CS2: Chapter 2

negotiations

Frank walked forward, and slowly bowed, his eyes never leaving Vallone the whole time.

'Frank Tobiasi. Welcome to Coldstone.'

Killer's Dance

Viglio absorbed the Savanna through a pair of slim-lined glasses. The silver-rimmed spectacles were modest but professional wireframe. The eyewear tucked nicely under the newly-dyed brown/blonde hair on his head. A thumb and finger rested on a slight, brown goatee. Dressed in a polo shirt and slacks, the invisible Lio Leo paced quietly through the casino, carefully keeping in the unmonitored camera "shadows" of the casino's less-than-formidable surveillance.

He was halted in his analysis routine by the curious presence of the decidedly non-local woman. The first glance was all that was needed. Viglio's pristine memory placed the young woman's right away. Her identity was confirmed by the cross on her neck.

Maria. Viglio had a loose but longstanding association with Victor Kreg, the man who trained her--or likely wooed her--into the business. The woman was no doubt highly trained, and likely to favor the rifle. But she was a relative newcomer to the profession, which struck Viglio curiosly.

Why was she in the Savannah? It seemed doubtful she had come after his mark. Kreg was a seasoned assassin, someone Viglio might have counted a peer. But the man's weakness for the fairer sex had proven to be fatal.

If seeking revenge, "The Cross" was likely in over her head. Vigilo was tempted to look after her, for Kreg's sake. But for the time being, his personal code of honor would keep him on task. Like the master assassin that initiated him, and the sensei that forged his skill, Viglio was determined to be removed from such distraction.

Viglio had vanished from the casino floor by the time the woman made a second sweep. Though she had never met him, he felt his disguise was potentially compromised. A change of appearance would once again be in order.

His target would soon be on the move. As he carefully tracked Othello Redman, Lio Leo would leave nothing to chance.

<strong>Insurance</strong>
(Attn: Seahawk)

“I apologize. This is not how we normally do business. When your employer succeeds you will be freed.”

That voice continued to echo in his mind as he faded back into darkness. Thomas Dahl was angry, a burning furnace of rage. He knew it had been a slight mistake to hurt one of Othello's men, but this was unreasonable. And he didn't quite understand why they had him as insurance. The mission was a normal one, nothing really special, as far as Thomas Dahl was understanding. Of course, he hadn't had a chance to talk to Veretta at length, as he'd been chasing fuck nut Wellstone in his blockbuster driving style.

In the darkness a image surfaced for a moment as a gunshot echoed through his mind. Screams of anger were heard, along with more gunshots, blaring into the mind of the unconscious man as he physically winced as the pain replayed in his mind.

Janurary, 1986. Night. Robert Maxwell, NYPD Veteran. Dead. Thomas Dahl, NYPD. One shot to the leg, down on the ground. The snow fell as red painted the alleyway. Dahl cringed as he relived the dream over and over. Arriving at the Alley. Starting to get into undercover mode.

The three drug dealers. Three big guns. Three horrifying seconds of realization as fire exploded, taking life from his partner as he yanked out his Berettas'. And a moment of silence as he legs were pulled from beneath him. The pain screamed to his head as the evil three ran.

BAM. Replay, this time grusome details locked in the back of his head came back.

BAM. The blood spattered on the snow, creating a terrifying work of art.

BAM. The face of Maxwell, forever burned into his mind.

Veretta showed up a moment later, off duty FBI. Friend of Maxwell now became the friend of Dahl. And death was repaid by death three months later by the angel of death, Veretta himself.

Now the darkness began to fade as Dahl came back into the world of the living, the memories still fresh in his mind. The bonds were loosened, but there was a blade he had been threatened with. A blade that could take him down, this time for good. Slowly, he moved his hands, doing what he could to loosen them. All the while, he kept his eyes on those around the room. Whoever was here, whoever had beaten him was mere inches from death.

In his 24 years as NYPD, Dahl had his share of the shit. And this time around, he wasn't afraid to start throwing it. He stopped moving his hands, long enough to take a break and watch those around him. They didn't notice. Dahl was smart and was trained well. He once more went to work, moving his hands only slightly every thirty seconds, his mouth silently working, cursing everyone in the room and keeping his rage burning just below the surface, so when it was time, there would only be the great roar of anger.

And then there would be silence.

Insurance

The night crawled by. Carlone Veretta has spent many hours thinking about his predicament. His most satisfying conclusion came at about five a.m. after his twelfth cup of coffee. He has to see Wellstone. He would find his partner, with or without help. He picked up the phone spoke one word, Watchtower.

Carlone doesn't have to knock.

As the door opens, Veretta catches the sickly-sweet smell of Dewey's Old Spice. The room is dark, the window draped in a spash of fuschia and maroon flowers. Drab, olive carpet lies slaughtered on the floor in front of him. Perhaps it was Dewey's innate ability to make a room uncomfortable, or maybe the proprietors of Las Vegas' Fremont Street casino just had bad taste, either way, Veretta didn't like it.

Carlone nods to Dewey as he enters the room. Ignoring his remarks about the room being clean, Veretta scans the room with his eyes, quickly recognizing his former coworker.

"Jaquez! I'm glad you could make it." Mosanto looks up from his laptop with a grin.

He turns to Wellstone, who looks just as nervous as the first time they met, years ago in New York.

"Charles...you still hanging around this prick?" Veretta motions to Dewey, cocking a lopsided grin, "Let's take a walk, alone."

He flashes a glare at Dewey, along with a pointed finger. "You. Stay."

Insurance

Wellstone and Veretta settled in to a booth at The Gunslinger, the lounge nestled in the corner of the Nugget; they'd been completely silent all the way down.

They'd met at a security conference in November 2001, and kept in occasional contact ever since. They small talked for awhile about things like alma maters and the Tyson fight. But then it got serious.

"So... when did all this happen?" Wellstone asked.

"All this?"

"Yeah, this. This underworld stuff. When did you start getting chummy with the scum like Othello Redman?"

"Chummy? Underworld stuff? What kind of bullshit is Dewey and co. feeding you now? We go back a moderately good amount of time, Charles, and I like you, so I'll level: My work for one Othello Redman is 100% on the level. The question you should be asking yourself is why the sudden interest? How does an organization like your's go from terrorism and global conflicts to comparativly minor shit like the mob?"

Wellstone looked very serious as he said this, "We've got information. Bad information. There's a paper trail we've chased from Othello, and it's led to some terrible things."

Veretta could barely hold in a laugh. "So let me guess, Dewey wanted me to get Jaquez to install some sort of Carnivore program for him on Redman's systems?"

"Well, basically, yes."

This was the trigger. Veretta, this giant slab of man, laughing like somebody just took a football to the groin.

"Oh man, classic Dewey."

"So what do you think about this?" A slightly puzzled Dewey inquired.

"What do I think? I think this reaks to high heaven of bullshit. I also think it's time to get back up there. Jaquez is probably bored to tears. Let's go." He still hadn't fully recovered from the fit of laughter. He put the money on the table and headed back for the lobby elevators.

Wellstone was starting to feel like he was occupying somebody else's skin.

Insurance

Dewey sat across from Jaquez in the small, darkened meeting room, fidgeting noisily, shifting position, crossing and uncrossing his legs, letting out tiny guttural sounds, and just annyoing the massive mountain of a hacker in general.

Jaquez, in his many years of being a hired gun in the business, had become accustomed to being forced to endure these sorts of meetings in the name of perpetuating his lifestyle. But that still didn't mean he didn't feel like getting up, walking over to Dewey and grabbing him with his massive, meaty hands, forcing him to--for the love of God!--sit fucking still.

But that wasn't Jaquez's style. He preferred not to endanger his paycheck with a wanton act of violence. And watching a guy like Dewey squirm was entertaining in its own way.

As Jaquez began to type a note to himself on his laptop--he was out of buttermilk--he heard the trademark slimy click of a dry mouthed man attempting to speak. He glanced up and saw Dewey, trying to work up the courage to make some kind of small talk. Finally, he came up a remark whose success was decidedly debateable:

"So....you, uh....you're into computers?"

Insurance

They return to the room to find Jaquez stretched out on the bed and Dewey sitting at the window by the table. Sun creeps its way through a small break in the curtains diffusing through the occasional wisp of smoke from Dewey's cigarette. Charles sits down heavily at the foot of the bed pondering the last hour's conversation. Jaquez sits up with his back to the headboard as Veretta walks through the room.

Carlone was still not happy with the way Dewey was trying to manipulate him by using his friend, but he understood it was just the way Watchtower did business.

"Dewey, Dewey, Dewey..." Veretta sits in a chair across from him, "I'm a little bit disappointed with you. You usually check your sources to the bone, but I think you just took one in the shorts."

Dewey snaps at him, "What are you talking about? I assume he told you what we want, and you're gonna do it or I'm gonna have to dig deeper...and harder."

Standing quickly and reaching Dewey's chair before he can react, Carlone leans in and puts a finger within a few inches of Dewey's face.

"Listen to me you little weasel. If you think I'm here because you summoned me, then you obviously don't remember who you're dealing with. I am here on my own volition to help YOU out. You threaten me again and I'll let Othello Redman sick his dogs on you, then I'll mop up what he didn't finish. So you sit there, shut the fuck up and let me talk, because you need to hear what I have to say. We have an opportunity to help each other out AND get you the information you're looking for, so you better fuckin' pay attention, and keep your comments to yourself."

Dewey swallows nervously, leaning uncomfortably back in his chair. Veretta moves closer, speaking quieter now.

"Do you speak Japanese, Dewey?"

"...no..." Dewey responds hesitantly.

"I think you should learn."

Veretta stands back up and walks to the other side of the room. He removes a cigarette and offers one to Wellstone, who nods his head nervously, whispering "Yeah, I think I need one."

He notices Jaquez sitting with a grin on his face, enjoying watching his former employer work.

Lighting Charles' cigarette, and then his own, Carlone rests his right shoulder against the wall opposite the window and takes a slow drag off the lit ember in his hand.

Dewey mulls things over in his head for a few minutes when it hits him, "...Yakuza?"

"They're feeding you false information about Redman's organization. Your 'Scorpion' contact is an alias for one of their bloodhounds. They want you in this to take the heat off when Redman finds out. You're their scapegoat."

Veretta watches Dewey's expression of surprise change to mistrust, then to anger.

"Check it out for yourself, just be careful," Carlone looks at his watch, it's half-past ten, "I have to go. I'll call you tonight with some more information, and arrange a meeting with Charles and Jaquez. Whatever you do, for the time-being, stay out of the Savannah."

He puts his cigarette out in the ashtray by the bed, and looks toward Charles and Jaquez, "It's always good to be respected." He flashes a glare at Dewey and leaves quickly.

Walking down the hallway, Carlone retrieves his phone from his suit pocket and speaks into the receiver, "Mister Redman."

Insurance
(Attn: Seahawk)

Thomas Dahl sat, his hands moving every thirty seconds to loosen the bonds on his hands. The blood rushing to his head was nothing to the former officer turned hard line dectective. The room he was in was dank and cool and held little noise he could pick up on any scent of anything he could detect.

Essentially, he knew there were at least two men somewhere and one was armed with a very disturbing looking knife. His vision was limited to one eye, but the other was slowly getting some semblence of an image back. The room swung at an odd angle and he could see there was no one left to deal with. The room was middle sized, about the size of a living room. Dark, his own blood on the ground and smelling like a shithole past its expiration date. Not a place for Thomas Dahl. Not fucking worth his time at all.

Silently, his began to work his hands more furiously this time, now knowing there was no one in the room. If they entered, he could quickly untie his feet, fall to the ground and vomit whatever he could force up. On command. The beauty of training with the best force in the world.

Hands were free now and he pulled himself up slowly, feeling the pain from the beating he had recieved. Working steadily, the Norwegian moved his hands effortsley over the bonds. Snagging his hands onto the now untied rope, the beaten man swung down, his feet touching the floor, and the blood rushing everywhere at once, leaving Thomas Dahl to stumble around for a few minutes before he began to stretch and pull the muslces that hadn't been alive for some time. Within fifteen minutes he had walked around the room five times and checked the door. It was quiet in the building where he was and there appeared no movement outside the door. His hand moved to the door handle. Unlocked.

An eyebrow went up as he leaned to the door.

And as he always did, waited.

Negotiations
(Attn:Fett, Molinaro)

Marcello bustled up to the two men and gestured to the table. “Please sit, sit.” The two men take chairs and the club owner poured wine for them starting with Vallone. He then drew back to the shadows and watched the meeting discretely.

Anton Vallone measured Tobiasi with his eyes. “I’ll get right to the point Frank. I am here to make you an offer that is in your best interest to take.” He waits for Coldstone’s foster-Godfather to respond.

Insurance
(Attn: Seahawk)

The door to his dank cell opened and the smell of jasmine filled the air. A petite but nicely curved young Japanese woman, her frame hugged by midnight green silk entered. A tray with two covered porcelain bowls balanced on a teak tray. Even though the food was covered the smell of ginger and garlic leaked out and Dahl’s stomach reminded him that it had been a while since his last good meal.

(Attn: Laugharn, Kid Ego, Ryan Landau)

Carlone’s phone burrs twice before the sweetly cultured voice of Marcy answers. “Othello Redman’s office. How may I assist you?”

Killer’s Dance
(Attn:Maggott)

Maria made her way through the air-conditioned halls of the casino’s offices. She came to the door marked Administration and breezed her way in. The darkly paneled walls and sumptuous carpeting cost who knows how much money. The secretary sat behind a broadly curving desk and was talking in low tones into her headset. Several chairs and a couch beckoned to her and a coffee machine perked in the corner filling the air with rich aroma.

Revenge Is Sweet and Sour
(Attn:Voltes)

The shows went well last night but today did not look as bright in spite of the murderous sunshine that bled through Priest’s blinds. It threatened to broil his gin soaked brain. What to do about his new employer? What to do indeed?

Holy War
(Attn:Blunt]

Preparations needed to be made to fulfill his latest contract. A light breakfast in his belly, Virgil pulled out his cell and began the process of bringing the scales back into balance.

Cry Havoc and Let Slip the Dogs of War
(Attn:Burke,Poxy)

It was time for the cold-hearted beast to do what he did best. He sat in a rented car across from the Tiger and watched as the dawn light painted the building. It revealed every crack and crevice, like a whore the morning after. This was Paulie’s pride and joy and it would be…unfortunate if he lost it. A suitcase with everything Wesley might need waited in the Caprice’s trunk. Time to punch in.

Down and Out in Coldstone
(Attn:Flyers)

McClure looked at himself in the mirror as he was shaving. A civilian, the thought sat as well on his stomach as his Grandma's corned beef hash. No way in Hell that was gonna happen. The next sixty days he worked for himself. And work he would.

Killer's Dance

After carefully pacing through the camera "shadows" of the casino floor, Viglio had meticulously worked his way into a mechanical service room.

After climbing on top of a set of struts against the cold, concerete wall, the assassin slipped into a partially open ceiling tile. From here, it was a long, dusty crawl to a secreted position hovering over Redman's office.

Viglio arrived and poked a pinhole through the softer ceiling plates above the room. He quickly identified Othello sitting alone in his chair.

Moving slowly and silently beyond the room for a moment, Viglio peered through another self-made hole into the waiting room. Othello's secretary was speaking to a newcomer. He watched as Maria Vendril moved into view.

Had she come to take his target? Unfortunately, Lio Leo could not let that happen. He moved along the strong support beams into position over the doorway, still concealed by the sheer roofing.

With a precise mental map of both rooms, the assassin placed the barrles of two silenced pistols against the thin plates at his sides. One pointing down at the waiting room side of the door, the other just inside the opening to Othello's office. He pulled his black mask up around his mouth and nose.

He waited for "The Cross" to move. Despite his affiliation with Kreg and an instinct to protect the girl...

Viglio had an assignment. No one else could be allowed to harm his target. There was no emotion, only cold calculation.

And yet...

Insurance
{This conversation RPed between Scott and myself}

"Hello, Mr. Veretta, how are you today?" Marcy Davenport has the uncanny ability to transmit her intoxicating smile across even the most complex and secure phone systems.

"Wonderful, thank you. I was hoping to inform Mr. Redman that my partner will be unable to join us for dinner tonight, is he available?"

"That's a shame. Hold a moment please and I'll check." Seconds drip by. "Yes, sir, Mr. Redman is available. Would you like to speak with him?"

"That would be great, thank you."

"Just a moment please." Her voice is cut off quickly as she transfers the line. Carlone holds his breath slightly.

An unmistakable baritone voice comes on the line. "Veretta, this is Redman. What's happening?" Othello Redman always goes straight to the point, a quality Carlone respects greatly.

"Mr. Redman. It's good to speak with you again. I was just calling to inform you that my partner, Mr. Dahl, has had an unforeseen emergency crop up, and he won't be able to join us for dinner tonight. I hope that doesn't create a problem."

"No. No problem. Nothing too serious I hope. Anything I can do to help?"

"That's very generous of you, sir, thank you. I'll consider that. However, I have a few more pressing things to discuss with you. Is there anywhere we can talk more...securely...apart from the restaurant?"

"Certainly. I have an opening in about an hour, I can make myself available earlier if that's necessary."

"An hour is fine. It will give me time to gather some relevant information. Thank you very much, I can't imagine you'll regret it."

"I hope not. An hour it is then. Will my suite be sufficient?"

"If you're comfortable discussing business matters there, then it'll be fine with me." Veretta hopes beyond hope.

"Of course. Come to the desk at the casino and I'll buzz you up."

"Will do. Thank you, sir."

"I'll see you there." Othello drops the line, and Carlone's phone leaks unnerving silence.

Veretta is treading on thin ice now. He's certain Othello's personal lines are secure, but he's not going to take any chances. He rushes out the door to his waiting rental, pads the valet a ten, and quickly makes his way through the buzzing, lunch-hour traffic toward the Savannah. He has work to do, and Othello Redman waits for nobody.

Cry Havoc....

Paulie pushes back from the desk and rubs his eyes. The last of the girls went home about an hour ago, and Lurch is out at the bar finishing his clean-up. Not a bad night, but somehow, the place seemed a little ... lifeless last night. A lot of the regulars weren't there.

Eh, maybe a big game on last night, he thinks as he rises and exits the office. He checks his watch, then waves to Lurch. "Lock the place up, okay Big Guy? I'm gonna go home, jerk off to Kelly Ripa, and get some sleep."

Lurch nods and goes back to his work. Paulie is almost at the front door when he sees it through what's left of the front window.

The street is empty except for one car. And Paulie has been in the biz too long to think a lone car at dawn is nothing to worry about. "Sorry, Kelly, I owe you a raincheck," he mutters to himself as he walks back into the club. Lurch looks up, and the look on Paulie's face tells him the story. He reaches under the bar and pulls out a sawed-off shotgun. Paulie waves him off.

"Nah, not yet. But keep it handy, just in case." He sits down at the bar. "Gimme an OJ, and watch the door," he says calmly, and waits.

Down and Out in Coldstone

George McClure sat in his recliner, one of the few "main-stays" in his large, empty apartment. The light from the TV was all that lit the room, as George aimlessly flipped through the channels.

He threw the remote onto the floor, got up, and put on some sweatpants and a t-shirt. He walked out of the door and decided that sleep could wait.

Tonight, he'd be driving around town.

Insurance
(Attn: Seahawk)

As he hung at the door, it slowly opened. A petite but nicely curved young Japanese woman, her frame hugged by midnight green silk entered. A tray with two covered porcelain bowls balanced on a teak tray. Dahl kept one hand on the door and the other free in case this was another one of those "put you the hell out of your misery" lines. He'd always hated those. The door slowly closed behind her as she breathed in, her hands a bit shaky for a simple meal run. Dahl stepped closer to her. He figured she hadn't expected to find him walking on the right side of the room.

She was beautiful, someone he would seek more with, start a conversation with, and flirt like no other with. That was before. Before he was a prisoner with boys and knives and whatever hell else they could come up with. The food did beckon to him and it nearly broke him. He was weak, one eye out of commision and muscles that screamed at him. He figured they hadn't killed him yet, there was a reason.

Slowly, his fingers ran over the tops of her arms and down to the tray as he slowly slipped it out of her hands and onto the table next to the wall. Neither had said a word and she finially turned to look him in the eye. It was a sight to see. Every curve, every inch of her made him want to just give up trying and lay down with her and die right now.

But this was Thomas Dahl, prisoner. He had Veretta to concern himself with. Othello was on the periphary for the moment as well. And this young thing beckoned to him. Why Fate was fucking with him was beyond him. He tired of it, but the scenery offered some respite. He smiled grimly, taking one of the bowls, with spoon. Dahl slowly took his left hand and stroked the young ladies mouth, slowly prying it open as she stood as still as a doornail. He moved the spoon, full of soup to her mouth, depositing it and stroking it close once more. She swallowed.

And Dahl waited. Moments passed. If she was here on a assigned mission, they might worry where she was. If she was on an errand of mercy, they couldn't care less. She stood still, eyes blinking as she looked to him still, neither having spoken during this intimate exchange.

He traded the bowls and did the same routine again, this time detecting a tremble as he moved his hands over her delicate skin. And they still stood in silence as he waited.

Ten minutes passed. Dahl positioned the bowl back on the table. He leaned forward and kissed her on the forhead. Thomas then turned to the table, slid onto it, took a bowl in his hands and began to slowly eat, watching the girl as she remained.

Holy War

Virgil takes out his cellphone and rapidly dials the number Othello had given him. Marcy picked up the line.

"Yes, Virgil speaking. Could you please tell Mr Redman that I won't be able to meet him at lunch? I just had a lead on the case he assigned me to, and I want to follow it right now, and that means going back to Coldstone."

"Of course, Mr Abrizza, he will be told without fault. Anything else I can do for you?"

"Yes, I'm gonna be catching a plane back, I'm leaving my car here. Could you get it secured? Oh, and also tell Mr Redman I'll contact him again as soon as I have made progress. You'll be a sweetheart."

"Most certainly. Have a nice day".

Virgil hangs up, collects his suitcase in which now lies the tools he had requested from Othello, and heads downstairs. Exiting the casino through the front door, he catches a whiff of Vegas' morning sun. He breathes deeply. He hails a taxicab from the endless stream passing in front of the establishment.

"To the airport.", he says to the driver as he slumps in the seat. The drive from the Savannah to Vegas' airport is a short one, especially with the fluid morning traffic and Virgil soon finds himself standing in line at the counter. He purchases a ticket to Coldstone and heads for the waiting room, having near one hour to kill before departure. He decides to call his girlfriend to see if she's fine, but only finds the answering machine.

"Hey babe, it's me. Just wanted to see if you were okay. I'm heading out to Coldstone for businnes, the usual stuff. I'll probably be back in a couple of days. I'll call you soon as I set foot in LA and we'll fix us a nice romantic evening. Love you. Bye."

He pulls out the folder and studies his files again. The picture, even though of bad quality, reveals the crude, brute-like features of Robert Alvarez, the man Virgil has to find. He taps on the photog with one finger. "You're mine.", he says softly, smiling at the sight of the face he's about to wipe off the earth. The attendant calls out for his flight and Virgil stands up, heading for the boarding gate.

Cry Havoc

As dawn crept over the horizon, Wesley calmly surveyed his surroundings from the roof of the Tiger. As first steps go, this was a bit on the childish side, mayhem for the sake of mayhem...

He'd had no trouble slipping past any guards or onlookers; no one noticed the nondescript monster in a black hooded sweatshirt with black cargo pants. Quietly, Wesley used his miniature grappling hook to bring down the fire escape... a fire escape that went all the way to the roof. When he got to the roof, the monster quickly bypassed the soft alarms: the hidden piano wires, the deadfalls, the foot level strings with tinkling bells. Strictly amateur hour. The motion sensors took longer but Wesley was patient.

Soon he began his work. One pound of Sentex here. Two pounds there. Another pound here. After he had planted his wares in ten different locations, he strode quietly to the edge of the roof, the detonator in his hand. The car he had been given was lonesome, parked by itself on a deserted street. Was that enough of a signal? The venal goings on of the club had ended and dawn was creeping over the horizon. Time to send a message.

------

Wesley (features unrecognizable under his hood) calmly walked across the street to his car, feeling the eyes watching him. When he had reached an appropriate distance, he turned and faced the Tiger. And the monster waved goodbye...

'Go on.'

Insurance/Killer’s Dance
(Attn: Logan, Kid Ego)

Othello pushed back in his chair and looked at the only man he could trust. “Well Tima things are certainly getting deep in here.”

“Yessir.” The bodyguard replied with only a trace of the Balkans in his speech.

“I want you to find out what’s up with this letter and I want a full report on this girl and her husband by tomorrow.” He stood up and leaned on his cane. “I’m going to go see what Veretta wants. I think I can make it upstairs without someone slitting my throat. You go take care of that report.”

Barkov nods crisply as he watches Othello place a hand on one of the books on the case lining the far wall. A door opens revealing a hidden one-man elevator. The casino’s last manager liked his gadgets, one of the things that put the place in the red so deeply. Othello’s guard went out the door and headed to his own office down the hall.

The elevator opened on the suite and the ex-gangster walked to his desk up here. When he saw the throwing star growing out of the wedding picture that he kept there, his breath caught in his throat. His right hand went for a gun that was no longer there.

Insurance
(Attn: Seahawk)

The young lady watched him eat and let a slight smile play on her crimson lips, such kissable lips they were. She watched the hungry man devour the food with his mouth and her with his eyes.

“I am most glad that you were able to free yourself. I loosened your bonds while you were unconscious to make you more comfortable. What they did to you was unconscionable.” Here English was flawless and had a touch of the Oxford about it. “You can call me Miko.”

When he had finished the glorious repast before him she cleared the dishes. Coming around behind him she proceeded to message the knots out of his flesh. At first it was agonizing but rapidly became intensely pleasurable. “They have given me to you to pass the time while we wait for your employers to respond. We are not the animals that you are used to dealing with.” She undid several of the buttons holding her silk dress closed. “This time can be very pleasuarable.”

Holy War
(Attn: Blunt)

Virgil’s plane lands on time, one of the signs of the Apocalypse he was sure. None of his bags even got lost. He had this guy’s last known address in town and a contractor he was known to do work for. It turns out that Alvarez also did some leg breaking for “Big Al” on occasion. It was handy to have someone who could speak the language when leaning on Coldstone’s growing Hispanic population. He took in a deep lungful of the city air and coughed it back out. Despite being used to the smog back in LA, the air here seemed thicker, more treacherous. That was probably just the old scars talking. He wanted nothing more than to take care of business and rush back to his lady’s waiting arms.

Insurance
(Attn: Laugharn, Ego, Ryan Landau)

The hacker deluxe is checking out some things on his computer when he sees a mail come across Veretta's box. He continued monitoring the man's account long after they parted ways. It contained an MPEG file which showed Dahl hanging upside down in a featureless room. He looked mostly unharmed apart from a black eye and a bloodied nose. The text attached read:

Mr. Verreta,

Consider this an insurance policy. Complete your assigned duties and we will let you man go unharmed.

The note was unsigned.

Holy War

Virgil's first move is to go to the Avis booth and rent a car. He pays for two days advance, with possibility of keeping the car longer if need be and is handed the keys to a nice Lincoln. He also asks for the adress of a good, not too expensive hotel that the clerk is more than happy to provide him. Virgil slides behind the wheel and takes one look at the piece of paper on which his target's last know adress is written. He memorizes it and start the engine, pulling into traffic.

He arrives in town moments later, quickly finding his marks again, despite not having been in town for the longest of time. He easily makes his way to his destination and brings the vehicle to a halt in front of a rather crummy-looking building. He steps out of the car and briefly inspects it. Five stories tall, housing a myriads of small flats, the building is barely a shadow of his former self, now probably housing more squatters than legal inhabitants. Virgil strides towards the front door and enters. He looks for "Robert Alvarez" on the mail boxes and, sure enough, there it is. Third floor, apartment 35B. He heads for the stairs.

Insurance/Killer’s Dance

Once clear, Viglio crawled into the elevator shaft, carefully working his way through the skeletal structure of the hotel to wherever the box had whisked Othello.

Monitoring the restricted room through a thin fiber-optic camera lens, Viglio watched as Redman reacted to the startling discovery.

Insurance

Veretta spent the remnants of his hour scouring through the documents in his briefcase, gathering what information he needed. He knew that Othello was as untrusting as himself, but Redman was also a businessman who knew when he was being played. He needed to hear what Veretta had to say, and he would not be disappointed.

Carlone made his way to the casino security desk. "I'm here to see Mr. Redman, I have an appointment."

"I'll see you up, the elevator's right over here," the guard said, pointing to a secure elevator around the corner.

He activated the elevator with a key from his pocket. The doors opened. No buttons were visible.

"Thanks." Veretta entered the elevator and the doors closed. He took notice of the lack of concern for Othello's personal security on the part of his own guards.

A few seconds later, the elevator doors opened and the guard extended his right hand and watched as Carlone stepped out. Remaining in the elevator the guard motioned to the door ahead and then left Veretta to his own.

"Hmm...I'm glad he's expecting me."

Carlone Veretta, unknowing to what Redman has just discovered in his private room, knocks on the door and waits...

Insurance
(Attn: Seahawk)

“I am most glad that you were able to free yourself. I loosened your bonds while you were unconscious to make you more comfortable. What they did to you was unconscionable. You can call me Miko.”

She began to work on his shoulders and at first the pain was incredible, but slowly it became quite relaxing to the beaten man as Dahl relaxed a bit. Enough to enjoy what the young lady was doing for him.

“They have given me to you to pass the time while we wait for your employers to respond. We are not the animals that you are used to dealing with. This time can be very pleasuarable.”

Thomas Dahl felt her continue to work, but also heard the snap of her dress buttons. He knew what was coming. As his muscles began to loosen, his body began to feel energy returning to his once tired body. Her hands continued to work as her body moved closer to his. His eyes closed.

The body of Rebecca Stevens suddenly flashed into his mind. Case Number 3223A-C. March 23rd, 1989. 10:00pm. Times Square.

She had been raped. Held down and given the treatment no one deserved. Stevens had been on Dahl's docket for months. She had recently been seen with several smaller Mafiosa groups as a lowly running girl. And somewhere along the line, she had crossed over to the bigger fish, most notably into Thomas's area of care. She was going to defect. A meeting had been set. 7:30 at the Milford Plaza Hotel. She hadn't arrived. Her body was discovered later that night by Dahl. There was nothing he could do for her. With the help of friends, he found the money to bury her next to his father.

Truth was, he had known Stevens for some time. She had been his contact all over the city since he started work in the NYPD. And she had died crossing to the side of hope.

As Dahl stood and moved to the center of the room, pulling himself away from the young lady, he coughed, his eyes holding back the floodgates of tears. First it had been Maxwell, then the best thing he'd ever had. He made a silent pledge as he stood in the dank room. He would come out of this alive. He turned to the young lady in the room with him and bowed respectfully and moved into a darkned corner of the room.

He would not surrender. He had watched too many die for his cause to allow them to die for nothing. Sitting down, his scrunched his knees up and put his head on his knees. He needed to conserve what energy he had.

For he was an unpredictable cop, in a very unpredictable place.

Cry Havoc....

"Ah fuck it, this is stupid," Paulie mutters as he downs his orange juice. "Lurch, keep your eyes open. I'm gonna go have a talk with the Mickey Spillane wannabe outside."

Paulie gets up and walks out the front door, heading for the parked car.

Holy War
(Attn: Blunt)

The stairwell reeks of booze and stale urine. The stairs protest even under Virgil’s light tread. He is soon at the door to Mr. Alvarez’s apartment. No sound comes from inside and not even sunlight trickles from underneath the darkened door.

Insurance
(Attn: Seahawk)

Miko glances at the tired looking blond man with a puzzled expression. She fastens her dress, gathers the plates and leaves, the door clicking shut behind her.

A few moments later a young looking Japanese man in a crisp, well-tailored suit enters the chamber. A slight smile does nothing to lighten his features. “You are not enjoying our hospitality Mr. Dahl? Perhaps you prefer boys? If that is the case then we can arrange that. I do not wish your stay here to be any less pleasant than it needs to be.”

Cry Havoc
(Attn: Poxy, Burke, Rath)

Paulie barely made it out of the door when the explosives went off. Wesley had set them to maximize the destruction of the Tiger itself with an eye to keeping the adjacent buildings intact. He didn’t want to muddy up the message he was sending with any collateral damage. The strip club collapsed in on itself surely killing all who remained in the building. The rush of air knocked Paulie to the ground and Wesley watched the mayhem with cool detachment.

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

Pantuso sat in his office staring at a blank sheet of paper and waited for the words to come. Inspiration was a fickle mistress. Especially when the coffee and BC powder hadn’t yet taken the edge off of his hangover from last night. It was then when his Police scanner started screaming about “Tony’s Tiger” being blown up. Looks like the next page of his book would have to wait.

Negotiations
(Attn:Fett, Molinaro)

The words were barely out of Frank’s mouth when the squeal of tires assaulted everyone’s ears. This was quickly followed by the chatter of sub-machinegun fire. The windows and doors gave in under the hail of bullets. “Big Al” caught a round in the chest, as did a couple of the boys standing near the door. “Guy” Marlioni dove for cover and waited for the shooting to subside. The men meeting at the table likewise took shelter but weren’t in as much danger being further back in the restaurant.

CRY HAVOC....

Paulie has an odd moment of detachment as he watches the pavement slowly rise up towards him. There's a Budweiser bottle cap that got embedded into the asphalt, and for a second, it's almost like a little face saying hello.

Then the pavement says hello in a big way as Paulie slams into it, a wave of heat rushing over him. He's dazed and his ears are ringing, but he's been through enough shit to know exactly what just happened.

"SON OF A FUCKING BITCH!" he shouts over the roar of the collapsing Tiger, rolling over and drawing his twin 45s. Struggling to his feet, he ducks into a nearby alley for cover and scopes out the street.

Anybody gets in that car is gonna get a real good talking-to.

Insurance (The first part of an IM Session between Ego and I.)
(Attn: Ego, Logan)

Othello is startled by the knock on his door. He checked the display on his desk, which gave him a camera shot of Veretta waiting outside and breathed a sigh of relief. A buzzer sounded when he pressed a concealed button and Veretta heard a lock click on the door.

Veretta opened the door cautiously, and stepped inside the plush suite.

The opened door revealed a central sunken living area with a state of the art entertainment center. Across the pit was a massive oak desk behind which stood a concerned looking Redman.

Nodding to the man, Veretta noticed the look on his face. "Sir, is everything alright?"

Othello spun the picture around revealing the small black throwing star embedded in the 8x10 picture of he and Foxy. "No."

Veretta's face became serious as he quickly surveyed the room. "Are you sure this isn't bad time? Should we go someplace else?"

The casino head shrugged his massive shoulders. "Well since you’re my new head of security, you tell me."

A crisp nod. "Sir, I don't think this is a very secure place for you to be. And that confirms some of the things that I've found out and wanted to discuss with you."

"Well then let's move. We can take my car, if you think it's OK."

"That's fine with me. We can talk on the way. Do you need a gun?"

Othello shook his head once. "I haven't carried in five years and don't intend to start now."

"I can respect that. Shall we go?" Veretta waits for Redman to move.

"Let's." He walks over to the wall and opens the panel revealing an elevator door. He places his hand against a recessed panel and the door slides open. The get in the box that was built for no more than four people and ride smoothly to the garage level.

Insurance

Like a silent spider, Viglio tracked the pair of gentlemen from overhead as they prepared to depart. By the time they entered the elevator box, the stealthy assassin had already worked his way back through the in-between level of the ceiling, out into the shaft and on top of the box.

Motionless, an undetected third party had joined Othello and Veretta in their descent into the parking garage.

Cry Havoc...

McClure pulled around the corner, and came to a screeching halt as the street was enveloped in dust and smoke. McClure pulled the car over to the side of the road as best he could amidst the dusty chaos, grabbed his gun from underneath the seat, and went to find out what the hell was going on.

Negotiations

Frank immediately fell to the floor, pulling a table on its side and drawing his 9mm. As he turned, he carefully positioned the table to shield him.

Holy War

Standing arms crossed in front of the door, Virgil ponders his options. The guy is obviously not in here, could even be that, just like Alice, he doesn't live here anymore. Virgil decides to take a look inside. Not wanting to draw attention, he takes a lockpick out of his suitcase and slowly works the lock open. Silently entering the apartment, he latches the door shut behind him, in case the guy was to suddenly return.

He searches the small, dirty apartment. A framed picture of Alvarez holding the girl of the Savannah gives him confirmation, if he needed it, that he's in the right place. Not much other than that. It's pretty obvious the guy doesn't use this place for much more than somewhere to sleep. Nevertheless, there's still a chance he might drop by, and Virgil decides to take that chance. He sits on the messy bed and starts waiting.

Insurance
(This post is the second part to an RP conversation between Scott and I)

Waiting in the garage is a black 1998 Jeep Cherokee. Othello disables the alarm and gets in the driver's side. Veretta joins him in the vehicle, entering on the passenger side. He sets his briefcase on the floorboard and unlocks it for easy access.

Veretta gets straight to the point. "I have to inform you of some disturbing circumstances that have cropped up as of late, and I ask that you just hear me out on this."

Othello leaves the garage and pulls out onto the strip. "Go ahead."

"Are you familiar with Miyamoto Takeshi?"

"Of course. He made an offer on my holdings." Othello responds questioningly.

Veretta takes a slow breath and begins. "And you turned him down, which was exactly what he wanted you to do. Takeshi is a ranking member of the Yakuza. They are making move on your enterprises. What Takeshi didn't inform you of, is that he met with me two nights ago about sabotaging your computer systems to create several backdoors so he can flow information and money out.

"Takeshi is also feeding false information into another agency, an information warehouse called Watchtower. They have been investigating you and your holdings over the past several weeks, and apparently they believe that you are a front for some sort of terrorist cell." Veretta chuckles lightly at the last part.

"The Yakuza feel they can bully me into submission by holding Dahl. I can't let that happen. He may be annoying sometimes, but I've known him for over 16 years, and consider him a loyal friend.

"Watchtower propositioned me last night. They waned the exact same thing that the Japanese did. I informed them that they were being manhandled by the Yakuza, and they are checking their sources now. They will find out I'm right, and they'll want revenge. See, the Yakuza is using them as a scapegoat. They believe that when you found out about the intrusion into your networks, you would lay the blame solely on Watchtower, thus leaving the Yakuza clear to move in on your territory.

"I have a plan which will require your direct involvement. We need to set up false backdoors in your systems, where you control what information flows in and out, letting the Yakuza think they have everything they want. We manipulate them from the inside, and then destroy them." Carlone finishes, waiting for an unpredicted response.

"Hmmmm. That's a lot to swallow." Othello continues to drive slowly up the strip, lights playing over the Jeep's windshield. "How much of my history do you know about?"

Veretta raises and eyebrow. "Very little, I'm afraid. Apparently you've covered your tracks well."

"Let's put it this way. I am managing the hotels and casinos for some Sicillian interests back east. We had a run in with the Triad a few years ago, and I have a feeling that this whole thing is at least in part motivated by revenge."

"That doesn't surprise me. They aren't known to drop a grudge easily."

"Apparently I've underestimated them. I have gotten complacent, but they have also underestimated me and you, apparently. I like your plan. We'll continue as though I know nothing about it. You'll set up the back doors." Menace fills Othello's voice. "Apparently they also want me either scared, dead, or both. I, of course, have a problem with that."

"I hadn't counted on them actually trying for your life. That's something we'll have to work out a plan for, but you have my full support when it comes to protection. We won't let them win."

"That sounds like a good plan. What's up with Dahl?"

"I was wondering if there was anything you could do to assist with his rescue."

"My resources are your resources. Any idea who took him?"

"I received a phone call just a half an hour after I'd seen him last. The voice was asian. I know it was the Yakuza. I'm assuming he's still in Las Vegas. We might need to question some of their agents here."

"Why would they want him? I mean I know they generally don't trust any non-asians that work for them, but do you think you were compromised somehow?"

"It's probable they are just trying to make me do what they want, but to be sure, I'm running investigations into my own people as we speak. Any contacts outside of me personally, are getting checked. I have confidence in the thoroughness of my own agents."

"Good. Well..." Othello doesn't have time to finish the sentence as a black van runs into the intersection and slams on the brakes cutting him off. He stops suddenly letting out a stream of curses.

The side door on the van slides open and three men in all black, their faces covered with balaclavas, come out with Uzi's blazing. The windshield stars but holds. He slams the shifter into reverse and floors the accelerator but has to stop as another vehicle, a white Suburban, cuts off rear escape. The sidewalks on either side are filled woth people and parallel parked cars block any escape that way. It's a trap.

Insurance

Just as the intersection ambush begins, a third vehicle barrels onto the scene. A silver/gray Audi screeches around the corner and into the fray.

The driver’s side door pops quickly open, and a shadowy figure rolls out. The Audi careens onward into the collection of cars, smashing squarely into the white suburban, knocking it back several yards. The hasty collision planned only to occupy the assailants inside, while the driver springs to his feet…

Leo Lio is a mesmerizing blur--arrayed in a jet black jumpsuit, with a tight collar pulled up high around his nose and mouth. Firmly held in his both palms are a handful of silver throwing darts. Only the faintest rustle is heard as he is immediately in the center of the chaos.

Like a panther, Viglio cautiously comes down on the hood of the Jeep, facing forward in lean stride. A few sharp movements, the flickering of silver flashes follow. The attacking gunmen aren’t spared an opportunity to fire. With economic use of the metal flechettes, Viglio severs each of them across essential arteries.

Following the last of the three darts, the clank of a thrown metal canister resounds of the inside of the van as one of the remaining occupants slides the door closed again. Viglio scurries to the top of the Jeep, bounding over the head of Othello and Veretta as they move to react to the situation. Othello catches a brief glimpse of the man’s sharp eyes as he passes. Smoke begins to billow out from the inside of the black van.

And as instantly as he arrived, the assassin once again disappears from the view of the two would-be targets.

Holy War
(Attn: Blunt)

Virgil hears the jingle of keys and voices talking. The door opens but the light stay’s out. “This whole thing is crazy.” Comes a voice with a definite salsa flavor. “I get a call from one of Big Al’s hombres sayin’ that someone just lit up the meeting he was at and that I gotta go help look for whoever did it. Then I get another call from Lucita that El Tigre is blown up. This whole town is muy loco.”

Another, deeper, voice comes from the doorway. “Vaminos hermano. Arriba y consiga su pistola.”

Negotiations
(Attn:Fett, Molinaro)

The car that was the source of the drive-by squeals off into the distance. Some of the gangsters still standing near the front rush out to attempt pursuit of the burgundy Town Car.

Vallone stands and sweeps the dust from his expensive suit. Looking at Frank he almost spits the words out. “You see! This would not happen if Roman hadn’t gotten himself put in Granite Hill. You need a real Capo here. That’s my offer Frank. I will be your new boss and Roman can rot in the prison of his own making. Are you with me?”

Cry Havoc…
(Attn: Poxy, Burke, Flyers)

Dust fills the streets as the last of the “Tiger” settles to the ground. Paulie has taken up refuge in a nearby alley and waits to fire at the first movement made towards the car. McClure tries in vain to track any possible source of the destruction with his own weapon. And where has the enigmatic Wesley secreted himself?