaard’s house. He was deep in thought.

The sun was sinking behind a heavy window shade; the city coiled like a serpent, breathing, ready to strike. With measured movements, almost tenderly, he opened the cover again, his brow furrowed.

May 6th, 2008-

The whole thing stinks. That freighter turned up this morning, drifting 2 miles off the coast. Everyone on board had their throats cut. To make matters worse, lieutenant Murphy turned up dead in his office with a suicide note. Apparently he shot himself in the back of the head. With a shotgun.

LeCroix sat up. He remembered hearing about this when it happened. The freighter, the ‘Kira Lynn’ had turned up with all hands on board dead or missing. It had been a strange case since the hull had been empty. Piracy was out of the question. The government had placed a gag order on the press after that and further public speculation had ceased. LeCroix had all but forgotten about it since then.

Things didn’t add up. Sorengaard hadn’t been working narcotics or organized crime. This was a fact. Why then, had he been paying such close attention to Malcolm Smith’s drug operation? There was also something strange about Sorengaard’s writing itself that had stuck LeCroix since he had begun reading. The tone was off, like he was speaking to someone. Like he had intended for the journal to be read.

May 8th-

The stench is becoming unbearable the closer I get to this fucking rats’ nest. Toft, Andersen, Edwards, Madsen, Keyes, Moller…

He raised an eyebrow. Reaching into his pocket he removed the crumpled sheet of paper he had taken from Sorengaard’s desk: the barely legible list of names. The six he had just read appeared in both places. A light in the darkness.

…Jepson, Lind, Thompson. They’re all crooked without question. Harper is clean, for certain. That leaves only one more man: Commissioner Creedy. IA won’t move against any of them until there’s evidence on Creedy. The bastard is stinking up the whole department. Nab him, and the whole mole hill collapses.

LeCroix nodded. It was clearer now. Sorengaard was Internal Affairs; probably undercover within his own department. The journal explained the reasons behind his murder, but the fact that the list hadn’t been taken seemed to point to the fact that whoever ordered the hit hadn’t been aware of its existence. They had no idea how close he had been.

May 20th, 2008-

The last entry. The night before his murder.

Juarez is dead. So are Jepson and Lind. Our witnesses are vanishing one by one. I’m afraid I might be joining them soon. I’ve picked up a tail in the past few days. I don’t think they’re cops, but I can’t be sure. Someone’s got wind of me, and they’re getting scared.

That was it. The next day he died. It seemed IA had been building a case, with Sorengaard as their point man. There was no telling how he’d been found out. IA was probably just as compromised as the rest of the Esborg police department. Sorengaard had been rowing a leaky boat on a sea full of sharks.

LeCroix stood up, and walked over to a nightstand. He picked up a nine millimeter and a silencer and placed them in his coat. The sun had sunk, Esborg was wrapping itself in a smallpox-blanket of night. Business hours were officially open. Malcolm Smith and his henchmen would have to wait their turns tonight, however. There were larger things in motion.

*

3100 Raspell Avenue. A bad place to be, indeed, if your name was Michael Munch. In happier times, Mr. Munch had been one of the busiest information brokers in Esborg. His clientele had been as varied as the type of information he sold to them: names, addresses, phone numbers, social security numbers, and simple word on the street. His usefulness had for years rendered him untouchable by either Smith or the cops. Times changed, however. Now, he was very, very dead.

LeCroix stepped out of the alleyway, and looked up at the worn stone face of the townhouse. The street was empty, and dark. Immediately, he sensed something out of place.

The front door was unlocked, so he quietly broke the lock on the back door and stepped into the kitchen. Blood on the floor, drawing a neat trail up the kitchen stairs into the pitch black. LeCroix bent down and ran a gloved finger through the puddle. It wasn’t fresh, and the stink that was rapidly filling his nostrils seconded that opinion.

LeCroix frowned. Munch was a valuable asset, even if his morals didn’t stand up to the vigilante’s immaculate standards. At the moment, he was also the only man who would know the location of the other men on Sorengaard’s list, and how many were still breathing.

Drawing his pistol, he began his hunt for a corpse he dearly hoped wasn’t Munch’s, but which he was quite certain would be. The first step creaked under his heel, and he proceeded on his toes, making no further sound. The trail dead-ended in the bedroom, where the public informant’s body lay face down on his blood-soaked bed. LeCroix flipped the corpse over and frowned at the three holes in the bare stomach.

A poor choice of endings, friend.

LeCroix stood up, just as a bullet buried itself in the wall in front of him.

No sound. Silenced. Right handed.

It flashed through his subconscious without registering, and he was falling, turning, extending his weapon, aiming without thinking, pulling the trigger. A shout and the gun hit the carpet. Hit. A second shot before he hit the floor. The shadow doubled over. Hit. LeCroix walked over to the form crumbled in the doorway, the assailant agonized by a bullet in his right shoulder and a second in his stomach. He knelt down and placed the gun barrel against the man’s temple.

“Your name, and it will be over quickly.”

His whisper was red exhaust. His brain was still running on autopilot. His finger cocked the trigger, a compulsion.

The man was still groaning.

“Kill me, you cocksucker,” he managed to spit between moans.

“You’ll beg me for it before I’m through with you unless you answer my question.”

His foot was on the man’s stomach, pressing the wound. The scream reverberated around the room.

“Zhukov!”

LeCroix froze. He knew that name.

The 21st Street. A sweaty, terrified face. A brief conversation: ‘Antonin Zhukov’ ‘Where?’ ‘I don’t know.’ LeCroix pulled the trigger.

“Antonin Zhukov?”

No reply. Pressure.

“Antonin Zhukov?”

“YES!” he sobbed.

“This was a setup? You were sent to kill me?”

Silence. The man’s head lolled. LeCroix checked his pulse. He was unconscious. LeCroix needed to talk to this man, but not here.

Downstairs the door opened.

Two

They were making for the stairs. LeCroix took one more look at Zhukov, passed out, quietly and quickly bleeding to death. Footsteps on the stairs, and he ducked into the hall closet.

“Holy shit!”

“Looks like that bastard did our work for us.”

The one man was looking at Zhukov’s body, thinking he was dead. A suppressed shotgun, loaded with subsonic ammunition was at rest in his hands. The other had a handkerchief over his nose and a hand on a .45 in his coat. He was struggling to see in the dark.

“Where do you think he got to? Can’t have gone far. Just saw the flashes a minute ago…”

“I’m surprised. Smith said the psycho wasn’t gonna show. Olsen was an idiot trying to trap him into doing the job.”

“For fuck’s sake, let’s get out of here before he comes back. Our work’s done.”

One set of footsteps receding down the stairwell. The other man stayed put, raised his shotgun; just to make sure. LeCroix stepped out of the closet and put a single round into his bran. The thud of the corpse muted by the carpet. At the top of the stairwell a second shot, and a third body.

LeCroix walked back. His senses were coming down, and he could hear himself think again, over the white noise in his brain. He looked at Zhukov’s unconscious form, and put away his pistol. He heaved the body over his shoulder and made for the back door.

*

Excerpt From the Journal of Matthias LeCroix

”Shall not the judge of all the Earth do right?” –GEN 18:25

"Excuse me, who are you?"

[i]He didn't like other mercs stepping on his turf, then again he could use an assistant instructor. Thing was, he didn't want any run-of-the-mill gun-for-hire working with him. Those guys were profit-driven and didn't have any sort of moral compass. Cops didn't need to learn how to defend themselves from guys like that...

David turned at the intruding demand. He scanned the man quickly, deciding that the man was as much a professional soldier as he was.

"David Curtis, STDI," he introduced himself. "And you are?"

While Dekker wasn't very fond of the curt response and the acronym 'STDI' didn't register, he wasn't surprised at either...

"Dekker Bray, Association of International Mercenaries, or better known as 'AIM'. Currently contracted with the PD here to make sure its' officers are better able to handle themselves out there on the streets. High-ass fucking crime and that sort of shit..."

Bray extended a hand towards the man in greeting. No sense in being impolite to a brother merc, even if the motives of said merc were open to speculation...

"There something you wanted?"

While Dekker wasn't very fond of the curt response and the acronym 'STDI' didn't register, he wasn't surprised at either...

"Dekker Bray, Association of International Mercenaries, or better known as 'AIM'. Currently contracted with the PD here to make sure its' officers are better able to handle themselves out there on the streets. High-ass fucking crime and that sort of shit..."

Bray extended a hand towards the man in greeting. No sense in being impolite to a brother merc, even if the motives of said merc were open to speculation...

"There something you wanted?"

"Nice to meet you," David said, shaking his hand. "STDI stands for Systèmes Techniques de Défense Internationaux. I'm here to represent my company in a similar contract with the city...though with your presence, it may prove fruitless."

They weren't nice dreams, not nice at all. She usually dreamed of her home, back when she had parents. Daddy had used to be a policeman, Mommy told her. He had been one of the best, one of the good guys. Then the bad men had hurt Daddy and his friends. After that... Well, she couldn't remember Daddy before his accident. The only father she remembered was one who limped on his right leg, squinted from his one good eye, and raised his hand at the slightest provocation. She remembered the night her parents died. She had been able to see right back then. Daddy had come home drunk, reeking of cheap booze and swaying despite the brace he wore on his right arm to help him walk. She had been playing with her blocks in the living room. She liked to build a city with them and pretend it was filled with happy people and happy families with happy children. They would play in the park and go to school and work and come home and have dinner and everyone would be happy. Daddy wasn't happy though. He stumbled on one of her blocks and nearly fell. He yelled at her. Before she could even attempt to move her toys, that brace he cursed so much came arcing through the air with a shrill whistle. Her vision turned white for a moment, then black, before slowly coming back.

She was lying on the floor. Everything was fuzzy. She could dimly hear screaming. Her head hurt horribly. Tyler was barking in her room, scratching at the door, trying to escape. Mommy was screaming and crying. Daddy was yelling. Then a loud bang. There was another scream, then another bang, and another and again and again and again. Then everything went quiet except for the braying of her dog. Slowly, she crawled in Tyler's direction, her sight still fogged and fuzzy. She reached her door after a seeming eternity. She had to lift herself up to reach the door knob. It hurt, a lot. But she got it open, and the massive canine nearly knocked her over, whining and whimpering as he licked at her face and head. His tongue stung where it crossed the place Daddy had hit her, but it felt good too.

She grabbed his scruff to steady herself, and he led her into the living room to snuffle at the two bodies that adorned the floor, spilling a red stain across the carpet. Her eyes cleared long enough for her to see them. Daddy lay on top of Mommy, his brace clutched in one hand, his old police revolver in the other. There was a hole in his back and she could see his insides. Mommy had lots of holes in her, not just one. Her eyes stared glassily upwards, as though looking to the heavens for forgiveness. The girl took in the scene, then turned towards the front door.

She was seven years old, but she knew what death was. She wasn't frightened. She knew she was alone now, but that didn't scare her. She had Tyler to protect her. And Daddy had taught her how to make money. Mommy never knew about it. So, she let Tyler lead her down to the park, and she waited by the men's restroom. And thus began her new life. It was only after the first one hurt her that she got the razor blade. Tyler had been unable to get to her in time to protect her.

They weren't happy dreams.

Luc sat in the airport, along with many others as a large crowd came out of the international arrivals gate. At the very back of the large crowd was a group of skinny but muscular men with military haircuts wearing grey T-shirts and olive drab pants. "Oy! You the boys from The Community?"

They looked up nervously, but Luc met them with a smile. "You all met with my colleague Primrose back in Esmund, I presume. You're the ones who jumped ship at Port Esmund?" The men silently nodded. "Good. We'll talk business in the van."


Packed tightly in a small white van, with the "Lust for Life" album blasting on the stereos loud enough to hamper conversation, but not loud enough to dissuade a determined loudmouth. Most importantly, if anyone had bugged the van, they would be hard pressed to identify anything anyone was saying. "Here's the deal." Luc spoke calmly, although his driving style suggested a deep seated hatred for the world. "You paid my colleague in Esmund. You all seem to have gotten here ok. Any problems?" The men had deer-in-the-headlights expressions which remained as they shook their heads. "Ok. Well, you all have your new identities. First stop on our grand tour of the magnificent city is my shop on 21st street. You will know that place and love it, because it's where all my business happens. It means that when you boys start earning, you make your payments there the third of every month."

This had been the second group of deserters he brought in from the old country. The protection provided to the 21st street dealers made it impractical for Luc to operate as a serious independent dealer, which meant that the firearm sales would be his only income stream, which was never good. The new recruits, on the lam from Siapian authorities, just like himself, now functioned as remote operators for Luc. Their interests were primarily selling the guns and drugs Luc brought in, although some branched out into vehicle theft and truck hijacking.

The name Malcolm Smith hadn't been a strange one to Luc, however with the new source of cash and underlings, Luc decided it was time to line up protection for his operation. He made the phonecall to where Smith could be found, hoping like some vassal that the feudal lord might see fit to entertain his request.

[OOC: If someone wants to interact with my character (http://www.forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=13770106&postcount=23), feel free...]

Kathryn walked out of the apartment, her .357 tucked into her warm grey winter jacket. She had learned never to carry a purse (or worse, a gun inside a purse) after being mugged three times in one year, and being raped the last time. Wallets were much harder to snatch, and it wasn't like she used a lot of makeup or whatever else women carried in their purses these days. What she did carry, such as the wire coat hanger she used for performing abortions, or small amounts of grass for calming her nerves, could just as easily be carried in her coat or trouser pockets...

Right now, she was out scouting for prostitutes to recruit. Prostitutes tended to be at risk from serial killers that prowled with impunity in this anarchic place, and she was going into the same dangerous places that prostitutes plied their trade, in order to take them under her wing. She walked bravely into an alley where prostitutes were known to congregate, her hand inside her jacket as if to keep warm, ready for whatever might be in there...

None would take Kathryn for being a prostitute herself. She was dressed conservatively, in a grey winter jacket and loose black trousers, Army surplus camo that she'd dyed black for cool-weather wear. She knew that she might attract unwelcome attention - clearly not a prostitute, and not looking much like a customer, although there were undoubtedly lesbians who sought out the services of the local ladies...

“You’re telling me Sorengaard was working IA and I didn’t know about it?”

Harper was shouting at the little, gray-haired man standing in front of him who was stoically resisting the abuse.

“Our division had specific orders,” he said, raising his hand for peace, “to make sure no one knew the identities of our undercovers. That meant you too, Chief. Hell, even I wasn’t given his name or badge number until he died.”

“Christ,” spat Harper, sitting back down in his chair. “Who the fuck’s orders were those?”

“Commissioner Creedy. He was the one who authorized the placement of informants in this department. Since Sorengaard turned up dead, he’s told us to scrap the operation. To tell you the truth, I thought it was a shit idea to begin with. The only ones fit for the job were good cops who we needed out on the streets, not spying on their own precinct.”

Harper cursed.

“Look, I’m sorry about everything that happened. Sorengaard was a good cop. One of the finest. He knew the risks he was taking when he agreed to the job. Even if you had known, it wouldn’t have done any good. Somebody had it in for him. You saw the way they cut him up. Sick fucks. All we can do now is try to catch ‘em.”

Harper grunted his indifference, and the man shrugged, turning to leave.

“Christian,” he called after the man. “Who’d you say authorized it?”

“Commissioner Creedy.”

Harper nodded as the man stepped out the door.

Sick fuck is right.

He placed a cigarette between his lips, and got up. He walked briskly towards the front of the station, nearly brushing past a pair of men in civilian clothes shaking hands.

“Chief!” called an officer, prompting Harper to turn his head.

“Chief Harper, this man was looking for you.”

“Yeah?” he said, looking over the two civilians. He recognized the first one. His name was Dekker, or something similar. A mercenary. Harper didn’t like the type, and he hadn’t given him the job. Creedy, or someone higher up was responsible for that. Apparently the government felt the police force couldn’t do its job catching crooks.

We’ve caught plenty, they just do a shitty job of hanging onto them long enough to try them, he thought bitterly.

“Who is he?” Harper asked the officer, not acknowledging the stranger.

“His name’s David Curtis. He’s a private contractor from-“

“Tell him to go fuck himself. There’s too many goddamn vultures in this building already. We don’t need any more.”

Harper walked out the front door, leaving the flustered officer to placate Mr. Curtis.

“You’re telling me Sorengaard was working IA and I didn’t know about it?”

Harper was shouting at the little, gray-haired man standing in front of him who was stoically resisting the abuse.

“Our division had specific orders,” he said, raising his hand for peace, “to make sure no one knew the identities of our undercovers. That meant you too, Chief. Hell, even I wasn’t given his name or badge number until he died.”

“Christ,” spat Harper, sitting back down in his chair. “Who the fuck’s orders were those?”

“Commissioner Creedy. He was the one who authorized the placement of informants in this department. Since Sorengaard turned up dead, he’s told us to scrap the operation. To tell you the truth, I thought it was a shit idea to begin with. The only ones fit for the job were good cops who we needed out on the streets, not spying on their own precinct.”

Harper cursed.

“Look, I’m sorry about everything that happened. Sorengaard was a good cop. One of the finest. He knew the risks he was taking when he agreed to the job. Even if you had known, it wouldn’t have done any good. Somebody had it in for him. You saw the way they cut him up. Sick fucks. All we can do now is try to catch ‘em.”

Harper grunted his indifference, and the man shrugged, turning to leave.

“Christian,” he called after the man. “Who’d you say authorized it?”

“Commissioner Creedy.”

Harper nodded as the man stepped out the door.

Sick fuck is right.

He placed a cigarette between his lips, and got up. He walked briskly towards the front of the station, nearly brushing past a pair of men in civilian clothes shaking hands.

“Chief!” called an officer, prompting Harper to turn his head.

“Chief Harper, this man was looking for you.”

“Yeah?” he said, looking over the two civilians. He recognized the first one. His name was Dekker, or something similar. A mercenary. Harper didn’t like the type, and he hadn’t given him the job. Creedy, or someone higher up was responsible for that. Apparently the government felt the police force couldn’t do its job catching crooks.

We’ve caught plenty, they just do a shitty job of hanging onto them long enough to try them, he thought bitterly.

“Who is he?” Harper asked the officer, not acknowledging the stranger.

“His name’s David Curtis. He’s a private contractor from-“

“Tell him to go fuck himself. There’s too many goddamn vultures in this building already. We don’t need any more.”

Harper walked out the front door, leaving the flustered officer to placate Mr. Curtis.

Outside the building, David talked to the Director.

"Well, not in so many words, but I get what the guy meant," he was saying.

"Well, no problem anyway. I already lined up a contract with a certain individual who seems willing to pay for our services."

"Roger," David said as he cut off the call.

ooc: khanistan, i'd like to work with you, if you're game.

[OOC: Sure.]

The alleys were long, dark, and scary to the uninitiated... or to the initiated - there were people not even a cop wanted to run into in a dark alley, which is probably why prostitutes chose them to have sex in, or drug dealers to hide their illicit trades from the police... or robbers looking to prey on the aforementioned prostitutes and drug dealers.

A prostitute working the streets was at risk of death at the hands of a serial killer, abuse by clients, or arrest if a cop dared enter the alley. One with a madam, on the other hand, enjoyed a measure of protection and a steady stream of income. Kathryn wanted to take some more prostitutes off the streets, but did not like working with child prostitutes for moral reasons.

[OOC: Sure.]

The alleys were long, dark, and scary to the uninitiated... or to the initiated - there were people not even a cop wanted to run into in a dark alley, which is probably why prostitutes chose them to have sex in, or drug dealers to hide their illicit trades from the police... or robbers looking to prey on the aforementioned prostitutes and drug dealers.

A prostitute working the streets was at risk of death at the hands of a serial killer, abuse by clients, or arrest if a cop dared enter the alley. One with a madam, on the other hand, enjoyed a measure of protection and a steady stream of income. Kathryn wanted to take some more prostitutes off the streets, but did not like working with child prostitutes for moral reasons.

David was accustomed to the less-savory parts of cities, but the alleys here were some of the worst he'd seen. He checked his display pad, he was supposed to meet up with Kathryn Calloway somewhere near here. He'd already memorized her dossier and was searching the faces he passed.

ooc: not sure where u are, so u may as well 'find' me.

A woman walked up to the man with the display pad. She was older, looked about 50, but was probably younger, tall and slim but dressed in thick clothing that obscured her frame... and likely helped her conceal weapons. She seemed apprehensive about approaching this man, but she decided if he were a pimp it might be good to get some information about her competition. If he were a customer, or in need of drugs, she could fix him up with that, too.

Kathryn smiled. It was a friendly greeting, not the seductive smile a lot of the prostitutes flashed. "What brings you to this awful place?" she asked.

A woman walked up to the man with the display pad. She was older, looked about 50, but was probably younger, tall and slim but dressed in thick clothing that obscured her frame... and likely helped her conceal weapons. She seemed apprehensive about approaching this man, but she decided if he were a pimp it might be good to get some information about her competition. If he were a customer, or in need of drugs, she could fix him up with that, too.

Kathryn smiled. It was a friendly greeting, not the seductive smile a lot of the prostitutes flashed. "What brings you to this awful place?" she asked.

"I'm looking for Kathryn Calloway," David answered, his eyes showing some signs of recognition. She seemed to be concealing her identity. "I'm here on behalf of a deal my company made with her."

The woman nodded and extended her left hand. "You've met her." Her right hand was still tucked inside her jacket, a reasonable precaution in this environment, especially for someone who had been assaulted before.

"So, which company do you work for? I contact a lot of organisations these days. You will understand if I don't remember each and every one of them."

The woman nodded and extended her left hand. "You've met her." Her right hand was still tucked inside her jacket, a reasonable precaution in this environment, especially for someone who had been assaulted before.

"So, which company do you work for? I contact a lot of organisations these days. You will understand if I don't remember each and every one of them."

"Systèmes Techniques de Défense Internationaux," David explained, "But it's such a mouthful, we usually just go by STDI. We're willing to provide security services for any establishments or personnel you wish...at a reasonable price, of course. There's no need for that," he nodded to her concealed hand, "I've been instructed to personally ensure your safety as a token of...goodwill from my company."

"Sounds familiar," said Kathryn. "I don't speak French, so it's all a mouthful to me." She nodded. "I've... been attacked here more times than I care to remember. Mugged, beaten... by criminals and police alike... even raped. Of course, when you defend yourself, you get charged with assaulting an officer. But enough about me. Let's go somewhere else and discuss this arrangement."

"Sounds familiar," said Kathryn. "I don't speak French, so it's all a mouthful to me." She nodded. "I've... been attacked here more times than I care to remember. Mugged, beaten... by criminals and police alike... even raped. Of course, when you defend yourself, you get charged with assaulting an officer. But enough about me. Let's go somewhere else and discuss this arrangement."

"Well, rest assured that, officer or not, if anyone tries that, I'll put two in their chest and one in the head," David said as he followed her lead. "Presently, I am the only operative here, but within two days, fifty security operatives can be deployed throughout the city. That would be the standard contract. More operatives would require more money, you understand..."

"Fifty... that's a bit many." Kathryn had only a small operation. She couldn't afford fifty security operatives. "I'm a small-time madam," she said. "I manage three prostitutes, and one dealer. I don't think I could support fifty security people, or even five without expanding operations some."

"Maybe... when I've gotten more of a clientele, and more people working with me, I could look at fifty, but that's a long way away." She began to wonder what she was thinking when she contacted these people. They seemed to be way out of her league.

"Fifty... that's a bit many." Kathryn had only a small operation. She couldn't afford fifty security operatives. "I'm a small-time madam," she said. "I manage three prostitutes, and one dealer. I don't think I could support fifty security people, or even five without expanding operations some."

"Maybe... when I've gotten more of a clientele, and more people working with me, I could look at fifty, but that's a long way away." She began to wonder what she was thinking when she contacted these people. They seemed to be way out of her league.

"Well, that's the contract we were looking for, but there's always room for negotiation. If you're secure and expand, you'll need more protection, and be making more money, so I'm sure a long-term contract could be negotiated from a standard short-term," David explained. "How 'bout three operatives, not including myself, for the price of three. I'll work pro bono. Two operatives will protect your, ahem, ladies, and another will watch your dealer."

"My... dealer doubles as an enforcer for the rare times I need one," said Kathryn. "I don't usually need one, and... this may sound weird coming from a criminal, but, I despise violence. I try to work peaceably with the locals. I try to help people."

Kathryn smiled warmly as she explained her motives. "Some people can't handle the putrid realities of life in the slums, and I give them a way out. Some people can't get laid, or their partners won't do things for them sexually that my... ladies will. Some girls have gotten pregnant... broken condoms, missed pills, guys lying about vasectomies. I help them out of having to raise a child before they can even raise themselves, or avoid the consequences of a night of drunken partying. I'm not in this to kill or maim people, but when someone threatens my operation and won't respond to discussions... I have little choice. What about you and one other operative?"

"My... dealer doubles as an enforcer for the rare times I need one," said Kathryn. "I don't usually need one, and... this may sound weird coming from a criminal, but, I despise violence. I try to work peaceably with the locals. I try to help people."

Kathryn smiled warmly as she explained her motives. "Some people can't handle the putrid realities of life in the slums, and I give them a way out. Some people can't get laid, or their partners won't do things for them sexually that my... ladies will. Some girls have gotten pregnant... broken condoms, missed pills, guys lying about vasectomies. I help them out of having to raise a child before they can even raise themselves, or avoid the consequences of a night of drunken partying. I'm not in this to kill or maim people, but when someone threatens my operation and won't respond to discussions... I have little choice. What about you and one other operative?"

"As per the contract," David explained, "We'll work under your guidelines. If you want to avoid confrontations, violence, what-have-you, we can accomodate. We'll be as aggressive or passive as you want us to be. We do work for you, after all."

ooc: last post

Kathryn nodded and extended her hand. "Deal. I'm not an aggressive person... you'll need only worry about those who are... really out to get me or my, shall I say, workers."

Kathryn nodded and extended her hand. "Deal. I'm not an aggressive person... you'll need only worry about those who are... really out to get me or my, shall I say, workers."

"All right," David answered, shaking her offered hand. "Once the operatives come in with the appropriate paperwork, we'll make it official."

Kathryn reached into her pocket and pulled out a pen and notepad. She scribbled her address down and handed it to the man. "Contact me here. I'll be home tonight if nothing's happened to me."

She walked down the alley, continuing her search for new prostitutes to recruit.

Kathryn reached into her pocket and pulled out a pen and notepad. She scribbled her address down and handed it to the man. "Contact me here. I'll be home tonight if nothing's happened to me."

She walked down the alley, continuing her search for new prostitutes to recruit.

"Hold up for a sec," David said, producing a small pendant on a chain from his jacket pocket. "Here. Press down on the center and it'll send out a radio signal to my PDA. Y'know...in case you're in trouble."

Kathryn smiled. "Thank you." She put the pendant around her neck, slipping it inside her coat and down her top to be less conspicuous. "It will come in handy here. I spend a lot of time here... looking for new... people to work with."

She once again resumed her search in the alleyways.

Kathryn smiled. "Thank you." She put the pendant around her neck, slipping it inside her coat and down her top to be less conspicuous. "It will come in handy here. I spend a lot of time here... looking for new... people to work with."

She once again resumed her search in the alleyways.

"Well, just lemme know if I can help," David said. "I am your bodyguard now."

While Dekker wasn't really happy about the tone the chief preferred to use, there wasn't much he could do about it. It had rid the station of his competition, however. He never really had much of a taste for the French anyway. While the Foreign Legion was worthy of respect, he had more than a little contempt for the French armed forces as a whole...

"He always that much of an asshole?"

The comment was directed towards the desk sergeant, who simply nodded lightly without looking up from the magazine he was reading through. Dekker took the hint and went back outside, more than a little confused. Apparently someone higher up than the cheif had arranged the contract with him, that left the comissioner or possibly the mayor, and he didn't think much of those two. They struck him as more than a little crooked, the sort of people he'd rather put bullets in than take bullets for. Good causes were becoming harder and harder to come by these days, the only one he'd worked recently was against the Al-Queda backed Sudanese military in their genocidal campaign against the Christian natives of that part of Africa. It had been a nasty, if worthwhile operation. He'd even learned a thing or two from the 'Grayman', the resident mercenary who'd started the whole humanitarian merc effort.

As worthwhile a cause as that was, Dekker still had bills to pay, ammo to buy, and equipment to replace and repair, so he could only stay in country for so long without pay. That was why he'd come here, in search of another worthwhile use of his time, not to be treated like some sort of parasite. The training he was providing for the new recruits was the same sort of stuff that had saved his ass on more than one occasion, either during a firefight or during an infiltration operation, and he was certain it would help those young guys out at some point in the future, as likely as they were to encounter violent criminals on the mean streets of Esborg...

Dekker caught up to the man in a few quick strides. He wasn't the smallest of men and covering distance quickly was a skill you developed in a hurry or died trying in his line of work...

"Excuse me, sir... With all due respect, what is your fuckin' problem?"

By now, Dekker had matched strides with the Chief. He was eager to get some answers and who better to ask than someone with some rank on them. He should have phrased it a little better, but his Irish roots tended to get the better of him sometimes and that hot temper had to have some sort of outlet...

He didn't really wait for a response...

"I'm here teaching your boys how to survive in this warzone of a city and you insult me? Call me a vulture?"

His tone had cooled a bit, as had the fire behind his icy blue eyes, but he held his tone firm. He wanted to be clear that he wasn't some profiteering asshole out for money and didn't give a rat-fuck about the people he was training...

"Well, just lemme know if I can help," David said. "I am your bodyguard now."

Kathryn nodded acknowledgement. No one would approach her with that man around. She headed off down the alley, across a busy street, and down another alley on the other side of the main road.

It wasn't safe, but she was scouting for prostitutes, not Girl Scouts.

Kathryn nodded acknowledgement. No one would approach her with that man around. She headed off down the alley, across a busy street, and down another alley on the other side of the main road.

It wasn't safe, but she was scouting for prostitutes, not Girl Scouts.

David decided to hang around, obviously not close to his new employer, but close enough to be actionable. He took out his cellphone and dialed.

"Yuri?" he asked as the line picked up.

"Yeah...? Curtis, you gotta get a watch, it's three-bloody AM here."

"Sorry," David apologized. "I just wanted you to bring an A-3 load-out when you come."

"Full load-out? Hm, that'll cost some Liores, but I think I can manage. Do you think its necessary?"

"I dunno," David answered. "But let's be sure. Do svidonia."

"Do svidonia."

Angelique had lost her virginity at the age of six, before she even knew what a virginity was and to mourn its loss. That had been before Tyler came back. She had cried herself to sleep that night, held tight by Daddy's arms, her blood still drying on his willy. The next day, they had received a phone call that made Daddy curse and stomp out of the house, probably heading down to the bar to get drunk again, and made Mommy cry all day long. The day after that Tyler had come back. Tyler Martin Devereaux was her older brother. Mommy tried to explain to Angelique that Tyler had died in Iraq, had been shot by in-sur-gents, but Angelique knew better. She knew that the puppy who showed up on their doorstep was really Tyler in disguise. She didn't know why he was hiding from Mommy and Daddy like that, but she knew it was him all the same. Daddy didn't want Tyler to stay, but Mommy told him to let the poor thing stay, look at our little Angel, she doesn't know any better, why break her heart twice?

Tyler got bigger fast. He always growled at Daddy when he came into Angelique's room late at night, but Daddy just ignored him for a long while, until Tyler got big enough to bite and make it hurt. Daddy tried to make Tyler go away after that, but Mommy kept letting Tyler back in so Daddy eventually gave up. He didn't come into Angelique's room late at night ever again after that. Angelique was very happy about that. Daddy always made her hurt in her special place when he came into her room late at night. Tyler grew big and strong and fierce, just like he had been as a human. They found out that he was a wolf when they took him to see the animal doctor. The doctor thought they were crazy, but he said that it was really strange how Tyler acted, like he was a perfectly trained dog. Of course, no one had ever given him any training, he just did what Angelique asked him to do.

Angelique woke to the sunbeams falling through her window, musing on her past fading in the failing light of day. She peeked out through the blinds to see how far the sun yet had to sink to reach the horizon. It was almost time for work. She searched her assortment of outfits, small dresses that came barely to her knees, miniskirts that were even shorter with matching tubetops, costumes that made her look like one of the girls that went to the church school or like one of the women that carried whips when they sometimes came to see the hookers. She decided on the school girl outfit. It just felt right. And usually, when an outfit felt right to wear, she would end up with a good client, who wouldn't hurt her, and she and Tyler would have more money afterwards.

She heard the running of water accompanied by the scrabble of claws on linoleum. Tyler had started the bath. She smiled to herself. She loved her brother so much. He was always looking out for her, always protected her. She layed her clothes out and made her way to the bathroom, finding it through long familiarity, since she could barely see anything right now. She doffed the previous night's garments along the way. The bath water was warm, only about half full. She dropped in one of the little scented balls that one of the other girls had gotten her. She had to admit, they smelled very nice, and left her skin all nice and soft. Tyler didn't much like them, but he wasn't the one working. He could afford to smell like a dog. She giggled at that. Silly Tyler, always making jokes.

The bath was simple. She washed herself and Tyler both, since he deigned to join her despite the scent ball. She came out fresh and clean and ready for the night. The sun was almost gone behind the horizon. She dressed and allowed Tyler to lead her from the room, carefully locking the door behind herself. He took her downstairs and out of the building, guiding her to her normal alleyway, down in the dank and dark and stink where the other girls prowled. Most of them didn't like her much, probably because she had Tyler to protect her, but she didn't care because she had Tyler to protect her. And so she waited, always the waiting, hoping she got a good client this time.

David was walking the streets aimlessly. He'd just recieved a call that the agents had arrived, so he was simply waiting for their backup. It'd be nice to get into shifts, so that he didn't have to work on a 22 hour day...though he was used to it. Checking his PDA for the dozenth time, he noticed a young girl on the sidewalk wearing a schoolgirl's outfit, a dog close by her side. He was about to say something, but stopped himself. This was the kind of thing his new employer dealt in...he'd have to get used to it eventually.

NAME: Karl Bush http://blog.nj.com/alltv/2008/02/large_wireep6-randy.jpg
AGE: 23
HEIGHT: 5'11"
WEIGHT: 145
EYE COLOR: Brown
HAIR COLOR: Black, Cornrows
RACE: (African-American)
KNOWN ALIASES: Lil Q, Kraq, Rocket and The Cashis Cliq (Medium sized gang)
OCCUPATION: Petty criminal. (Wanted by three mafias, and the Law)
KNOWN CRIMES:
-Grand theft auto (7/27/05), sentenced revoked
-Armed Robbery (9/12/05), (5/1/07) sentenced 3 years (never served)
-Assault (12/31/05), (5/4/06), (8/16/07)
SUSPECTED ACTIVITIES:
weapons stockpile, drug smuggling, murder, among other things.

[OOC: VV, if you're confused I'm approaching your character. Given both of ours are wandering around in alleyways, one looking for clients, the other looking for whores, it's only natural.]

As soon as the bodyguard had left Kathryn's company, she walked deeper into the dark alley, with the confidence only a woman who had survived much of the worst aspects of humanity could muster. She needed to expand her business; the illegal abortion racket wasn't making as much money as she'd liked and the kinds of people she met selling drugs to were dangerous; while most were just casual users of party drugs, a few tried to rob, rape or even kill her for her stash, which was never very big in the first place, but they didn't know that.

When she came out of the alleyway into another street, she saw a little girl, dolled up like a hooker. Can't be more than eight years old or so... The sight made her depressed - and disturbed that there was actually a market for people willing to pay megabucks for child sex. Certainly, there had to be another way...

Kathryn walked up to the little girl. Externally, she didn't much look like a pimp, or a drug dealer, or an abortionist, just an ordinary woman in a thick jacket and trousers, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was packing, of course, but what sane person wasn't in these parts?

"Hello," she said warmly. Kathryn smiled, but was unable to sound as calm as she'd like. She dealt in the pleasures of the flesh, of course - even got in bed herself if the man liked women who looked ten years older than they actually were, but she had scruples and didn't like selling children. Right now, she wanted to talk to this girl. Maybe there was still hope for her.

Angelique turned her eyes in the direction of the voice. She was blind for the moment, but it sounded female and adult, so she aimed upwards. Her gaze centered about three inches to the right and two inches too high, but she couldn't tell. She felt Tyler lean forward to sniff the woman as she put on her best smile.

"Hello, ma'am. What can I do for you?"

Tyler didn't growl, so maybe the lady would be nice. Maybe this was the good client her clothes wanted for her.

Kathryn took the girl's face and gently pointed it at her own. She went to her knees to come closer to her height.

"Can you tell me... what a cute little girl is doing in this awful place?" she asked kindly.

Angelique was not used to people turning her head so that she was looking at them properly. Many were off put by her misdirected gaze, but most tended to move to fit her point of focus. The woman's touch was gentle, almost like her mother, and she smelled pleasantly of dried plants.

"I'm waiting," she replied simply, "for someone to pick me up."

"Out here...?" asked Kathryn. "It's kind of dangerous. There are very bad people out here, who like to kidnap children and do terrible things to them."

She was convinced the girl was a prostitute, which saddened and disturbed her. She also thought there was something wrong about the way the girl looked off to her face - she could be blind, or have a mental or neurological problem that interfered with eye contact.

"Pick you up, for what?" She could guess, but wanted to be certain. Picking her up could simply mean taking her to school or home, and experience had told her not all provocatively dressed girls were prostitutes.

"I'm safe with Tyler." There was absolute conviction in her voice as she stroked the wolf's ruff. "I'm just waiting for someone. I won't know what for 'til they tell me. Did you wanna take me for a ride?"

There was no doubt now in Kathryn's mind that this was a prostitute. She introduced herself. "I'm Katie." She extended her hand toward the child as if to shake, so that the fingers of her right hand brushed gently against the girl's hand. She looked over at the dog and smiled warmly, then petted Tyler's head.

"How did you end up on the streets?" Kathryn had no moral objection to prostitution, and was not one of those religious nuts who tried to "reclaim fallen women." If not for people being willing to pay for sex, her own business would fall flat. However, when little girls about eight, maybe ten years old were selling their bodies to fat smelly paedophiles... she didn't like that, not at all.

"Watcha looking at, tovarish?" a familiar voice asked behind David's back.

"Our new employer, Yuri," he answered from his far off vantage point.

"Who's the kid?"

"A new charge, possibly," he replied. "Did you bring it?"

"A-3 loadout is in the van," Yuri answered. "We'll set up in a hotel...where do you want the cameras?"

"Set them up at these locations," he showed his PDA. "I'll send them to you...that way, we can keep an eye on our people even when we're not there."

"Hehe, well, it's all ready," Yuri continued, "We even have uniforms and credentials so no one will suspect we're installing them."

"Good, set it up. I'll stay here a bit longer," David said.

"All right," his friend muttered, "Have fun out here..."

Tyler growled as the woman's hand patted his head, but the girl shushed him.

"I'm Angelique," she replied, ducking in a curtsy. "I didn't end up anywhere. I came out here when my parents died."

((and sorry for the lateness of my post. college stuffs.))

"Oh," said Kathryn. "So, you live out on the street?" She hugged the little girl gently.

No wonder she went into prostitution... it's probably the only way she could survive given the state of Social Services here. "Would you mind going with me?"

Kathryn wasn't sure what she was going to do. Probably talk to her, at least, see if she had relatives who could take her in. Failing that, she couldn't see what else she could do...

"Fifty bucks," Angelique replied without a beat. "More if you want any weird stuff."

Weird stuff...? Angelique was dealing with a woman. Apparently lesbian sex with a woman 27 years older than her didn't count as weird, not that that was what Kathryn had in mind. To Kathryn, though, weird stuff were the sick perverts who were exploiting a ten-year-old orphan girl's desperate situation to gratify their paedophilic urges. She wasn't a rich person by any stretch, but handed over a crisp $50 note, then picked up Angelique. If it was the price of finding out more, she would gladly pay it.

She hoped she knew what she was doing. There was a good chance she was stepping on some pedo pimp's toes, but she didn't care. Kathryn seemed tired and worn, clearly not in the mood for weird stuff.

Crap, David thought as he saw her pick up the girl...not that it hadn't crossed his mind to get that girl off the streets. He nonchalantly unwrapped a Powerbar and crunched it unenthusiastically. They were made for strength, not taste after all...

He followed behind at a comfortable pace, not really suspecting the girl, but guessing that there might be more scrupulous individuals that meant to do them harm.

Angelique carefully felt the bill, her expression critical, then her face lit up with a smile reminiscent of her name. She stuffed it into a pocket, then offered up her hand to the strange woman, keeping her other tangled in Tyler's fur.

Kathryn walked with Angelique to her apartment, talking to her on the way. "Do you... have any family?" she asked, letting Tyler keep up with them. She didn't much like the big scary dog, but if he made the girl feel safe she'd put up with him.

OOC: Saint Delacroix is in France and has been working on other stuff; he has a post forthcoming, so if you're keeping an eye on, or waiting for, the main storyline with LeCroix, bear with us a bit.

"Only Tyler," the girl replied. "My mom and dad are dead." Again, that matter of fact tone, as if it were the most normal, natural thing in the world.

David's phone rang. He ducked into a service hallway before answering.

"Yeah?"

"Got it set up...well, almost." Yuri's voice reported.

"Gimme real feed," David said.

"Got it...what's with the kid?"

"Eh, yeah...I dunno really, myself," David said, looking as the video showed the two entering the apartment. "I'll stick around a bit, make sure the other vid feeds are up."

"Got it..."

Kathryn's facial expression darkened. She sighed sadly and unlocked the door to her apartment. It was a small place, one room with an old cot, a bathroom, and a closet. A small desk sat across from the cot with a briefcase; the case contained her laptop and a cell phone. The closet had marijuana plants growing in it, and ergot fungus used to make LSD grew on old bread under the bed. A Bushmaster 6.8mm SPC assault rifle sat at the head of her bed.

"Here's my apartment," she said, her voice showing her apparent dismay at the girl's condition. "It isn't much, but it's home. How are you feeling?"

Kathryn didn't have a dog, but dropped an old towel on the floor to give Tyler a place to crap. She could only hope he had been trained.

She moved over to her bed and sat down. "Come here," she said warmly.

Angelique's vision had returned somewhat during their walk. For some reason, her peripheral was clear, but towards the center everything merged into a blur. She turned slowly to take in the apartment, trying to see it from the corners of her eyes. It didn't work out too well.

"I'm feeling pretty good," she responded to the woman's question.

When the woman called her over, she skipped lightly across the room and hopped into her lap, arms going around the older female's waist, head nestled in the crook of her shoulder.

"So, what did you want to do first?"

Kathryn smiled when the little girl put her arms around her. She stroked Angelique's face gently and listened to her.

"Actually... I just wanted to talk," she said. She had to let slip she wasn't one of those street preachers who tried to turn people away from prostitution, so she admitted, "I... manage street ladies. I'm telling you now, because... I don't want to give you the wrong idea, that I think that selling your body is wicked or something like that. How... old are you?"

Slowly, the black was beginning to dissipate, fading to an uncomfortably bright white. He couldn’t move his arms or his legs. His neck felt so brittle he feared that if he tried to lift the lead weight of his head, it would snap off. There was no pain at first, but it came on very quickly. He wanted to scream, but his throat was too dry and all that escaped was a garbled moan.

“So, you’re alive.”

He heard the words, scrambled. He managed to clench his fists, and remembered how to open his eyes. He could make out nothing, before shadows began to leap from the whiteness.

Things came back to him: Raspell Avenue, the stench of the corpse, how he’d missed the first shot. He could remember someone speaking to him, and then the blackout.

Someone was gripping his jaw, jerking his glass-brittle neck side to side, shining a light in his eyes, one by one. He tried to move his arms to stop it, but found he was unable.

“Lay still.”

The shadow above him vanished, leaving only the white light.

“Drink this.”

He felt his throat open mechanically, and sputtered. Water dribbled down his cheeks, and his tongue lapped back and forth across his lips. His head pulsated, and the light became less painful, before it vanished entirely.

A moment later, he came to. His senses were about him now. The room smelt of iodine and smoke. He tried to sit up, and once more found it impossible to move. He realized that he was probably restrained, though he couldn’t feel much apart from a burning in his stomach.

“Back?”

The voice was soft, and cold as a glacier. Its origin was, for the moment, invisible.

He heard a click, and felt a pressure lift from his body that he hadn’t realized was there. He took a deep breath and he shot up into a sitting position, before rapidly collapsing onto his back once more.

“Be careful. The stitches are fragile.”

Zhukov contented himself to scan the room from where he lay. He was lying on an improvised gurney of some sort: a kitchen table or something similar. He saw a few medical books lying open on the counter across from his head. There was a door into an adjoining room, with a chair and a number of bookshelves. Apart from that, the dim light and the pain in his head made it hard to pick out details.

Water was running to his right, and he turned his neck. The light over his head was once more switched on, blinding him. He shut his eyes, and opened them to the sight of a man’s face, dark and framed by the blinding white.

“The good news is that you’re not blind, or paralyzed. I’m also fairly certain you’re not deaf or mute, and that you won’t have to shit in a bag for the rest of your life. Assuming that things go in your favor for the rest of the night.”

The man stood, and the light vanished. Zhukov could see that it was the face of someone a few years younger than he, of moderate height and build. His hair and eyes were dark, and he had a sharp nose and thin lips set over a strong jaw line. Ordinary.

“LeCroix?” he rasped.

“In the flesh.”

The Russian was silent, unsure if he was looking at his rescuer or his captor. He knew this psychopath by reputation, and had read the grisly details of his work in every newspaper Esborg printed. That such a maniac should stitch up an assassin only to torture him to death later did not seem so far fetched.

LeCroix sat down, leaning his chair up against the far wall, where Zhukov could look him in the face without turning his neck.

“As you’ve noticed, you’re alive. The same can’t be said for the two gentlemen who tried to kill you. Ironically, it’s partially their fault you’re still breathing. It’s also partially my fault, which makes our relationship a bit complicated at the moment, seeing as you tried to kill me about fourteen hours ago.”

Zhukov shook his head. It didn’t make sense, but none of this really made sense. He shouldn’t be here. He should be dead. He turned his face towards the ceiling, away from LeCroix.

“Someone tried to kill me?”

“It would seem that way.”

“Who?”

“I can’t be sure. I was hoping you might know. Perhaps Mr. Olsen grew tired of your company?”

The Russian grunted. It was possible. The pain was coming back, though, making it difficult to think clearly.

“You’ll need to look into that.”

The vigilante got to his feet, and walked over to a window the Russian hadn’t noticed before. It was boarded up on the outside, but LeCroix nonetheless stared intently through the glass. He was silent for several minutes, after which he turned suddenly towards Zhukov.

“I’m not going to kill you,” he said. “You have to try to comprehend the significance of that decision. It goes against every principle, every rule that governs my existence. I am supposed to kill you. Do you understand?”

The Russian’s face contorted into a grimace as he slowly lifted himself into a sitting position, crossing an arm over his wound, and bracing himself with the other.

“Why?” he said.

“Why am I not going to kill you, or why am I supposed to?”

“I don’t know. Both.”

He shot a glance at the vigilante. He was desperately trying to sort through the static in his brain. Memories were returning too quickly for him to process. The psychopath’s tone was annoying him. He was supposed to be dead. The fact that he wasn’t was making things too complicated.

“It’s complicated. You are part of the disease that is killing this city. You survive through preying on other organisms. You are a parasite; a virus.”

“Then why didn’t you let me die?”

“On any other day I would have, but you managed to catch me at an unusual point in my career. A police officer named Sorengaard was killed for investigating corruption in the Esborg police department. He left behind a list of names: corrupt cops willing to testify against their co-conspirators. Someone’s killing them off.”

“Why does any of this involve me?”

“Because Michael Munch is dead, and he was the only other person who could get me the whereabouts of the other names on the list. Now that you’ve been delivered into my hands, however, you’re going to do it.”

Zhukov collapsed back onto the table, and wheezed a painful laugh.

“How the fuck do you expect me to do that? And why should I? Just hurry up and kill me you fucking psycho.”

“I admit I’d like very much to do that, but as I’ve explained, the rules of the game are different today. For the moment, I’m the only person in this city who isn’t going to shoot you on sight.”

“The hell are you talking about?”

“The bullet in your stomach must have fucked with your memory. You were set up, likely by your own employer. It’s doubtful that your old friends are going to offer you a beer when they see you’re still breathing.”

Zhukov cursed quietly. The man had a point.

“Where do I start?”

“The first name on the list.”

LeCroix produced a small sheet of paper, a facsimile of the original list from Sorengaard’s notebook, and slid it under Zhukov’s hand.

“How the hell…”

“Your brain still works. Use it.”

LeCroix stood up.

“There’s an email address on that piece of paper. Contact me immediately when you learn anything. Time is of the essence. I’ll be watching you.”

He turned and walked towards the other room, and the door.

“Don’t bother coming back here. This apartment isn’t mine.”

Zhukov heard the door open and close again.

"I'm... ten, I think. I haven't kept track very well."

She kicked her legs where they hung off the woman's lap.

"So, you're a pimp? I don't need a pimp." Her comment was accentuated by a soft growl from her wolven companion. "Tyler doesn't like pimps much."

Kathryn smiled. "That's all right," she said warmly. "I don't believe in putting children on the streets. It's got to be dangerous out there... where do you stay at night?"

She was trying to get an idea of how bad off this girl was. If she was living with someone, that someone was probably using her - if not, she needed somewhere to stay.

A cursory look at the apartment didn't show any signs of children, toys or cribs for example...

((I apologize for the lateness of my reply. Midterms and projects have conspired against me, plus I'm starting work next week, so lots of paperwork to fill out and running around to gather the pertinent information. I'll try to keep up better.))

Angelique raised her eyes to meet the woman's, her expression that of one being condescended to. "Look, lady, I don't mean ta be rude, but I'm not stupid. Yeah, it's dangerous, but I play smart. I don't tell people where I live, I don't tell people how much money I carry around, and I don't run off with every John that walks down my alley. I take Tyler with me everywhere I go, and he protects me."

With that, she laid her head back upon the woman's chest. "You seem nice, and Tyler didn't growl at you, so I came with you. I don't need a pimp, though."

Kathryn looked stunned. She merely wanted to get this child off the streets, and get some information, not start a confrontation.

"I... wanted to know you were safe," she said. "A child on the streets does bring up that reaction in me, especially... if she's selling her body to creepy old paedophiles." She was generally liberal on these matters, but paedophiles made her sick even though she didn't have any children of her own.

If pressed, she might admit a moral revulsion to child prostitution even though she clearly had no objections to the adult variety, but she wasn't going to come out and say so.

"Yes, ma'am," the girl replied. "I'm safe where I sleep at night."

Angelique sighed softly, delicately, like a dog suddenly realizing that it's favorite toy was actually attached to its rump and hurt when it was bitten. Perhaps she had been mistaken and this woman was not the good client her clothes wanted. The fact that her vision was fading out again was also unhelpful. If all the woman wanted was to be her pimp, this was going to be a bit waste of time. And it would probably end up costing Angelique a good chunk of cash as well. Maybe she could have Tyler sniff out Mr. Ferrier and see if he wanted any company for the evening once she got away from this odd lady.

MacManus was pissed. He hadn't gotten a response from this asshole, so he walked forward and picked up the paper again before throwing it on the desk proper...

"Alright fuck-o. I don't have time for this bullshit. I want a simple yes or no..."

Dekker wasn't having much luck either. The head cop-guy wasn't responding to a word he said and he had half a mind to slap him in the face to wake him up...

OOC: Welcome back.

Kathryn saw this was getting nowhere. She didn't want to pimp a ten-year-old, she objected to her selling her body to paedophiles.

"It's all right," she said. "You're... welcome here any time." She hugged the little girl gently, her voice starting to crack. "Any time you... tire of the streets, get beaten by your pimp, need help... you can come to me." She let go and lowered her head.

It was too much to handle, all at once. It still felt like a rhino was thrashing around inside his skull, and although LeCroix seemed to have found some kind of topical anesthetic, you couldn’t get shot in the gut and suffer through amateur surgery and expect not to feel a thing.

Now I’m a detective, he thought to himself. Who the fuck is Michael Munch? He seemed to hear the door closing over and over again, and each time it replayed in his head, he still came up with no answers. He should be dead. Hell, there wasn’t even a good reason why he should have lived through the surgery: the odds against a sociopath with no medical experience successfully stitching up a bullet wound were absolutely massive. Every rational expectation, every sliver of probability would have led to his own death.

He’d read about survivor’s guilt. This wasn’t it, he knew that; he certainly didn’t feel guilty about not bleeding to death on Raspell Avenue. But…he shouldn’t have lived. Which meant he’d lived for a reason. The headache only seemed to worsen as he struggled to understand what he could’ve been spared for, but he was exhausted, and as he lay, alone, on the table, he dropped off to sleep.

* * *

He dreamed he saw the city. It was dark out, a cloudy night, but it was easy to see, because much of the city seemed to be on fire. A hell of a lot was burning, and although he seemed to be in the sky, he could also see the ground with amazing clarity. There, one guy had left his keys in the ignition. Someone else, a small girl, was staring intently at a blazing apartment building, crying: her parents had probably gone inside to get something. He kept staring at the little girl, from wherever in the sky he was watching this; something told him there was a lesson to be learned. Whatever that might be.

It was only a few minutes later when the apartment exploded; something particularly flammable had burst, taking out the windows completely and hurling debris out through the shattered frames. As Zhukov looked on from his position in the firmament, a burnt piece of what looked like a chair was hurled out the window and, apparently catching the young girl at an inattentive moment, hit her full in the head, smashing her skull and killing her instantly. She couldn't have been older than seven.

No logic. No logic at all.

* * *

He woke suddenly and roughly, but in seconds he was feeling a new sensation that he'd never felt before; it was like a flame burning the dross from his body, purifying him; it was like lightning crackling in every breath he took. He still felt the pain from his wound, and the way the stitches chafed painfully as he sat up and slowly slid himself off the table, but for some reason it seemed to be distant, not slowing him down.

He took a glance at Sorengaard's list. One thing was clear: LeCroix was not a friend. Never. He had been spared, which meant he had a purpose, something to do. He had a purpose. Zhukov realized he had to act in his own interest, for his own goals, if he wanted to fulfill that purpose. Whatever it was. The dream had been a sign, he was sure of that. The question was what it meant.

If you don't get moving and do the job, LeCroix is going to come back, and this time he'll kill you himself.

His eyes fell on the name at the top of the list.

Andrew Toft. Apt 3A, 440 Harland Street.

It didn't take long to find his clothes. The pain was still there, throbbing, but it didn't hold him back. The stink of the city, though; that was more pungent than ever, with a sting to it, too. Zhukov tried to ignore it. He couldn't let it get to him; he had a job to do.

Harper wasn’t in the mood for this.

He stopped immediately, hearing Dekker’s voice beside him. He was surprised. Most people simply went home and cried after he told them to fuck off. This man apparently wasn’t most people.

…"I'm here teaching your boys how to survive in this warzone of a city and you insult me? Call me a vulture?"

He had a dead cop, a force-wide IA investigation he hadn’t been informed about, and a potentially corrupt police commissioner digging graves for good officers. No, he wasn’t in the mood for this at all.

“You’ve got a hell of a nerve,” he growled, jabbing his finger at the man’s chest like it was a switchblade. “You think I wanted you here? You think I gave you your job?” he said, his voice turning from a growl into a roar. “I don’t even know what the fuck you do, and to be honest, I don’t care. All I know is you’re here in my station, sucking up money that should be going to the families of good cops that neither you nor your training did any good for. You want me to thank you? Come to Sorengaard’s funeral and watch his mother crying because she knows her boy’s body was too mutilated to have an open casket. Explain to her how useful you are to this department, how you’re instruction should’ve saved his life.”

He paused, shooting a look into the mercenary’s eyes that could have broken a lesser man in half.

“You want sympathy, appreciation, go talk to Creedy. As for me, I’m trying to keep this city from eating itself alive.”

He began to walk away, but turned again at the last minute.

“And if you ever use that tone with me again, I’ll have you arrested for insulting a superior; get you deported back to whatever shithole you crawled out of. I didn’t hire you, but never forget it’s my pocket you’re stealing out of.”

((Really really sorry for the absence. Mom sold the house and conscripted all us kids to come help move out of the old and into the new, even though half of us don't even live there any more. Well, life happens, I guess. I really do apologize.))

Angelique giggled again, giving her head a shake. "I don't have a pimp. I told you I don't need one. But thanks. You're a really weird lady, y'know that?"

She covered her mouth, glancing up at the woman. That was not the way to talk to a client! Then again... She shrugged and giggled again. This was not a normal client by any stretch of the imagination.

Kathryn nodded. "I get that a lot. Do you use... drugs?" she asked, changing the subject. To her, drugs were a way out of a terrible life, and given what this girl had clearly been through - losing her parents and being driven to street prostitution, she was clearly in deep shit even if she didn't want to admit it. Not that Kathryn blamed her - that kind of hard life will make a lot of people paranoid and untrusting.

"Uh-uh!" the girl replied, shaking her head emphatically. "Some of the older girls do, but not me. I don' wanna catch hiv (pronounced as a word rather than an acronym) or gonnera or anything like that. Drugs are bad! Scruff McGruff said so."

"You only get H.I.V. from injecting drugs." Or having unprotected sex, but a prostitute would know that. She felt uncomfortable asking if the little girl used protection - given the price of rubbers, she thought probably not. "You need some kind of fluid exchange to get that, or gonorrhea. Smoking a joint won't give you H.I.V. or gonorrhea or anything else."

Kathryn sat back and sighed. "What about drinking?" True, alcohol was a drug, even a hard drug, but a lot of people didn't see it as one.

"No, I don't do that either, usually. Sometimes one of my clients will give me wine, but I don't like it much, so I only drink it when they really want me to. I had some tea one time that I later found out wasn't really tea... Rhode Island or something. I liked that, but I didn't feel good afterwards."

This was actually pleasant, now that the whole pimp business was out of the way. It had been a long time since she had simply sat on a woman's lap for the sole purpose of doing so. It had also been quite some time since she had done nothing more than talked with a client. She was beginning to feel bad about the bill tucked into her pocket. Maybe she should give the lady a refund...

Kathryn smiled and hugged Angelique tightly. "Long Island," she said. "What do you do when you want to... get away from it all?" This girl had to be going through hell...

David kept his ear to the headset as he listened to her exchange with the little girl. For Pete's sake, he thought, wasn't there a place you could take kids like that? Although, considering the status of the police force, maybe social services wasn't the best place for a girl like Angelique. His phone rang and he fumbled in his jacket before picking it up.

"Yeah?"

"Boss," Yuri answered, "We got a bit of trouble...some guy is hassling one of the..eh, 'employees,'" he explained. "Whatcha want us to do?"

"Well, she said her people could take care of themselves...if it gets worse, do what you can. Just in case, though, I'll ask."

"Sure thing, Boss," Yuri hung up.

ooc: kahan, i'm sorta making this scenario 'cause my guy is just sitting around guarding you. lemme know if this scenario is not what u want. although, it would give u a show of my security guys...

[OOC: Fine, if you can find some way of letting Kathryn know someone's messing with one of her people...]

Kathryn looked into Angelique's eyes. She looked so cute and innocent, and her heart went out to the little girl, thinking that she didn't have a mother or father or anyone but the big scary mutt. Kathryn didn't have children herself and had thought about having them, but her looks were leaving her already and within a few years she'd likely be unable to have them. She raised her head and sighed deeply.

"Have you... made brownies before?"

[OOC: Fine, if you can find some way of letting Kathryn know someone's messing with one of her people...]

Kathryn looked into Angelique's eyes. She looked so cute and innocent, and her heart went out to the little girl, thinking that she didn't have a mother or father or anyone but the big scary mutt. Kathryn didn't have children herself and had thought about having them, but her looks were leaving her already and within a few years she'd likely be unable to have them. She raised her head and sighed deeply.

"Have you... made brownies before?"

ooc: well, my guy is listening from a room close by, hehe...

ic:

Flipping his phone off, David checked his pistol before holstering it and stepping into the hallway. He put away the headset in his jacket and walked up to the door to the room Kathryn was in. Making sure no one saw him, he knocked lightly on the door.

"Whadda ya mean get away from it all?" There was honest inquiry in her tone, her expression confused. "I made brownies once with grammy before she went to heaven."

Tyler quirked an ear to the door, rising at the knock, hackles raised and lips pulled back to reveal his teeth, though he made no sound. He knew better than to warn potential prey of the danger he posed.

Harper wasn’t in the mood for this.

He stopped immediately, hearing Dekker’s voice beside him. He was surprised. Most people simply went home and cried after he told them to fuck off. This man apparently wasn’t most people.

…"I'm here teaching your boys how to survive in this warzone of a city and you insult me? Call me a vulture?"

He had a dead cop, a force-wide IA investigation he hadn’t been informed about, and a potentially corrupt police commissioner digging graves for good officers. No, he wasn’t in the mood for this at all.

“You’ve got a hell of a nerve,” he growled, jabbing his finger at the man’s chest like it was a switchblade. “You think I wanted you here? You think I gave you your job?” he said, his voice turning from a growl into a roar. “I don’t even know what the fuck you do, and to be honest, I don’t care. All I know is you’re here in my station, sucking up money that should be going to the families of good cops that neither you nor your training did any good for. You want me to thank you? Come to Sorengaard’s funeral and watch his mother crying because she knows her boy’s body was too mutilated to have an open casket. Explain to her how useful you are to this department, how you’re instruction should’ve saved his life.”

He paused, shooting a look into the mercenary’s eyes that could have broken a lesser man in half.

“You want sympathy, appreciation, go talk to Creedy. As for me, I’m trying to keep this city from eating itself alive.”

He began to walk away, but turned again at the last minute.

“And if you ever use that tone with me again, I’ll have you arrested for insulting a superior; get you deported back to whatever shithole you crawled out of. I didn’t hire you, but never forget it’s my pocket you’re stealing out of.”

If had been anyone else, Dekker might have broken the man's wrist with a simple torque of his own when the finger impacted his solid chest, but business was business...

"Fuck Creedy. You heard me. Fuck you and tha corrupt piece of shit if either of you have any misconceptions about why I do what I do. I have kids too man, and I hate watching innocents die. Your city is a war-zone as far as I'm concerned, and my contract doesn't say anything about me kicking in doors and putting hot lead in people that deserve it and keeping your boys from getting shot dead in an alleyway firefight. I don't think you want the paperwork, either. Training is the best way I know to help your guys out, aside from actually hitting the street with them..."

There was a slight pause, Dekker thought he might have found some common ground here...

"You're welcome to fire me, man. I could care less. I made enough as a diamond merc when I was younger to put my kid through college, and I'm not the one setting my salary here. AIM does that shit, adds their little 'finder's fee' in there while they're at it and drives the price up..."

His tone settled down a little more, firefights were always worse than those done with words and there was no need to get pissed now...

"You have three options: One, amend my contract so I can actually do some of this 'good' you're talking about; Two, fire me and send me back to my corporate apartment to live better than I do here and let more of your boys die on the streets because of a lack of equipment and training, and know you're to blame; or option three, declare martial law and let the government handle this shit-hole. I've got news for you. Your department isn't the only outfit in this city contracting mercs. I've already run across one back at the station, and AIM isn't bogged down by morals like we are. If the money's good they'll gladly send some psycho down here to make your city his little Hell's playground..."

Another pause, to let the information sink in. Dekker wasn't a man of many words, but there were times when a simple 'fuck off' wouldn't cut it. He'd watched too many good men die in his line of work already. Harper was just hitting the tip of the iceberg, when it came to it, Dekker had already lived through a similar painful episode. His cops weren't trained or equipped to fight a war with professional soldiers for hire, and this crime syndicate they were up against certainly had the funding to make that a reality...

"Are you reading me or what, man? I'm not some flatfoot from your department on a rampage here, I'm a professional military advisor telling you you're totally goatfucked if you don't pull your head out of your ass..."

Dekker had a gun, in fact he had several, and they were all old, familiar friends. All he needed was the go-head. A professional warfighter was overkill in a normal urban peacekeeping mission, but if you were going to fight a war on crime who else better to call on? It made sense to Dekker, but then again he was thinking from a merc's point of view. He'd never been a cop. He'd trained SWAT and HRT guys before, but academy recruits were totally different. They might as well be armed civilians until they got good at what they did, and it was his job, at least at the moment, to get them there that much faster...

Tyson MacManus, however, had goals one-hundred and eighty degrees from whatever Dekker had in mind. He had an incompetent assassin and a murdering psycho to hunt down, and in his mind he was just wasting time standing in this asshole's office. He flexed his hands in anticipation of a strong punch making a nice connection along the temple of some unfortunate idiot's skull, watching the body fold like an old wallet under its own weight as it was robbed of concious thought, the satisfaction of beating that same person's head into the pavement until even dental records were useless pleased him immensely.

In short, he couldn't fucking wait...

"I was thinking if you might help with me," said Kathryn. "When life gets too much for you... when you don't know when your next meal is coming from, when you're scared and lonely, what do you do?" The knock came at the door, and Kathryn pulled her .357 from her jacket.

"I'll get the door." For all she knew, it could be someone raiding the place, a cop, or a criminal trying to eliminate her as competition. "Hide."

She opened the door, her weapon leveled in the direction of whoever was on the other side.

Harper was spent. The man was clearly unmoved by everything he’d thrown at him, so he did the only thing he could: he listened, too exhausted to interrupt. Everything about this man, his tone, demeanor, appearance screamed merc; heartless, bloodsucking, too-good-for-authority mercenary. But he had to admit, what he was saying wasn’t completely false. The Chief knew better than anyone in the department what Esborg really was: the VIP lounge for scumbags of all shapes and sizes. He’d spent 30 years of his life trying to change that, and now, after dozens of promotions and decorations, it was worse than ever. Good people were dying out there, and nothing he ever did seemed to change that.

“Look,” he said. His tone was completely changed; flat. He’d expended the last of his emotional energy on his tirade, directing all of his hate and frustration against the man who was still standing before him, now pleading to be allowed to do something that even Harper himself had no right to authorize. “I don’t know why you came here in the first place. It’s obvious you don’t need the money, because if you did, you’d be working for the other side. Maybe you actually do give a shit. I can’t tell. As far as I’m concerned, though, you’re still a merc, which means you’re not one of my people.”

He sighed, looking the man up and down. He didn’t like the idea of what he was about to do. It felt wrong in his gut. Times were changing though, and every day he sat behind that desk at headquarters, he was feeling more and more hopeless. Yes, good people were dying out there. Maybe it was time for the bad ones to get their turn.

“Since Creedy gave you the contract, you’re not really my responsibility, which means I can’t fire you or change your contract. But if you really think you can do some good out there, I’m not going to stop you. You’re telling me that the bad guys are contracting professional soldiers. Start there.”

Harper placed a cigarette in his mouth, and went for his lighter.

“This shit is extralegal, so I can’t help you. Remember, you’re Creedy’s problem whatever you do, not mine. If you’re willing to accept that, and still want to help, then go for it.”

"I was thinking if you might help with me," said Kathryn. "When life gets too much for you... when you don't know when your next meal is coming from, when you're scared and lonely, what do you do?" The knock came at the door, and Kathryn pulled her .357 from her jacket.

"I'll get the door." For all she knew, it could be someone raiding the place, a cop, or a criminal trying to eliminate her as competition. "Hide."

She opened the door, her weapon leveled in the direction of whoever was on the other side.

"That's a nice way to greet an employee," David said as he stared down the .357 barrel. "We got a bit of a situation."

Kathryn put the weapon in her jacket holster. "You can never be too careful," she said. "What is it?"

Kathryn put the weapon in her jacket holster. "You can never be too careful," she said. "What is it?"

"Some guy's trying to shake your dealer down," David replied, "My guy on the ground reports he doesn't look very high-end," he explained as he produced his PDA. He switched it on and pressed a few buttons before turning it to face her, "Live feed," David continued. "You want us to handle it?"

"I'll handle the situation," said Kathryn. "Angelique, it's probably safer for you to stay here, I'll be back later." She picked up the little girl and held her gently. Kathryn had wanted a child of her own, and her clock was still ticking, maybe not as fast as people thought from looking at her, but it was going steadily along.

She looked back at David. "Take me to him."

Angelique had done the first thing that came to her mind, the first thing that comes to most children's mind when faced with potential danger. She hid under the bed. Tyler joined her, padding silently across the floor and slipping beneath before the door was opened. She snuggled against his warm-furred body, completely blind once more. The voice of the man sounded familiar for some reason, but she couldn't place where from. It didn't really matter, though. He said he was the strange lady's employee, which meant he was probably safe, but Angelique felt it best to stay hidden at least until either the all clear was given. Or until Tyler decided things were getting dangerous and made an escape route.

"I'll handle the situation," said Kathryn. "Angelique, it's probably safer for you to stay here, I'll be back later." She picked up the little girl and held her gently. Kathryn had wanted a child of her own, and her clock was still ticking, maybe not as fast as people thought from looking at her, but it was going steadily along.

She looked back at David. "Take me to him."

Angelique had done the first thing that came to her mind, the first thing that comes to most children's mind when faced with potential danger. She hid under the bed. Tyler joined her, padding silently across the floor and slipping beneath before the door was opened. She snuggled against his warm-furred body, completely blind once more. The voice of the man sounded familiar for some reason, but she couldn't place where from. It didn't really matter, though. He said he was the strange lady's employee, which meant he was probably safe, but Angelique felt it best to stay hidden at least until either the all clear was given. Or until Tyler decided things were getting dangerous and made an escape route.

David nodded, but not before tossing a silver coin to the girl.

"Break it in half and it sends a signal to my PDA," he explained. "Just in case, ok?"

He led Kathryn outside, nodding to a cobalt blue Crown Victoria.

"I usually prefer BMWs or Mercedes," David explained, "But I figure if I left one of those around, it'd be stripped in a couple of seconds," he chuckled.

David started the car and drove out to the area. He drove quickly but discreetly, keeping on the speed limit and signaling to avoid detection. His employer was technically a criminal, and it only took one cop...

He stopped the car by an alley way, where a man slightly above David's height walked up out of the shadows.

"Hiya boss," he greeted David. To Kathryn he greeted, "Evenin', Boss-lady." He waved his hand, "They're over here, I'll show ya."

"All right," said Kathryn. She pulled her pistol out and secreted it up her sleeve, ready to slide out her coat if she needed it. To calm her nerves, she introduced herself to the other man. "Kathryn Calloway. And you are...?"

"All right," said Kathryn. She pulled her pistol out and secreted it up her sleeve, ready to slide out her coat if she needed it. To calm her nerves, she introduced herself to the other man. "Kathryn Calloway. And you are...?"

"Yuri Rocjenko," Yuri answered, "Formerly 10th Spetsnaz."

"Don't get him started on his service record," David warned bemusedly as Yuri began to lead the way. He stopped them at the corner, peeking around and nodding.

"Jack-hole's still there," he reported."

Angelique waited for several minutes after they left, thinking hard. After reaching her decision, she pulled the bill from her pocket and studied it carefully with sightless eyes. Eventually, she sighed and placed it on the bed. The coin the man had given her replaced it inside her pocket as she took Tyler's scruff in hand.

"Let's go... I don't think she's the right one."

The wolf led her to the door, hopping up to put a paw against the wall as he gripped the knob in his jaws and pulled it open. She carefully pulled it shut behind them and then allowed him to lead her out of the building and down the street, heading for another of her usual spots. The lady might come back looking for her, and it would be best to not be where she had last been.

Kathryn nodded. "What're they doing?" She walked into the alley, figuring that if someone was messing with her dealer, she wanted to be on the scene.

Kathryn nodded. "What're they doing?" She walked into the alley, figuring that if someone was messing with her dealer, she wanted to be on the scene.

Unclasping the lock on his holster, David followed after her, signaling for Yuri to hang back and flank them.

"Ready if you are," he told Kathryn.

ooc: i leave it to you to rp the hustler...unless u want me to.

[OOC: Since you probably have a better idea of the scenario, you can RP the hustler.]

Sylvester "Sly" Barton had just been plodding in the alley minding his own business, selling dope to people who couldn't cope with the horrid realities of life on the streets, when this guy came out of nowhere and grabbed him. He was a smallish, unobtrusive white guy, about 30, kind of skinny, not much use in a fight, and worst of all, his .38 was stuck deep in his boot where he couldn't retrieve it without being seen. He had no clue that help was on the way...

---

Kathryn rushed into the alleyway, as if oblivious to the dangers...

…Mercy’s a funny thing. I imagine I know more about it than the average denizen of our fine city. I can’t decide if that’s ironic or not. I’m also not sure if sparing an animal to bait another is merciful at all. I should have killed Zhukov. If only to have been fair to him… But enough of this. The night is young.

And I will take my exercise.

*

Like a coma patient moving his eyes back and forth beneath the lids, Esborg was alive but lost in dreaming. And moving through these nightmares, scratched into its brain was a shadow; something never fully recognized, darting here into an alley or seen leaping between rooftops; something one could never be sure was there, except in that dark little private corner of the brain where secrets are kept.

…I always liked the park at midnight…

He strolled out of the night, through the rusted iron gate, overgrown with ivy and long forgotten since the caretaker of the small green space had died three or four years ago. There was no light, save a slowly dying streetlamp, bent and similarly overgrown that stood in the middle of the space about only a few city blocks wide. He walked and stood under it, briefly. His gloved hand rested in his coat pocket, the fingers probing first the folds of a small notebook, then moving to the crumpled list of names, before settling on a coin.

He stared out into the night that seemed infinitely blacker under the lamp, and remembered why he stuck to the shadows. He couldn’t help remembering too that somewhere out there a man was prowling who should not have been prowling at all, but should have been dead. This ruined the peace of the evening a bit.

But he was distracted, then, by a pair of figures. They were crossing the park briskly. One was animal, clearly. The other was small. They paused as they reached the street lining the park. He was intrigued. In a second he was upon them, standing beside them. A dog and a child, alone in the middle of the city.

“Are you lost, little girl?” he asked, quite innocently in fact.

Harland Street was a nice place, almost uncomfortably so, and especially at night. This was the side of Esborg the tourists saw: all the pictures in the travel agency pamphlets were taken in this area of town, and carefully angled so that you couldn’t see the slums in the distance. From here you could see the dome of City Hall and the skyscrapers of the business district; the gleaming veneer of Esborg, the paint laid over the crumbling wall, the spotless suit worn by the silent corpse lying in the coffin. Zhukov remembered the metaphor he’d thought of a few days ago: a burn victim hiding her scars with makeup. There was no doubt about it: Harland Street was part of the makeup.

Andrew Toft lived in a swanky apartment, probably bought with the mob’s money. It was a good business, being a crooked cop. It made such good sense. So logical. Zhukov grinned. Logic never saved anyone. Toft had sold his soul, and he’d gotten a nice apartment and a nice car and probably a pretty, stupid girlfriend for it. Maybe it was a good trade; Zhukov himself hadn’t had a problem with spending the money from his drug operation on 21st Street. But he hadn’t come for money.

It was child’s play to pick the lock; some of the fancier places these days had electronic locks that couldn’t be so easily bypassed, but luckily for the Russian, this apartment building didn’t feature them yet. He swept in, keeping the lights off but grabbing a bottle of brandy from a rack in the kitchenette, taking swigs from it while he waited for Toft to come home from wherever he was. It shouldn’t be long: in fact, it was unusual for a bent cop willing to expose his employers to show his face outside his apartment at all. In fact, it was stupid of the man even to keep his house. Zhukov scowled. The man was begging to die: it’d be interesting to find out whether LeCroix, the mob, or the cops got to him first.

It was twenty-four minutes later that Zhukov heard the key turning in the lock. A smile spread across his face, and he leaned back in his chair. A sliver of light cut through the darkness as the door opened, widening into an arc and throwing the figure of Andrew Toft into shadow as he reached for the lights.

The silence was interrupted by the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked.

Toft froze, the silhouette of his head turning as he noticed Zhukov, ensconced in darkness, with only his gloved hand and the pistol clearly visible. Moving slowly, he raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. Zhukov raised his head, revealing the sympathetic, fatherly smile that was so out of place on his face.

“Hi there.” He motioned with the barrel of the pistol. “Get on your knees and close the door.” Toft complied, a slight tremor barely visible as he did so; when the door closed, the light faded away, leaving the room in total darkness. Toft heard the sound of footsteps across a rug; a second later, a single lamp snapped on, showing Zhukov’s sympathetic smile. “We’ve gotten ourselves into some trouble, haven’t we…”

“Please, man, I don’t know who you are…”

“Now why would you be worried about that, hm? Seems to me that when someone’s holding a gun to your face, you should be more worried about the gun than the person.”

“What do you want?”

“Well, I’ll take what you have. For example, this is some excellent brandy here. You’re a man of taste.” Zhukov bent down to offer the kneeling Toft his own bottle of liquor. “No?” Toft shook his head slightly, lips quivering. “You’re not thirsty. I understand.” He took a swig himself before abruptly firing a bullet centimeters past Toft’s ear.

“I’m sorry!” he sobbed, bursting into tears. “I did wrong, I know I did, I’m making up for it, I’m turning them in…”

“What makes you think I’m interested in justice?”

“But…but they’re criminals. These men have done…terrible things…” came the stammered reply.

“So have you. So have I. A lot of people will do worse in their lifetimes. Not you, though. You’re going to die.” Toft sobbed harder.

“Oh, God…God, please don’t…please…”

“Oh, I see. You think I want to kill you. No, no, no. No. Other people will, though. You think you can turn these people in and keep your skin in one piece?” Zhukov chuckled in unfeigned amusement and shook his head. “You know better than that. You know these people. You think they won’t kill you for this?” More laughter.

“Then what do you want?” Toft demanded, tears streaming down his face.

“Your fellow squealers.”

“I don’t know what you’re-”

Zhukov’s bullet buried itself in his thigh and Toft screeched in pain. “Hush, hush,” Zhukov soothed, stroking Toft’s cheek with his pistol. “It doesn’t have to happen again. You just have to tell me. And if you don’t do it quickly, when Smith’s gang finds you, they’re going to find you in…let’s say…forty-four pieces of equal weight, scattered across the city.” Toft squealed with terror, cringing and shaking with sobs.

“All right! All right…you…you win…”

“Write down where I can find these people,” Zhukov ordered softly, handing Toft the sheet of paper he’d taken from LeCroix.

“I only know some of them,” Toft confessed, writing out the addresses with shaking hands.

“Sure. No, I understand,” Zhukov said calmly. “I’ll have more little chats with them. But if these addresses aren’t correct, I’ll rip your heart out and shove it down your throat.” Toft swallowed hard and finished writing. As soon as he laid the pen down, Zhukov snatched the paper away from him and grinned, reaching to turn the light off as he did so. “Great job, Mr. Toft. Great. Better put a towel on that bullet wound, now.” He strode to the door, turned as he pulled it open, holstering his gun in the same smooth movement, and winked at Toft. “Wouldn’t want you bleeding out before LeCroix finds you.”

“LeCroix? Wait! The psycho with the wrapping paper! You can’t let him have me! You can’t!”

Toft’s cries of despair faded to nothing as Zhukov slammed the door, leaving him alone in darkness.

“Are you lost, little girl?”

Angelique heard the approaching footsteps long before the voice spoke, and she wondered why Tyler didn't seem to care. Maybe it was a policeman. Sometimes the police found her, and sometimes they were good policemen and tried to take her home, and sometimes they were good clients and took her to their home. Either way, policemen had always been nice to her, and Tyler never growled at them.

"No, sir, I'm not lost," she replied. "I was on my way to see someone downtown."

That was a code she'd learned from the girls in the back alleys. Those in the know used it to indicate that they were either headed for a client or looking for one. She had found it quite useful. She felt the tug of Tyler's scruff in her hand as he moved towards the man, sniffing curiously. The wolf allowed a single wag of his tail before sitting beside his human companion.

[OOC: Since you probably have a better idea of the scenario, you can RP the hustler.]

Sylvester "Sly" Barton had just been plodding in the alley minding his own business, selling dope to people who couldn't cope with the horrid realities of life on the streets, when this guy came out of nowhere and grabbed him. He was a smallish, unobtrusive white guy, about 30, kind of skinny, not much use in a fight, and worst of all, his .38 was stuck deep in his boot where he couldn't retrieve it without being seen. He had no clue that help was on the way...

---

Kathryn rushed into the alleyway, as if oblivious to the dangers...

ooc: eh, okay...

ic:

"Quit stalling, man," the scruffy and dingy attacker growled. He jammed the barrel of a .40 S&W into his stomach. "This'll make a pretty good hole in ya!"

When he saw the gun, David drew his pistol, setting the red laser dot on the attacker's head.

"Hold it right there," David said calmly. "Let's be cool, all right?"

The man wheeled around, placing Sly between David and himself. He raised the gun up to the dealer's head.

"Back off, prick, or Dopey gets it!"

Dekker was pleased he'd made some headway, at least for now...

"I appreciate your understanding, Harper. You won't regret it..."

He really had no idea where to start, besides checking his laptop for another AIM contract in the vicinity. He'd done that earlier and nothing had shown up, and he wasn't aware that Tyson MacManus had already been contacted by a Mr. Thomas Olsen to replace the AWOL Zhukov. His other option, as odd as it was, was to try and locate the vigilante known as 'LeCroix'...

"I'll quit bothering you then. Have a good night..."

The merc turned sharply and strode off into the night, leaving Harper with what he hoped was a slightly renewed faith in humanity, but he wasn't hoping for much. Harsh times called for harsh methods, and that usually entailed a large-caliber bullet to the face for those foolish enough to step out of line. In keeping with his very vigilante attitude, Dekker decided LeCroix might actually be worth chatting with, provided he could find him. The park seemed like a good enough place to start, he could use the walk anyway.

Dekker was one of those few people who felt completely at ease where-ever he went. He was a large man by most definitions, and he carried an equally intimidating sidearm tucked under his shoulder. A high level of awareness rounded out his sense of safety, never really letting his guard down enough to relax but at the same time not stressing himself thinking there was an ambush around every corner.

The park was dimly lit, giving it an eerie and surreal look to it in the evening hours. While his eyes weren't as good as they were fifteen years ago, he was still able to make out a strange sight from a distance: a man, a little girl, and really big dog...

'That's a big fucking dog. No wonder they're out walking so late...'

It was worth a look, however. By the way the dog was acting the man wasn't the owner, and Dekker hated pedophiles more than just about anything he could think of. There were enough shadows that he'd be able to approach unseen and unheard, getting within earshot and doing a little recon would help him understand the situation a little better.

Big as he was, the mercenary had developed a keen sense of stealth. It had always been better to take your enemy down quietly and quickly instead of getting into a drawn-out noisey firefight, and Dekker preferred to be as professional as possible during any and all operations he undertook. Professionalisum required results, and sneaking up on someone before you beat them senseless or stabbed them to death produced such results.

In a few moments he was within hearing distance, concealed more or less behind a park bench just outside of the dim ring of light put out by a flickering street-lamp. The light acted as a shield, keeping anyone from focusing on anything directly outside of it, and that's exactly where Dekker parked his large self, to watch and wait...

I was on my way to see someone downtown.

“Interesting coincidence. So was I.”

He smiled at the girl, while taking a more serious appraisal of her companion. He’d seen domesticated wolves before once, in the home of a big time drug trafficker. They’d been smaller, however, and their eyes had been different: empty, glazed. Not unlike the little girl’s.

“I doubt we’re looking for the same person, however,” he mused, looking away from the girl and out into the dark street. “It’s dangerous to travel alone, you know.”

As he said it, he swore he heard something behind him. Nothing seemed to come of it, and he let himself dismiss it as fancy, however not without first discreetly shifting his hand to the small knife in his pocket.

Sly was about to panic when an idea hit him. He gasped as if having a heart attack and doubled over; he'd read one of Kathryn's books about personal security that said sometimes faking illness could frighten off some types of attacker. True, that passage had referred to vomiting on a rapist, but if he could double over, give the other guy a window to shoot...

Kathryn stepped up next to the merc and produced her .357. "Hold it right there," she said calmly. "Now, what do you want?" Sly was dressed kind of scruffy; he clearly wasn't rich enough to have anything worth risking prison to rob. On the other hand, people had been killed for precious little in these parts.

Tyler's head turned, watching the mercenary's approach, ears perked, eyes fluorescing green, but again he did not growl, giving only a soft wuff. Angelique felt the motion but figured it must be a squirrel or rabbit or something.

“It’s dangerous to travel alone, you know.”

She smiled at that. "I'm not alone. I've got Tyler." She released the wolf's scruff to give him a pat on the shoulder before tangling her fingers in his thick pelt once more. "Who're you goin to see?"

Caution had been beaten into her very quickly, but she was still a child. Her naturally inquisitive nature sometimes got the better of her and this man seemed... different somehow. Maybe he was the client her clothes had chosen for her. That could be it, though he had said he was already on his way to see someone... Perhaps she could talk him into a bargain or steal a quickie before he met with his trick.

"I'm headed to see my cousin."

Yet another line she had learned. He hadn't given the proper response, but close enough that he might understand. Fathers and mothers were pimps and madams. Uncles and aunts were clients. Brothers and sisters were prostitutes working for the same person. Cousins were non-entities, no one, in other words, a hunting phrase offering up herself as available.

Sly was about to panic when an idea hit him. He gasped as if having a heart attack and doubled over; he'd read one of Kathryn's books about personal security that said sometimes faking illness could frighten off some types of attacker. True, that passage had referred to vomiting on a rapist, but if he could double over, give the other guy a window to shoot...

Kathryn stepped up next to the merc and produced her .357. "Hold it right there," she said calmly. "Now, what do you want?" Sly was dressed kind of scruffy; he clearly wasn't rich enough to have anything worth risking prison to rob. On the other hand, people had been killed for precious little in these parts.

"Oh, man," the attacker muttered, clutching the pistol as if it were his salvation. His eyes darted between Kathryn and David, both training their guns on him. "You won't get me this time," he muttered, raising the gun towards his head. "I'll stop you this time..."

Before he could get the gun to his head, however, David fired, the gun clattering to the ground as the attacker clutched his bleeding hand. David rushed him, spinning his leg as he swept the man's feet out from under him. Reaching into his back pocket, David took out a set of handcuffs, cuffing the man as he struggled to get a grasp on what happened. Flipping the attacker over, David opened his eyes wide, shining a penlight into them.

"This guy's flipped outta his gourd," David turned to Kathryn, "And he's injured. Is there a decent hospital nearby?"

"Who're you goin to see?"

“I’m hoping to drop in on a new friend,” he said absently. He studied the girl’s clothing. It was clear what she was, though he wondered how she managed to do business with such an intimidating animal at her side. Idle curiosity.

“And where does your cousin live? Perhaps I’ll walk you there. Even with such an intimidating friend as yours, the streets are dangerous at night. My name is Mr. LeCroix,” he smiled.

Dekker could hardly believe his luck in this instance. The entire police force of Esborg and most of the organized crime syndicates had been scowering the city for this guy, and he happened to stumble on him blind hunch. Now was as good of a time as any, and the large mercenary rose from his crouch behind the bench, stepping into the light he'd been hiding behind earlier...

"The man himself..."

A man with his talents could be useful, and Dekker had a feeling LeCroix wasn't entirely self-taught. Those that were usually didn't last as long as he had, or had such tight shot groups. He'd read the police files on the odd murders of various lowlifes in the area, and not many average joes could pull off three or four consecutive headshots unless they were competition pistol shooters, and he hadn't seen an IDPA club banner up in the police station, otherwise he'd be spending more of his off time running shoot-and-move drills.

The merc crossed his large arms across his broad chest, putting his automatic within easy reach should he need it, but he doubted he would...

"I'm a fan of your work, so you can quit fiddling with whatever's in your pocket. I'm not here to hurt you, or your new friend. I'd like to talk..."

Dekker decided to shut himself up after that point and listen to what the city's most famous vigilante had to say...

Bloody typical. "Are you all right?" she asked Sly, who nodded weakly. "Yes, ma'am. I just remembered something from one of your books, seems it helped out. Thanks, how'd you know where I was?"

"David, here, led me. I don't know how he knew, though," Kathryn replied. "Decent hospitals here are rare, one of the least shitty is down the main road, about four kilometres west."

She turned back to Sly. "Any idea why he attacked you?"

Sly merely shook his head. "No... no clue."

"My name is Mr. LeCroix.”

"I'm Angelique. I'll be fine getting to my cousin, thanks though."

Tyler gave another soft wuff as the large mercenary slipped from the shadows, sniffing towards him now that he was closer. The wolf danced lightly on his paws for a moment, the click of his nails against the concrete coming in staccato bursts.

tat-tat-tat-tat tat tat-TAT-tat-tat tat-TAT-tat-tat TAT-TAT-TAT went the claws, some louder, some softer. His tail gave another slight wag as he wuffed once more.

"I'd like to talk..."

"Um... Maybe I should go..." Angelique suggested. She gave a light tug on Tyler's scruff but the wolf refused to move. "Or not..." The girl sighed. Now she would have to listen to boring adult talk just because Tyler wanted to listen. Typical.

Bloody typical. "Are you all right?" she asked Sly, who nodded weakly. "Yes, ma'am. I just remembered something from one of your books, seems it helped out. Thanks, how'd you know where I was?"

"David, here, led me. I don't know how he knew, though," Kathryn replied. "Decent hospitals here are rare, one of the least shitty is down the main road, about four kilometres west."

She turned back to Sly. "Any idea why he attacked you?"

Sly merely shook his head. "No... no clue."

"Wireless cameras," David answered her inquiry, producing his PDA. The screen showed the alleyway, with all of those present on camera. "Easier than putting feet on the ground."

"So, watcha gonna do with this guy boss?" Yuri asked.

"Dump 'em at the hospital...if they're good enough, they'll notice he's a couple cans short of a six pack." David sighed and took out his cell phone, "Code Blue."

OOC: I'm going to be out of town until the evening of the 11th, so I'll respond to the people I'm RPing with when I get back. Thanks.

"We should get back to my apartment," said Kathryn as Sly bent over and took the bag containing five kilos of weed that the man had robbed him of. "I got a little girl there, now."

"You do? I never thought you were the maternal type, Katie."

Kathryn smiled. "Yeah, she was a child prostitute, ten years old. I picked her up, talked to her. She seems traumatised, who wouldn't after they'd been through what she's been through, losing her parents and all... but I think she's taken a liking to me. I'd like you to see her. Her name's Angelique." She was completely oblivious to the fact that the girl had pulled a vanishing act on her.

"We should get back to my apartment," said Kathryn as Sly bent over and took the bag containing five kilos of weed that the man had robbed him of. "I got a little girl there, now."

"You do? I never thought you were the maternal type, Katie."

Kathryn smiled. "Yeah, she was a child prostitute, ten years old. I picked her up, talked to her. She seems traumatised, who wouldn't after they'd been through what she's been through, losing her parents and all... but I think she's taken a liking to me. I'd like you to see her. Her name's Angelique." She was completely oblivious to the fact that the girl had pulled a vanishing act on her.

"I'll give you a lift," David said as he led them to the car. He drove them back to the apartment quickly, deciding to hang back in the car as the two got out.

((I might be getting evicted from my apartment on monday, so don't expect anything from me til at least tuesday. Will try and post tomorrow though.))

[That's scary. Hope you find someplace soon.]

Kathryn and Sly walked up to Kathryn's apartment. Kathryn unlocked the door. "Angelique, I'm back." She assumed the child was hiding under the bed again, so poked around underneath. Sly looked in the closet.

"Katie, no sign of her. Who left this fifty on your bed?"

All of a sudden, it dawned on her. Angelique was gone. Kathryn hung her head, looking depressed, and sat down. That little girl was out on the streets again selling her ass to dirty paedophilic scum. Kathryn was speechless.

Ian Moller jumped as the first knock came on the door. He’d been barricaded in this apartment, belonging to a friend on vacation, for some time now, unable to sleep, ever since Sorengaard had missed their last pre-arranged phone call. The cop had to be dead. Jepson and Lind had preceded him, and of course he’d heard about the Juarez knife murder. Everyone had. Moller wasn’t an idiot; if anything, his caution attested to the opposite. Someone was picking apart Sorengaard’s case. And if they knew he was involved, that he’d been willing to squeal…he shivered. Smith could think of torments for him that nobody else would even imagine. Leaving his apartment had been the only way to avoid deadly attention.

The second knock boomed through the apartment. Fear sparked through him; and yet, it could be anything. Perhaps it drew more attention to pretend he wasn’t here. Maybe it was one of his contacts; he’d told them where he would be. Maybe it was Sorengaard; Moller didn’t know he was dead, after all. It couldn’t hurt, just to see who it was. Slowly he got up, tramped across the wood floor, and peered through the door’s peephole.

An unfamiliar figure stood there. Tall, dark-haired, and powerfully-built, he supposed women would find the man handsome, but he looked like he hadn’t slept in days, and there was something about the eyes that was just disturbing. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but this wasn’t one of his contacts, and clearly was not the type to invite into your home at…he squinted at the digital clock on the stove in his apartment’s kitchenette: 2:14 AM. He leaned back slightly from the peephole, remaining as still as possible otherwise, hoping the intruder would assume he wasn’t home. That illusion was dispelled a second later when, slightly muffled, he heard the man remark, “I heard you walking to the door. If you don’t open this door in five seconds, I’m going to call Mr. Smith and tell him exactly where to find you.” Moller rushed to obey.

“Look, I have money,” he blurted as Zhukov walked through the door. “I’ll give you whatever you want, but if you tell Smith-”

Moller’s words were cut off by Zhukov viciously punching him in the jaw, sending him reeling back.

“Detective Ian Moller.” The Russian withdrew a long knife from under his coat and smirked. “I have a puzzle for you.”

“Fuck you,” Moller growled, and lunged at the intruder. He didn’t quite see how it happened, but he felt an agonizing pain in his wrist, and before he knew it he was falling, lying flat on his back with that knife at his throat, as the other man chuckled.

“A lot of people say that. ‘Fuck you! Fuck you!’ Like it does any good.” Quickly Zhukov straightened and closed the apartment door. Turning back to Moller, he raised an eyebrow at the sight of the cop (who was in less than perfect shape) scrambling backwards away from him. “I’m not with Smith, you know. And if you tell me what I need to know, I’ll leave. Neither I nor Smith will hear of you ever again.”

“Fine!” Moller exclaimed with relief. “Anything! What do you need?”

Quick as a flash, the Russian swooped over to him, taking his wrist in an implacable grip. Zhukov held up the knife. “A finger for each lie you tell me, Detective.” The bent cop squirmed a little, the knife blade reflecting the fear in his eyes. “Now. I need to find Sorengaard’s contacts. I have a list of some of them, and I need you to complete it.” Moller nodded frantically. “I also have a message for you to deliver. But first,” he went on, withdrawing the paper Toft had given him from earlier, “I want you to write down the names and addresses of all the other witnesses. All of them, Detective.” He twirled the knife threateningly before handing the paper over, and watched as Moller reached for a pen and began filling in the rest of the contacts.

At length Moller tossed the pen aside and looked petulantly up at Zhukov, who smiled in that disturbing, paternal way he had, and said smoothly, “Excellent. I can’t thank you enough. Now, a colleague of mine is going to be here before too much longer. You’re to hold that paper until he gets here, then give it to him when he arrives.”

“How will I know if it’s the right guy?”

Zhukov chuckled. “You’ll recognize the name. Now,” he continued, his tone abruptly becoming serious, “I have a question for you, before I tell you my message. Why did you start working for the mob, Detective? Why did you take Smith’s money?”

“It…uh…” Moller looked around, as if hoping something would give him an excuse to dodge the question. He’d never simply been asked before, and it was like being asked why money was good. “It…made sense. It paid well, you know? And I had plans of my own. I needed that money.” Zhukov stood, his face now deadly serious, like a teacher trying to convince a brilliant but impatient student of some fundamental truth of the world.

“Exactly. Of course. It makes sense. It gives you quick, easy money. And you were plotting,” he growled, “plotting away, thinking it would do you some good, always trying to be one step ahead of everything around you. And that’s it. You try to structure the world with your logic, you try to shape it with your plans, but it can’t be structured. It’s like you’re trying to build a wall to stop a glacier. And this frantic scrambling is just a symptom of the denial that permeates the whole human race. You’re denying the only real truth, the truth that this whole filthy city needs to see: everything you do, everything you build falls apart with the proper pressure. It’s my job to apply it. That’s the only eternal truth, Detective: everything ends.”

Zhukov’s eyes blazed, and he seemed like some Old Testament patriarch, like Moses coming down the mountain with the fire of God still in his eyes, towering above Moller. “After my colleague comes, you’re going to go find Thomas Olsen, immediately, and tell him what I said. And tell him a man he killed is back. Tell him that exactly. Will you remember?” Moller nodded frantically. “Of course you will.” Abruptly the knife flashed down, and Moller felt red-hot agony burning around his eye, and a second later Zhukov snatched something white from his face. The cop almost passed out with shock as he saw: the Russian had carved out Moller's own eyeball.

“One for the road,” Zhukov said, grinning, and in a second he was gone as quickly as he’d arrived.

[That's scary. Hope you find someplace soon.]

Kathryn and Sly walked up to Kathryn's apartment. Kathryn unlocked the door. "Angelique, I'm back." She assumed the child was hiding under the bed again, so poked around underneath. Sly looked in the closet.

"Katie, no sign of her. Who left this fifty on your bed?"

All of a sudden, it dawned on her. Angelique was gone. Kathryn hung her head, looking depressed, and sat down. That little girl was out on the streets again selling her ass to dirty paedophilic scum. Kathryn was speechless.

Out of curiosity, David had followed them a few feet behind. He hadn't gone into the apartment, but heard the conversation loud and clear. The thought of that little girl on the streets again also hit him hard. Since listening in on their exchange earlier, David had noticed the maternal instinct awoken in Kathryn. Knocking on the door as he stepped into the apartment, he decided to speak up.

"You know, that coin...the pendant I gave you...they have remote activation in them," David explained, "In case I ever need your location in a hurry, you see. It'd be easy enough to track her down..."

ooc: I concur w/ Kahan, Vix, hope it all works out for you...

Kathryn nodded. "I never thought I'd have a kid Lo-jacked. Let's see where she is."

Kathryn nodded. "I never thought I'd have a kid Lo-jacked. Let's see where she is."

"Well, I guess that's one way to call it," David said, "I know how that feels, believe it or not," he continued, pulling his jacket sleeve up and showing a small line of a scar on his wrist. "But enough about me..." David said as he produced his PDA. He punched a few commands before a street grid appeared on the screen. "C'mon, I found her...she's in a park."

Spinning on his heel, David left the apartment, sure that the others were on his six. He took out his pistol and slapped in a fresh clip. One round might not seem like a lot, but in the clincher, it sure counted.

Kathryn's weapon was still fully loaded - she had not fired on the man holding her dealer. Sly put his .38 in a more accessible jacket pocket and followed Kathryn and David to the park...

Kathryn's weapon was still fully loaded - she had not fired on the man holding her dealer. Sly put his .38 in a more accessible jacket pocket and followed Kathryn and David to the park...

Even though he wanted to mash his foot onto the pedal, David kept on the speed limit, knowing that rushing head-long was often the way to lose perspective. He pulled the car up to the curb and turned off the engine. He checked the PDA, scanning the park as he glanced between the screen and the darkened horizon.

"C'mon, this way," David said as he opened his door and walked into the park. It didn't take them long to see the angelic little girl, two men's silhouettes nearby.

"I don't want it to look like I'm involved. She already thinks I want to pimp her out since I let slip that I work with adult prostitutes," said Kathryn. She ducked her head under the seat.

"Then I'll go," David said, "I'm the one who Lo-jacked her after all...I'll be the bad guy," he said as he walked off.

OOC: Sorry for delays again. Getting ready to return home, so I'll post when I get back tomorrow or the day after.

OOC: No problem.

OOC: Sorry for the prolongued absence. Had to get ready to go back to school. I'm working on a good new post though, so thanks for your patience.

“You have to understand, Mr. Creedy, Mr. Smith is growing concerned as to the security of our arrangement.”

Charles L’hirondel stroked his sparse mustache, eyes focused on the gloved hands folded in his lap. Slowly, he rolled his head back and fixed Creedy with a cold, blue gaze. “This vigilante business is quite simply getting out of hand.”

Creedy shuffled his feet, and tried to avoid the eyes of the man seated before him.

“And Mr. Smith has to understand-”

“Understand what? That five of our enforcers are dead over a period of five days? Five of our men, dead after nearly a year of complete peace? Peace kept by us, for your benefit and profit? No, Mr. Creedy. Mr. Smith understands that quite well.”

“There’s no way of knowing that that was even him that killed your men last night. No way of knowing! From what I heard, it was internal business. That enforcer you sent them to kill, you knew he was unstable. Dangerous even!”

Creedy’s agitation did not seem to phase the enforcer, whose grey head of hair bobbed as he nodded, sighing.

“Look,” continued the bureaucrat. “Look, I’m doing everything I can to keep Harper from crashing your organization into the ground, and he’s capable of doing it. That’s my job. That’s what Smith pays me for.”

“Smith pays you to keep things running smoothly for our organization. Five of our employees getting shot by a lone nutcase doesn’t constitute ‘smooth.’”

“I’m doing everything I can!” repeated he flustered crown prosecutor. “Everything. What more can I do?”

“Arrest the psychopath, Mr. Creedy. Arrest him, prosecute him, and hang him in the public square.”

L’hirondel stood. At full height, the man towered over Creedy. He eyed him up and down, like a butcher choosing the best cut of meat to slice off and serve.

“Mr. Smith has other concerns at the moment. That you allowed Sorengaard to progress as far in his investigationn to threaten you is enough. Do not allow another rogue to threaten him.”

Charles checked his watch.

“Mr. Smith is expecting me, Mr. Creedy. Please heed my words. Remember the past generosity of your benefactor, and especially do not forget what he is capable of in moments of…disappointment.”

L’hirondel walked briskly towards the door, leaving Creedy where he stood, contemplating the coarse dialogue. Across the city, Malcolm Smith picked up the telephone.

“What do you have for me, Charles?”

“I spoke with him. He’s as clueless as ever. Personally, I wonder how long our partnership with that man will remain beneficial.”

“I’ve wondered the same thing. This vigilante nonsense has me reconsidering a great deal of things. If the police can’t perform their duties, and trap a lone psycho, then what are we paying them for?”

“It’s a question worth putting to Creedy.”

“In time, perhaps I may have to. For the moment, I’m afraid we’ll have to keep dealing with him. Tell me about Harper.”

“Creedy’s keeping him on a leash. I hear he’s been digging, though. Perhaps looking to outside sources to accomplish his goals.”

“Creedy swears he can’t be bought.”

“Not with money, no. We’ll have to see where he takes this. Perhaps a permanent solution will need to be found.”

“Should it be necessary, I’ll solve this problem personally.”

“Of course you will, Charles. But for now, let’s be patient. Mr. Olsen may yet get things under control with this Sorengaard business.”

Smith hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair. The light from the moon outside bathed his face.

“And for his own sake, he’d better.”

-------

LeCroix could have killed the man. A quick movement with the blade, and his throat would be slashed, his blood on the pavement. That was against the rules, though, and it would frighten the girl.

“A fan?” he drawled casually. “Already. And you haven’t even seen my masterpiece yet.”

He looked him over. Not a cop. Too big, with too much automatic hardware under that coat. Not a gangster. They always shot first.

“And what, may I ask, are you hear to talk about?”

A car engine, nearby. Easy to spot on an empty street. This is how things got ugly. It was a bad spot, his back to the street, his eyes to the park. Perhaps they too were armed with conversation, and nobody knew his face.

“Pale Death with impartial tread beats at the poor man's cottage door and at the palaces of kings.”
-Horace

* * *

NAME: Roth, Albert Manstein
AGE: 48
WEIGHT: 155 pounds
EYE COLOR: Brown
HAIR COLOR: Black
KNOWN ALIASES: None
OCCUPATION: Unemployed (philanthropist)
KNOWN CRIMES:
-Fraud (2/18/01): served three years, released on parole
SUSPECTED ACTIVITIES:
-Suspected long-time unregistered bookkeeper
-Suspected business associate of Thomas Olsen and Malcolm Smith

Commissioner’s Note: This one is absolutely harmless. There are bigger fish to fry. Until there’s conclusive proof of criminal activity involving both him and his associates, I don’t want us wasting time on him.

* * *

Albert Roth rose early. He had a desk set up in his apartment, with copies of the ledgers that contained every transaction he’d ever been involved in, a desk from which he rarely budged during work hours. A talented financier who’d made a fortune trading stocks as a yuppie broker executive, Roth now held court in his tastefully-decorated penthouse, managing the legitimate profits, betting records, expenditures, and illicit gains of Malcolm Smith and his most influential lieutenants, most notably Thomas Olsen. Every day, as today, he woke up at 5:30, had a healthy breakfast, went through his yoga routine, and dressed in one of his expensive Italian tailored suits. His two bodyguards arrived at 6:15, and business would open for the day. Clients would bring in the money they owed; Roth would count it, record it, and keep it to be sent to the ultimate recipient. He would often go out to lunch with government and city officials; he worked a little more in the afternoon, and in the evenings went to the Esborg Opera House, philanthropy events, or fundraisers while his men distributed the day’s earnings. Roth was the definition of well-connected; Smith, Olsen, and the other crime lords had a definite interest in keeping him happy, wizard that he was with money, and the high society of Esborg loved him. He was close friends with Commissioner Creedy, all the city’s judges, and was even fucking a city councilman’s trophy wife. Quite a resume.

That said, it was something of a surprise when at 6:23 a knock came at the door. Roth looked up from the money he was counting, left by his 6:20 client of the morning, and frowned. He glanced at his schedule: nothing was arranged for 6:23. After a second’s consideration, he ordered one of his guards to open the door. The man stepped forward at once, peering quickly through the peephole: just a tall, dark-haired man, no weapon visible. No threat here. He opened the door.

“Who are you?” he barked gruffly.

“You must be Mr. Albert Roth,” Zhukov replied cheerfully.

“No. That‘s him over there. Who the fuck are you?”

Zhukov smiled indulgently, then dealt the guard a powerful uppercut, breaking his jaw and sending him sprawling back. Taking a step around him, the Russian slammed his heel down into his throat, crushing the larynx and condemning him to slow strangulation. He straightened, glancing quickly around the apartment: this was a lavishly appointed place, a suitable headquarters for a successful bookie. A briefcase lay on Roth’s desk, open and full of neatly stacked bills, with another on the floor leaning against the desk. Roth must have had a hell of a business going on to make this kind of money on top of his payments to Olsen. The bookie himself was standing up, backing away open-mouthed as his first guard gurgled out his life. The second bodyguard, an even bigger muscle-bound bouncer type, was advancing towards Zhukov slowly, hands raised as a guard. Zhukov stood, feet planted, and threw his arms wide, now laughing. The burly guard wasted no time, hurrying within reach of the Russian and throwing a powerful strike into his gut. Zhukov fell backwards, laughing harder, desperately, doubled over with glee. The guard kicked him brutally in the ribs, and he rolled over, but Zhukov simply laughed all the more.

Roth’s bodyguard stared in utter confusion, then looked at his boss. Roth himself was still mute with shock, jaw open, the money forgotten. Here was a man who had dispatched one of his guards in a matter of seconds, and now was letting the second beat him to a pulp while he gasped out laughter.

“How fucking crazy is this guy?” the guard demanded, before grabbing Zhukov’s coat and hauling him to his feet. Zhukov kept right on laughing, if anything more uproariously than before. Gritting his teeth, the bodyguard head-butted Zhukov in the fact, causing blood to gush from the intruder’s nose. It did nothing to silence his insane, incomprehensible laughter.

“Shut up! Will you shut the fuck up?!” the guard roared, gripping Zhukov’s coat tightly as he cocked back his head for another strike.

Abruptly, his laughter stopped, as if a switch had been thrown, and Zhukov looked the confused bodyguard right in the eye, a twinkle gleaming in his own.

“Don’t you get it? It’s funny.”

The big bodyguard grunted in pain, his grip on Zhukov’s coat slackening. Zhukov smiled into his shocked face and stabbed him again, this time just beneath the sternum; the blade pierced the heart, killing the burly man instantly. His fingers, suddenly nerveless, lost their grip entirely, and he crumpled to the ground.

Every murder is genocide. I kill a man, and all his sons and grandsons and the thousands of generations that would’ve been spawned from him will never be. Every death is a billion unseen abortions.

Zhukov stared down at the corpse for a second, and then turned to Mr. Roth, now pressed into the corner. Shooting a quick glance at the impressive amount of money on the bookie’s desk, Zhukov advanced on his victim, who was babbling about his ties to Mr. Smith and Thomas Olsen and Commissioner Creedy and the Mayor and, it seemed, half the government of the city. As if suddenly impressed by his terrified monologue, Zhukov inquired, “Wait a minute. You know Thomas Olsen? The Thomas Olsen?”

“That’s right! When he finds out-”

“He won’t be happy, will he?”

“Look, if you let me go, he doesn’t have to know-”

Roth’s words were cut off as Zhukov slammed the butt of his knife’s grip between the bookie’s eyes, instantly knocking him unconscious. The Russian immediately strode outside, where he’d left an important tool: there was work to be done with Mr. Albert Roth.

* * *

“Wakey wakey.”

Roth groaned, the world around him shivering into focus, coalescing from a swirl of indistinct colors into a comprehensible scene. He was standing in his bedroom, wrists bound with thick rope, and he’d been stripped down to his boxers: Zhukov, meanwhile, was sitting casually at the edge of Roth’s king-sized bed, smoking a cigarette, two open briefcases full of money at his feet and a bottle of tequila lying on the bed. Taking a long drag on the cigarette, Zhukov recited casually, “Well, Roth, I know you’re on your way out. It’s been fun, really. But I just wanted to have a little chat with you. It’s for your benefit, really; I wouldn’t want you to leave here unprepared.”

He took another drag and exhaled, casually blowing a smoke ring. “I heard a story once that I thought phrased it nicely. There’s this king, right, and there’s a famine in his kingdom. He has the money to buy food from other lands, and he stays in his fortress surrounded by guards and he knows he’s safe.” Zhukov smiled mockingly. “But one day, the surge comes, and his people rise up together, and they break into the castle. The king knows he’s defenseless, that he’s teetering on the edge of oblivion and his kingdom is going to dissolve into chaos. But he tries to distract them. He sends his jester down and orders him, ‘Make them laugh!’ And I just couldn’t help but think…doesn’t he know that he’s the joke?”

Roth said nothing for a little bit. The seconds ticked by, and Zhukov looked at him expectantly. After a full thirty seconds, the bookie said hesitantly, “I’m…um…I don’t get it.”

Zhukov sighed. “You’re a poor student. It’s a simple concept, Roth. The entire world relies on logic, on sense. It’s so logical for someone to obey their boss or their government, and it’s so logical to struggle for money. This…structure that people have, with their plans and hopes and dreams, all shaped by the demands of society. And yet look at this city, in all its decay and filth. Look at children who die of cancer, businessmen who profit from selling machines of war…it makes no sense. There’s no meaning to the world, Roth. But they refuse to admit it. They live their lives like death isn’t hanging over them, like their house might not get burned down, like everything will last forever." And as Zhukov brought his face to Roth’s, grinning maniacally, he roared, his voice rising hysterically, “Can’t you see how crazy that is?”

Roth shivered with fear. Zhukov, still ginning, patted him on the cheek sympathetically, and went on, “Nothing is eternal, Roth. The opposite is true: sooner or letter, everything collapses, and everyone dies. And until this whole city realizes they’re worthless, maggots in the hands of death, my work isn’t done. It’s never done, Roth. And these worthless, denial-stricken rats will never catch me.”

In a smooth movement, Zhukov turned away, withdrawing a cigarette lighter as he did so. Grabbing the bottle of tequila with his other hand, he uncorked it with his teeth, spat the cork aside, and took a swig before pouring the strong liquor liberally over the briefcases. It soaked into the stacked bills, pooling in the cracks between them and splashing on the carpet as he poured more and more until the bottle was empty. He dropped it, and picked up a single stack of bills. With a sly glance back at the bound and shivering Roth, he ignited the lighter, and quickly lit both the briefcases, with all their stacked wealth, aflame. Roth’s eyes widened in shock. What was this?

“What…what are you doing?”

“Everything ends, Roth,” he chuckled as he turned to face his victim. Casually Zhukov tugged one of the burning hundred-dollar bills out of the stack he held and tore a large strip off with his teeth. He chewed it slowly, grinning even as flames danced over it, and swallowed with every appearance of relish. Roth stared in shock and terror, straining feebly against the ropes around his wrist. Zhukov’s grin vanished, replaced by a stern, paternal frown.

“Don’t squirm. Death comes for all of us, Roth. The least you can do is meet it like a man.” As if he’d suddenly remembered something, the Russian turned away. He bent over to pick up something from the floor that Roth couldn’t see, his vision blocked by the bed, but when Zhukov straightened, he saw it: a thick braided rope. Much like the shorter one tied around his wrists.

“What…what are you doing with that?” Roth asked fearfully. His question was answered a second later, when Zhukov picked up the whole thing, revealing the noose tied at the end of it. Knees weak with terror, he suddenly collapsed, gasping for breath, overwhelmed by what was going on. Zhukov, meanwhile, wasted no time securely tying the rope to the foot of the bed, giving it a few sharp tugs to make sure it was tight. Roth had began truly sobbing, tears flowing down his face as he begged incoherently. Zhukov made hushing noises, even patting the bookie’s shoulder after he’d looped the noose around his neck and tightened it.

“There, there. Come on now. You don’t want to die like that. Shhh…” He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew his long knife, still flecked with the blood of Roth’s bodyguard, and smirked. “Tell me, Roth, do you believe an artist should sign his work?”

* * *

“Special delivery!” Private Baker announced as he wheeled the loaded gurney into the morgue for examination. Dr. Ian Mahan, the coroner for the 5th district of Esborg, stood waiting for him, latex gloves already on and his tools laid out in a tray on his right.

“Took you long enough.” Mahan motioned for Baker to wheel the gurney towards him, glancing at the cadaver. The man was middle-aged, with some grey in his hair, eyes bulging and jaw clenched. There was significant and unmistakable bruising in a circle around the neck, but below that Mahan could see no more: everything between ankles and neck was covered by a thick white sheet.

“You’re never gonna believe this. Pushed out of his window with a noose around his neck, tied to his bed.” Baker shook his head in amazement. “Some fucked-up shit. You ever see that movie Hannibal?”

“No.”

“There was something like this in the movie. Guy pushed out of a window on a noose, belly sliced open.”

Mahan grunted in absent-minded acknowledgement as he gingerly probed the lacerations on the cadaver’s neck. “Well, this guy was killed instantly. The neck’s broken at the second cervical vertebra, if you look you can see the lump where the vertebra is pressing against the skin.” Baker leaned over to see the mark, and nodded.

“How come his neck’s all bruised if he was killed instantly?”

Mahan glared at the cop. “Did you not pay any attention at the academy?” Baker merely looked back at him, and Mahan sighed. “Even after you die, your blood is still there, you know. The shock of him falling broke blood vessels and caused them to leak beneath the skin, plus the constriction of the rope interferes with blood flow. You’re lucky he died so quickly, it’s pretty fucking disturbing to see the ones with the blood all in their face, eyes bulging, tongue sticking out…” Mahan trailed off. There was a blood stain leaking through the sheet over the corpse’s torso. Hurriedly the doctor tossed the sheet aside, and his jaw dropped. There was a message, carved into the dead man’s chest, clearly for the police to read.

DONE BY ANTONIN ZHUKOV
PLEASE GIVE MY REGARDS TO MR. OLSEN

LeCroix could have killed the man. A quick movement with the blade, and his throat would be slashed, his blood on the pavement. That was against the rules, though, and it would frighten the girl.

“A fan?” he drawled casually. “Already. And you haven’t even seen my masterpiece yet.”

He looked him over. Not a cop. Too big, with too much automatic hardware under that coat. Not a gangster. They always shot first.

“And what, may I ask, are you hear to talk about?”

A car engine, nearby. Easy to spot on an empty street. This is how things got ugly. It was a bad spot, his back to the street, his eyes to the park. Perhaps they too were armed with conversation, and nobody knew his face.

David was ready to draw his gun if need be, but decided to try words instead of actions. He stopped just shy of 25 feet, well within talking distance, and just outside the effective range of anything but a gun.

"I'm not here to start trouble," David Curtis said calmly. "I work for a private security service...the girl's under my protection." His eyes scanned the area, going from one pair of eyes to another, "Or, rather...she's under my employer's protection." He turned to the little girl, "Sorry to be a bit sneaky, but that coin works both ways."

Dekker was glad he didn't have to resort to his sidearm, but that might change. Some other asshole had appeared, claiming he was working for a private security service. He looked familiar...

"I've gotten fed up with my job down with the PD. It seems no matter how many cops I train officer fatalities stay high. I'm tired of seeing guys I just spoke with the day before on the practice range laid out in a puddle of blood in the street 'cause some fuck-o didn't want his parking ticket. I'm here to help, to put shit bluntly..."

He shot a look in the direction of the newcomer before returning his field of vision to LeCroix...

"That going to be a problem?"

Angelique frowned, fishing the coin from her pocket.

"I don't need your protection and I don't want hers," was her petulant response. "She's not runnin a racket on me. If she wants a cut, she can try and get it from Tyler. He likes giving cuts."

The coin flipped through the air, turning end over end as it sailed in the general direction of David's voice.

"Don't follow me again." Tyler's soft growl accompanied the statement.

Angelique frowned, fishing the coin from her pocket.

"I don't need your protection and I don't want hers," was her petulant response. "She's not runnin a racket on me. If she wants a cut, she can try and get it from Tyler. He likes giving cuts."

The coin flipped through the air, turning end over end as it sailed in the general direction of David's voice.

"Don't follow me again." Tyler's soft growl accompanied the statement.

David caught the coin swiftly.

"She doesn't want a cut," he answered the child, "Trust me on that...she wants to help, actually." With that statement, David shrugged and turned on his heel to leave, "If you want our help, though, you know where to find us."

The little girl felt bad. Her frown deepened. The wolf gave a soft whine-growl, sensing the tangle of emotions that passed through her.

"Wait," she called after him, contrite. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings... It's just, like I kept telling her, I got Tyler with me. He protects me good enough... If it'll make you feel better, I'll keep the coin though." As an afterthought, she added, "Why does she wanna help me? And how?"

OOC: Bump, mostly to remind anyone who might've forgotten this thread was here.

The little girl felt bad. Her frown deepened. The wolf gave a soft whine-growl, sensing the tangle of emotions that passed through her.

"Wait," she called after him, contrite. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings... It's just, like I kept telling her, I got Tyler with me. He protects me good enough... If it'll make you feel better, I'll keep the coin though." As an afterthought, she added, "Why does she wanna help me? And how?"

David turned around and walked over to her, holding the coin in his hand. Using sleight of hand, he made it disappear, and plucked it from behind her ear. He handed it over with a slight smile.

"I'm not one to pry into another's motives, or personal lives for that matter," he answered the little girl, "But I'm guessing her maternal instincts have kicked in. This is a harsh life, ya know...maybe she doesn't want you to have the life she lived."