Likely Lads (IC) [Closed]

[Walabam]

"Calm the fuck down. It's over," thought Rebecca while she took a glance at her fellow squad mates.

"You and I shall speak one-to-one, sí? Stop by my place for a drink sometime."

Rebecca nodded at Celestia's suggestion. She, too, thought that she could use someone's shoulder to cry on - certainly no other man could do that. "Si, Celestia. I will find time to do so." Rebecca smiled as she commented, pretending nothing had happened earlier on. As a detective in the Goon Squad, her breakdown was very unnecessary. It only let the others think of her as a weakling. With an ego as high as the Empire State Building, she couldn't let herself be looked down on.

Having calmed down, she slouched back in her armchair, looking lazily at the others. She pulled out a cigarette from her left breast pocket, then reaching for her box of matchsticks in the right. She struck the matchsticks alight, watching the flame for a second or two before she lit her cigarette with it. The flame on the matchstick was eventually extinguished with a swing of her hand. Her preference for matchsticks over lighters was easy for her own to comprehend, but confused others. Rebecca secretly kept a homemade "matchstick gun" in her right breast pocket, which she used frequently when torturing, or, to put it in nicer terms, interrogating suspects.

Just as Rebecca lit her cigarette, Teddy, the pub's owner, had opened the door, beckoning for Mack to answer the call, phone in his hand. It’s Sergeant Estevez. He says there’s something he needs to tell you,” he said. Mack stood up and took the phone without asking questions. He then thanked Teddy, before he shut the door on the rowdy crowd in the main bar. Rebecca watched as Mack took the call. She dared not move a muscle, neither did she dare speak a word. She dumped the cigarette into the ash tray.

"Five spics just got dropped on High Street,"

Great.

"six blocks from Pope Tower."

Pope Tower. Crap.

Pope Tower, the property of Henry Pope, hence the name. Rebecca hated the guts of that man. She hated him for allegedly poisoning her little sister, Alida, to death. She hated him for ruining the family business. Last but not least, she hated him for probably having orchestrated the kidnapping of her own. Rebecca wanted to charge into his office, hold a gun to his head, make him kneel and confess his crimes. With the backing of Old Man Cuypers, though, she knew that if she did that, she would either end up dead in the gutters the next day, or be kidnapped and tortured again - just like how she was a decade ago. Given her involvement with the Goon Squad now, though, she started to find that desire much more possible.

Rebecca put her thoughts aside and allowed the words of Mack to continue flowing into her ear canals.

"Green Cobras Slaughter Children With Impunity in Heart of New Leiden." No, Rebecca wasn't going to let that happen, let alone Mack nor the other Goon Sqaud members. "Hell yeah," exclaimed Rebecca as Mack came up with a new imaginative headline; "Police Shootout Slays Killers Within Hours of Family's Murder." She was ready as hell to gun those sons of bitches down. She couldn't wait to dash through the door and onto her motorcycle.

Rebecca waited for the magical words to appear: "let's go," and appear they did. Rebecca picked up her phone she had left on the table, as anxious as a girl going on her first date to charge out the door. It was at this moment that Mack held her by the shoulder, as if stomping on the brakes of a speeding car. Rebecca turned to look at Mack. "You'll ride with me for tonight," ordered Mack. Rebecca thought it was a good idea for someone to be teaching her the ropes. After all, she was just a rookie unfamiliar with the way the Goon Squad worked, and she knew her reckless attitude would probably fuck her up proper. "Yes, sir," replied Rebecca out of habit, before uttering, "I mean, yes, Mack."

The squad exited the bar promptly, getting into their respective cars. The patrol cars the PTPD was using paled in comparison to the cars the lads were driving. Mack himself drove a Cadillac Eldorado two-door hardtop sedan, which Rebecca couldn't quite figure out its make and model. "In you go," told Mack to Rebecca. She nodded, sprinting towards the passenger door and tried opening it like she would on a normal patrol car. The door was heavy as hell. Rebecca struggled to open the door initially, but having realized the weight of the door, she applied more strength and eventually got her ass on the seat cushion.

With no head rests installed onto the seats, the G-Force coming from Mack's acceleration had pulled her head backwards. Mack probably had a strong neck driving this car everyday. Rebecca kept quiet throughout the journey, not wanting to break her silence in such a tense situation, and especially when Mack was speeding through the evening traffic at such high speeds. It was only until Mack spoke that she started to open her mouth.

"This is your first big case as a detective. I want you to stick close to me and do what I say. If I tell you to follow someone else, I want you to stick close to them and do what they say."

"Yes, I will, Mack. No worries."

The reputation of listening to orders did not belong to Rebecca, given her substantial records of insubordination. Despite this fact, however, Rebecca feared Mack very much, given his physique and his reputation.

"This is a Green Cobras killing. It will be ugly, and we will have to get ugly before the night is over. Are you ready?"

Rebecca tied her hair into a ponytail, removed all unnecessary jewelry and tightened her belt. Removing her firearm, a Beretta 92FS pistol, she then turned her gaze over to Mack.

"Always ready, sir. Mack."

[Nude East Ireland]

Costello took his jacket off of his arm rest, folding it over his left arm as he approached the exit. "We'll take my car," he said to Felipe, searching through his jacket pocket for the keys. He had a black 2007 Saturn Aura, which was unremarkable in every way except for the submachine gun hidden in a secret compartment. He never told anyone about it; it was for emergencies only. He unlocked the door manually with his key, before hitting the button that unlocked the passenger-side door for Felipe. He tossed his jacket into the back seat as he slid into the driver's side and pulled the door shut.

He pulled down the strap and buckled himself in, before turning the key and waiting for the engine to come to life. Without any warning, there was a sound from his car radio.

Tiens, voilà du boudin, voilà du boudin, voilà du bo-

Alan hit a button that turned the CD off. There was some local, Spanish-language talk radio blaring through his car. He glanced at Felipe briefly as he backed the car out of its parking spot. It wasn't until he pulled out into the street that he lowered his sun visor, which had blue and red police lights on the side opposite the mirror. He flicked the lights on, clearing a path for his own vehicle.

As he sped down the street, Alan did not bother to glance at his partner again. He gritted his teeth. "Radio's your's," he said quietly.

[Aurinsula]

Five spics? Coño, man, that's me you're talking about!

But Felipe didn't say anything. He never did. He gave an affirmative nod to Mack and started for the door, pausing only to give the little shift with his shoulder that confirmed his gun - a Smith & Wesson Model 10, chambered for .38 special - was still safely under the crook of his shoulder. He had never actually shot it at anybody in the line of duty; he'd only ever shot to warn.

He passed his beautiful motorcycle as he left. This bar was one of the only seven locations - the others being the police station, his house, his mother's house, Artemisa, a nice restaurant in Eindhoven, and, of course, the hacienda - where he dared park out of eyesight for any length of time. His helmet was still safely in the lock. He didn't buy it for speed, though its six-gear engine was comfortable as high as 120, and he didn't buy it for reliability, though when it did need maintenance it was simple enough to do it himself. No, he bought it for beauty, which it had in spades; and he bought it for its rarity, being the only one anywhere on the island. He was its fourth owner. It was matte red, and it had no front fairing or windshield - it was a pure cafe racer.

Felipe slid into his partner's car, and had no thoughts whatsoever about the CD. When the radio came to Spanish, he - triggered by the sound of his native tongue - replied to it in kind that he didn't like this station and that the DJ was an asshole. He elected, ultimately, to simply click the radio off and ride quietly.

After about 10 seconds of quiet, he took out his gun and checked it to make sure it was all in order. Then he gave the cylinder a spin - and you're not supposed to do that, but it looks cool and you feel cool doing it - before snapping it back into place with a flick of the wrist, and then a counter-flick to make sure that it was all ready. Then he tucked it back away again.

"Don't worry, man," he said, "I got your back if there's trouble. I mean, what's more likely is that you'll need to get mine, but I've got you anyway. Not that I'm not good at keeping my head down and all - world champion, man - but we gotta be ready for anything, che?"

He fought valiantly against the tyranny of silence.

[Rudaslavia]

To Celestia, the thought of conducting actual police work was exhilarating. The Goon Squad's corruption was a maddening force that could defile and warp the unwary. Mack was selective in regards to the true pursuit of law enforcement. At times, he worked with criminals. At others, he worked against them. His contradictory philosophies clawed at Celestia's nerves. Sure, Mack tended to stray away from harming the innocent. But the fact remained that he was willing to cooperate with gangs for profit. He was no better than a common thug.

Criminals were, by Celestia's definition, literally subhuman. In succumbing to their animalistic urges of greed and self-indulgence, they renounced their high-born place in nature's hierarchy. They were screeching apes; dirty, violent, and uncivilized in every way. de Jaager took a perverse pleasure in hunting them.

She followed Ronnie towards the Dodge with her briefcase, securing her detective's badge on her belt as she climbed into the passenger's seat. Given her current attire, she prayed the Squad would not be forced to drudge through rough terrain. She had traversed uneven grounds in heels before...but it sure as hell wasn't a pleasurable experience. Maintaining a sense of fashion was not always the most practical choice.

Ronnie thundered through the streets as if possessed by an unseen demon of rage. As he did so, Celestia calmly probed her Glock 22 with a grin. "You look dazzling, mi amor." she whispered to the pistol, humorously blowing it a kiss.

"Those fucking hoods!" Ronnie boomed. "No one wants to fucking burn down High Street and put an end to those cunts! I hope Mack realizes that enough is enough!"

Yeah fucking right. As long as Mack could continue squeezing pennies and dimes out of the Green Cobras' assholes, the gang would remain intact. After the perpetrators of the family murders were taken care of, everything would go back to normal. The criminals would continue hiring the Goon Squad to do their dirty work. It was such a frustrating cycle.

But Celestia didn't voice her direct thoughts to her partner. "Relax." she muttered bluntly, holstering her Glock. "They'll be dead by sunrise." Scanning over the weaponry throughout the vehicle, she chuckled. "Shit, we've got enough firepower to take down a small country, eh? Those hijos de puta will not know what hit 'em. We will show them the ways of civilization."

Her mind was already consumed by fantasies of spilling the killers' blood. While Ronnie expressed deep-rooted anger, Celestia expressed merry excitement. When they apprehended those sick fucks...de Jaager would have the bastards experience true Hell.

"Come now, Ronnie!" she said to Viljoen, flashing a bright smile towards him. "Every drive needs a soundtrack! Turn on the fucking radio!"

[Reverend Norv]

Rebecca put her hair in a ponytail. Rebecca stuffed her jewelry in her pockets. Rebecca cinched up her belt and pulled her piece. Rebecca gave Mack what was presumably supposed to be a steely gaze, and said: "Always ready, sir." She paused for a heartbeat. "Mack."

Liam Mackenzie could have laughed aloud. Or he could have said something proud and paternal. But he knew that either of those options would humiliate the young woman beside him. And as broken as Rebecca was, she still deserved better than that.

So Mack just nodded, and said: "Good." He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Ronnie's Charger hugging the Caddy's rear bumper. Lights blurred by in the dark. Matt kept his eyes on the road, and waited to see what the gods of blood would bring him today.

* * *

There. Police tape stretched across High Street, cordoning it off just south of Lincoln. There. Patrol Crown Vics parked around the perimeter, half a dozen of them, roof lights going a mile a minute. There. A bunch of bluesuits clustered around the mouth of an alley, back behind the police tape.

The light was funny. Sunset shining to the west, streetlights casting a dim yellow glow, patrol car lights pulsing blue and red, shadows lurking like oil spills in the places where no light reached. Mack thought: chiaroscuro, and remembered Andrea Cuypers' body in the morgue, and the darkness in the warehouse where he had found Rebecca.

The Cadillac pulled up to the line of police tape. Mack hit his horn. One of the unis jumped, and put his hand on his holster, and then recognized the Caddy. He lifted up the tape, and Mack drove underneath.

The bluesuit was a young guy, about Rebecca's age, with Carib cheekbones. The brass nametag on his shirtfront said: "Cruz." Mack didn't know him, which meant that Cruz had to be local, a Third Precinct guy.

Cruz knew who Mack was. Cruz said: "Lieutenant."

Mack said: "The rest of my team is right behind me. You let them in too, lad."

"Sure, L.T."

"Anything else I should know?"

"Detective Larsen caught the case. We've been corralling eyewits. The scene's over there." Cruz jerked a thumb at the mouth of the alley. "It's ugly."

"Aye," Mack said. "Thanks."

Mack drove over to an empty stretch of road and parked the Caddy. Mack turned the Kojak light off and put it back in the glove compartment. Mack got out, and put his Panama hat on, and stretched his legs, and watched as the rest of the Goon Squad parked their cars.

It was hot and swamp-bottom muggy. Mack smelled unwashed cops and fecal matter. Mack pulled a pewter hip flask and took a nip of whiskey in the middle of the crime scene.

"Hey!"

Ah, that did it.

"Hey!" There's Jim Larsen: tall, handsome, red-faced, ill-fitting but expensive suit, sunglasses worn up on his head even at six-thirty in the evening. "Hey, Mack, what the fuck do you think you're doing? This is a crime scene!"

"Aye," Mack agreed. He took another sip of whiskey, just to rile Larsen.

"So if you're not on duty, get the fuck out. And if you are on duty, stop drinking, and then get the fuck out, because this is my case."

"High Street," Mack fake-mused. "This is Green Cobras country, so I hear."

Larsen cottoned on fast. "Don't even think about it, Mack."

"I'm sure you mean 'Lieutenant,' Detective Larsen."

Larsen went beetroot-red. "This is a homicide. It's my case. I caught it fair and - "

Mack moved. Mack took two steps forward and suddenly he was right in front of Larsen, nose to nose, two inches taller and forty pounds heavier. "This is a quintuple homicide in a known gang stronghold, Detective. Now, let me just hazard a guess that you have some green graffiti or paraphernalia left at the scene. Yes?"

Larsen took a breath. Mack said: "And let me remind you that lying about this is a perversion of the course of justice, Detective, and that about a hundred bluesuits have already had a nice long look at the scene."

Larsen gritted his teeth. Larsen said: "Green spray-paint on the alley wall."

"Organized crime killing," Mack said. "Organized crime case. Second precinct has an ongoing investigation into the Green Cobras. That makes this my case, Detective."

Larsen balled his fists. "This is bullshit."

"Go home, Jim," Mack said kindly. "Give your boys a kiss goodnight. And thank your lucky stars that there are men like me to save you from your own good intentions." Larsen opened his mouth, and Mack barked: "Don't say a word, lad. Just go."

Larsen walked back to his car. Larsen waved at a black woman in plainclothes, and said something. Larsen's partner looked at Mack, and then shook her head. The two homicide detectives got back in their Crown Vic and drove away. Officer Cruz gave them a little wave as they left.

* * *

No one had touched the crime scene. The bluesuits had crowded in around the scene, but they hadn't actually messed with anything. The Goon Squad had made it to High Street before the boys from SID. Mack and his lads had the scene to themselves.

It was quite a sight.

Mack counted five bodies. There was an old guy, sixties, Spanish features. There was a woman, same age, same background. There was a younger man, maybe forty, and his wife, maybe thirty. There was a little girl. The bodies lay in a cluster, all within a few feet of each other.

The stiffs were ripped up bad. Mack thought of chainsaws. The old lady was torn almost in half at the waist. The younger guy had lost his legs below the knee. The little girl had no head left at all.

There was a lot of blood. It pooled an inch deep around the bodies. It spattered the alley wall three feet high. Entrails curled in the gutter. The scene looked like a bad horror movie set.

The smell was awful. It was smothering: blood and feces and gastric bile. Mack pulled a gold cigarette case out of his suit jacket's inside pocket and fished around. He found what he was looking for and lit up. The pungent, peppery smell of pure Latakia tobacco helped to drown out the stench of gore.

Mack took another look at the scene.

The family was dressed like it had money. The men were wearing suits, the women were wearing dresses, the little girl had patent-leather shoes. The old lady had a triple-strand pearl necklace; no one had taken it. The old man's jacket was flapped open; Mack cocked his head, and saw a revolver still in its shoulder holster under gramps' armpit.

The blood was not smeared - no one had moved the bodies. There were no footprints in the blood - no one had approached the bodies. There was a crude cross-hairs outlined on the alley wall in fresh, emerald-green spray-paint. It was deeper into the alley, past where the bodies lay, past the pool of blood. Whoever had painted it had been careful to avoid the bodies.

The wounds were grotesque. They were massive, ragged circular holes: definitely made by a firearm. Mack would have pegged them as close-range blasts from a twelve-gauge loaded with buck, but there were no secondary wounds from stray pellets. Mack thought of a Browning fifty-cal machine gun, and then discarded the possibility. Not even in Portocielo.

Mack paced around the scene. The family had been dropped at the entrance to an alley just off High Street. The attack would have been visible from High Street. From the way the bodies were sprawled, it looked like the shooting had probably come from High Street, while the family was walking past the alley.

Mack thought: Drive-by. Mack thought: No wonder there were eyewits.

Mack looked at the crosshairs graffiti and thought: If the shooters were on High Street, then why is the graffiti on the other side of the bodies, deeper into the alley?

It didn't matter. Mack's job wasn't to catch whoever had done this. Mack's job was to run down some deserving scumbags and put them in the morgue before tomorrow's newspapers hit the presses. Mack's job was to change the story.

"Okay," Mack said slowly. "Here's the story, lads."

"First, we need to find the governor. Ronnie, Celestia, try Ortolan - he's probably there. Christopher, Harry, try his office at the Governor's Mansion; Old Man Cuypers might be working late. We need to know what he wants tomorrow's headline to be."

"Felipe, Alan, check over the bodies and the scene. Find me ID, any evidence of robbery, any prints or footprints or clothing fibers or shell casings."

"Yin, Raijen, head east to the Raamgracht Expressway and find me a thug wearing a green bandanna."

"Rebecca, go talk to the eyewitnesses. They should be over near Officer Cruz."

Mack took a deep drag on his cigarette. He wanted to sleep.

Mack said: "Let's earn our keep, lads."

[Walabam]

"Good."

That was all Mack had to say. Rebecca shot a glance at the road, then over to Mack, then to the rear-view mirror. It was obvious that Mack wasn't quite a talker - or he didn't wish to talk.

The Cadillac turned into the entrance of an alley, where the supposed crime scene was at. The area was cordoned off. Blue and red lights flickered. Mack had conversed with a police officer, whose name was apparently Cruz. Rebecca looked at Cruz, who looked as young as Rebecca. The urge to flirt with the Officer was strong, but Mack was sitting right next to her. In addition, she was on duty, and flirting wasn't going to help with her performance.

The Goon Squad was allowed into the crime scene, with Officer Cruz lifting the police tape up. Mack found a spot to park his car, and likewise for the rest of the team. Rebecca stepped out of the car, pistol in hand. She looked around for a minute, ensuring there were no hostiles, before holstering her weapon. She took a huge whiff of the air - it didn't smell good. "It's ugly," Rebecca had remembered Cruz saying.

Of course it's ugly. Goon Squad won't take no simple shit.

Mack retrieved his hip flask. He drank from it, but it didn't take long for someone to shout at him.

"Hey!"

Rebecca turned over to the source of the voice. She assumed the man was, as Cruz had mentioned earlier, Detective Larsen. Everything he wore shouted "major douchebag", from top to bottom. She looked at him in the eye, but he didn't fix his gaze on her. Rebecca probably meant nothing to him; she was a rookie. Larsen approached Mack swiftly, and the little bitch, who Rebecca thought he was, started whining about how this case was his.

Lieutenant Mack stood still listening to the whining. He was cool as a cucumber. He gave no chance to Larsen to point out any mistakes in his words, provided if there were. The atmosphere was getting tense. Rebecca wanted to shut the guy up with a fist to his nose. "This is a homicide. It's my case. I caught it fair and - ".

"Square." Rebecca completed the sentence for Larsen. Larsen wanted to thank her, only to be interrupted by Rebecca. "You're a fucking square. You know what a square is? It means your fucking head is stuck in the shithole. It means that you're too stubborn for your own good."

Larsen froze. Mack stepped closer to him, face to face. Rebecca couldn't hear what Mack was saying to Larsen. Knowing Mack's personality, he was probably telling Larsen to fuck off.

And he did.

"This is bullshit," uttered the detective, with a face as red as a date. His fists were clenched, visibly angry. Larsen walked away to his car, waving at a black plain-clothed detective, before the duo got into their car and drove off. Rebecca muttered some words under her breath as the car drove on by. "The hell is this guy made of?" Rebecca shot a glance at Mack, referring to him.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Rebecca followed behind Mack as they walked towards the crime scene. The stench of blood became much more apparent as they approached.

Mack stopped. His body had been a barrier for Rebecca's eyes. She gagged once upon smelling the vile stench of blood. Then she stepped right next to Mack, looking straight at the bodies. Her heartbeat went faster. She shivered at a small magnitude. Rebecca tried to hold it back - she couldn't.

Rebecca sprinted towards the nearest gutter. The tequila and cognac she had earlier on shot right out her mouth. She pressed on her own chest with her palm, looking confused. After all, this was not the worst she had seen, though the most gruesome.

Having felt much more comfortable, Rebecca spat some of the remaining puke out, before returning to the crime scene, looking slightly embarrassed. She thanked God for having remembered to stuff a mask into her back pocket, which she now put on. Pretending nothing had happened, Rebecca continued with her work.

She looked at the dead victims, all almost ripped apart. There was a little girl, whose head was missing. Rebecca sympathized with the little girl the most. - she could have ended up like her ten years ago. The victims had been wearing some decent outfits, which probably meant they came from an affluent background. Rebecca looked over to Mack - he seemed deep in thought.

"Rebecca, go talk to the eyewitnesses. They should be over near Officer Cruz." Mack had given each and every one in the team a task. Rebecca's task was to question eyewitnesses, which probably wasn't a good idea due to her anger issues. Rebecca thought that perhaps Mack had wanted to tame her anger. "Yes, s-Mack", Rebecca replied accidentally, a combination of "sir" and "Mack". "It's a habit I do need to change, Mack. Sorry," apologised Rebecca before she walked off towards Officer Cruz.

She looked the officer in the eye, smiling. "Can you bring me the eye-witnesses? I've got some questions to ask them, if you don't mind."

[Nude East Ireland]

Reaching into his pocket, Alan retrieved two rubber gloves. He stretched them over his hands, squeezing each finger into its proper place. As he approached, his mind began to whisper. He felt the sweat on his back, smelt the inferno, heard the screams of children silenced forever; he carefully stepped to avoid the blood. He could feel the emptiness of the husks before him. He lowered his body, stretching his hand into the jacket of the younger man, feeling around for a wallet. He found what he was looking for. He unfolded the leather, eyeing a driver's license.

"Got an ID," he said, folding the wallet and holding it into the air. "Money's inside. Still has his expensive watch on."

Costello stood straight, glancing around at the other bodies. "Doesn't look like the bodies were even touched; nothing is out of place." Alan knelt down once again, eyeing the wounds on the younger man. "They weren't shot with pistols or shotguns. They used an automatic weapon to gun this family down. This looks more like a message than a robbery."

He glanced at Felipe. "What do you think?"

[Rupudska]

*l'snip*

Yin shook her head as she looked over the crime scene. A real bloody mess, is what it was, and yet another reminder that the human body held a lot more blood than one would expect at first glance. She pulled out a fabric face mask and practically drenched it with peppermint oil before putting it over her face, just to avoid the smell. That was the one thing she never liked about crime scenes, the smell.

"Hmph," was the extent of her direct verbal response to Mack's order. He had a point - if the Cobras were behind this, they'd have to go some distance to find any. They were cocky, but they weren't stupid. They'd try to get out of the area as swiftly as possible. And Yin and Raijen were to be tasked to go after them.

"C'mon, gwailo, you're with me," Yin said, motioning for Raijen to follow her to her motorcycle. Hopefully he'd grab onto her waist or hips this time as he rode behind her. Groping her for a grip was funny the first time. It wasn't funny the fourteenth.

[Cylarn]

After a few moments of high-speeds through the insufferable streets of New Leiden, the Goon Squad arrived at the scene. Crown Vics and bluesuits were everywhere, blue lights flashing and placing the dark streets in blue and red colors. Ronnie parked in behind Mack and climbed out, rolling up his sleeves as he waited on de Jaager. Death was in the air tonight, and Ronnie was sure that the night would be much longer. As far as he knew, they were going to shoot up High Street and kill the Cobras. He reveled in that thought as he walked towards the entry to the crime scene. The officer running the scene attempted to hand Ronnie a clipboard with the crime scene access log, but Ronnie waved it away and continued past, lifting up the police tape and climbing under it, standing up once he was at the crime scene.

Mack was arguing with a certain Detective Larsen, with Homicide. Ronnie didn't know all the other detectives yet, despite having been one for the past 5 years. For at least 10 years, he was a Patrol guy, and thus he knew every Patrol cop. Equally strange to him was Larsen's partner, of whom flashed Mack a grimace and shook her head, but she was much more attractive than her male partner. For a moment, Ronnie's eyes followed her as he checked her out, and decided that he should at least figure out her name. However, there was the possibility that he had once made her acquaintance; he had been romping with the female officer of the PTPD ever since he had been hired. He shrugged off the thoughts, and decided to examine the crime scene.

It was a rather horrifying sight to see, but then again, you see a lot on the streets of New Leiden. It was a rather well-off-looking family, gunned down by a high volume of high-caliber gunfire. Ronnie examined the scene with the other detectives, taking note of the bullet holes in the chest. The holes were big, and Ronnie wondered if it could have been inflicted by a high-caliber submachine gun or an assault rifle chambered for a high-caliber cartridge. It was a damn waste; why shoot up a whole family? Why put an end to a little girl's life? The daughter looked not much younger than Christopher, and Ronnie could feel the desire to tear up, but he maintained his composure, but that little girl was going to stay on his mind. They didn't have to kill her.

The odd thing about the incident was that they had not been robbed or looted. Gramps still had his piece; most Dutchmen in New Leiden carried a piece, with the younger and middle-aged men carrying top-of-the-line semi-autos and the older generation favoring revolvers and older pistols. It looked like Gramps had a .357 Colt Lawman, a formidable pistol. The grandmother had her pearl necklace, and it looked like no one had really disturbed the bodies. Ronnie crossed his arms, and thought about how strange it was.

Then, it was time for Mack to give out marching orders. Ronnie turned to him as he began. It would be a lie if Ronnie said that he wasn't upset by his task. He wanted to shoot up High Street and kill any bastard wearing green, but instead, he had to meet with the scumbag Mayor, who was probably eating dinner at Ortolan's with his trophy wife. Mack wanted the story's headline changed up, and the Mayor had probably already been briefed.

"Mayor may have been briefed about what happened," Ronnie began. "But is there anything else you'd like us to say to him, besides what the headline should be?"

[Rudaslavia]

Upon arrival, Celestia opened her door and stepped out of the vehicle. She tilted her head upwards, taking in a short breath of the crime scene's rotten air. "Huele a mierda." she cursed in disgust. "Fucking repulsive."

Celestia maneuvered towards the site of the bodies with her partner. She flashed her badge to Officer Cruz before entering the premises. The man's Carib heritage was evident in his facial structure. "Escoria Carib, go back to the jungles." she whispered to herself, rolling her eyes as she proceeded forth.

The stench was almost too much to bear, and Celestia was forced to hold her breath as she slipped on a pair of latex gloves. The vile odor briefly reminded her of the FN's slave pens, but she pushed such horrid recollections aside. Now was not the time, for she was about to witness a most gruesome sight.

Celestia hadn't expected a case this severe. The blood. The gore. The savagery. Even at first glance, she was sure that it was beyond the capabilities of the Green Cobras. Aye, the gang was violent. But this...this was just sick. Celestia made the Sign of the Cross as her wide eyes scanned over every horrific detail. She was not psychologically fazed by the scene; she'd seen far worse during her childhood enslavement. But why here? Why in the heart of the city?

Men were not capable of such acts. This was the work of demons; they controlled men like puppeteers in pursuit of their incomprehensibly dark campaigns. In that moment, Celestia thought back on a memory of her grandfather.

"Celestia," Luis called from his study in the crumbling Villa Trinidad. His voice, so deep and regal, bore the prideful authority of his ancestors. "Ven a Abuelo."

Little Celestia, no more than four years old at the time, appeared from the hall outside. In its run-down condition, the once glorious mansion was now a decrepit ruin barely capable of inhabitance. The wooden floors creaked as the toddler traversed the study towards her grandfather's desk and hopped on his lap. "¿Sí?" she inquired with a smile, gazing into her father's deep gray eyes.

The aged hand of Luis Trinidad directed Celestia's attention to the open bible on his desk. "Demonios, Celestia," he grunted with a stern expression. "¿Sabe usted de ellos?"

Celestia shook her head. "No, Abuelo." Her youthful attentiveness was fading, and her focus shifted to playing with the fabric of her skirt.

"Oye!" Luis snapped. "¡Atención!"

She obeyed. "Sí, Abuelo. Lo siento."

"Los demonios están por todas partes." the old man informed his grandchild. "Se esconden en las sombras para emboscar al pueblo de Dios. Nos manipulan a cometer pecado. Hm? Cuanto más fuerte es su influencia, mayor es el pecado. Hombres y mujeres malvadas son más susceptibles a la influencia demoníaca. Es por eso que debemos esforzarnos por ser bueno. Debemos esforzarnos para combatir la corrupción. De lo contrario, el diablo y sus secuaces reinará supremo."

Perhaps her grandfather's words held true. Perhaps these murders were the works of hellish forces. Celestia shuddered at such a notion. In any case, there was an undeniable presence of evil behind this family's demise.

Their clothing was of a fine quality. Were they aristocrats? Elites? One could not tell. They were disfigured beyond recognition. Celestia continued to observe the body of the little girl. "Dios mío..." she whispered to Ronnie. A child? They killed an innocent child? Fucking monsters. The whole entire scene was bizarre. The lack of footprints, the oddly placed graffiti, the sheer amount of carnage -- it was unusual, even by Portocielo's standards.

"First, we need to find the mayor." Mack ordered. "Ronnie, Celestia, try Ortolan - he's probably there."

Celestia acknowledged Ronnie's irritation with the task. She, too, would've rather pursued the wrongdoers than manipulate city politics. But she remained silent, awaiting Mack's response to Ronnie's inquiry.

[Aurinsula]

[...]
"Felipe, Alan, check over the bodies and the scene. Find me ID, any evidence of robbery, any prints or footprints or clothing fibers or shell casings."
[...]

"Right on, capitan," said Felipe absent-mindedly. He, too, gloved up and started to work, but then he stopped. He took one look, and then he went deathly quiet, and all the color left his face.

[...]
He glanced at Felipe. "What do you think?"

A long, low moan came from deep in his throat, and as he stared at the victims, it slowly raised in pitch and intensity. Then he fell on his hands and knees, and the moan became a few choking sobs.

He heaved himself back, the better to sit down with his back against the wall. Then he looked at the victims again, and leaned over to vomit on the ground. He vomited profusely and violently, and the smell mixed with the stench of blood and shit to create that ultimate aroma of human filth and decomposition. Finally, he sat down, the pool of sick brushing up against his leg, and stared.

"This is my family," he said. "This is my uncle Sebastian, and my aunt Marisol, and my cousin Manuel, and his wife Isabella, and their daughter Alejandra. We called her Jana." As he said their names, he looked over their faces one by one, his voice growing weaker with each word. He sat, comatose, for what seemed to him like a very long time. Then he stood up, slowly and nervously and shakily.

"I need to get out of here."

[Astrolinium]

Harry stepped under the tape, following Mack. Even after all these years, the flashing lights, the smell of the clustered throng of people, their noise, their sweat, it still made him feel a little light in the head. He looked up at the muted tones of the evening sky above for a moment as he walked, nearly bumping into another officer. Someone he didn't recognize, not Goon Squad, not important. He half-jumped/half-sidestepped to the left like a skittish animal and eyed her for a moment before continuing on his way, not even bothering with a muttered 'sorry'. Her eyes had been brown, like Irene's. He no longer remembered them alive and shining, warm like freshly-planted earth just ready to put up little green shoots of new life. He remembered them dull and lifeless, like they'd been when he was called in to identify the body. They haunted him at night, in his dreams, in the daytime, at every hour of every...

As the smell of blood reached his nostrils, Schwartz snapped back into reality. He shook his head to clear it -- he couldn't just check out like that at a crime scene. And this was a crime scene if he'd ever seen one. It hardly registered with him -- they were bodies, they were dead, their families would mourn them, the Goon Squad were not undertakers. He pulled a pack of Wrigley gum out of his right-side pants pocket, Double Mint, and unwrapped a stick, bending it in half before tossing it into his mouth and letting the sharp bite of peppermint assault his taste buds. Find the Mayor, Mack said. Try the Mansion, might be working late. Schwartz had motioned to Shape with his head and was about to turn to go -- he'd seen what he needed to here -- when he saw Felipe sink to the pavement and empty out everything he'd taken in over the past few hours.

Irene's face swam before Harry's eyes as Carilla named the bodies -- they weren't just bodies now, not anymore. Harry sighed and gave Felipe a sympathetic glance. He wanted to say something, badly, but it caught in his throat, whatever the hell it was. If Eli were here, he'd know what to say. But Harry wasn't a rabbi. Harry barely went to shul anymore these days. So Harry merely caught Felipe's eye and shrugged at him knowingly -- he didn't know how much of Harry's history the others knew, but he hoped Carilla knew enough to know that Harry knew what this felt like.

[Reverend Norv]

Rebecca saw the crime scene, puked, and headed off in the general direction of Officer Cruz. Cruz was good-looking, in a squinty-eyed Indio sort of a way. Mack wondered if he was Rebecca's type. Mack felt sorry for the kid if he was.

Yin nodded at Raijen, and the two of them clambered onto Yin's motorcycle and roared off. Raijen was big. Yin was bigger. Mack felt bad for the motorcycle.

Yin and Raijen would find some Green Cobras banger. They would bring him back. Once Alan and Felipe figured out what the murder weapon was, Mack would find a corresponding weapon and plaster the Cobra's prints all over it. Then they'd take the punk out in Orange Park, blow his brains out, and stick the murder-weapon-substitute in his hand.

Simple. Change the headlines.

Alan pulled on rubber gloves. Alan stepped carefully to avoid the pools of blood. Alan searched the younger male vic and found a wallet, an ID, and an expensive watch.

Alan thought that the killers had used an automatic weapon. Alan thought that somebody wanted to send a message.

Mack glanced at the green crosshairs graffiti. The graffiti on the wrong side of the scene.

Who was this message for?

Felipe looked at the bodies. Mack saw recognition flare in the younger man's eyes. Felipe moaned like a wounded animal. Felipe keened. Felipe sobbed and threw up. Felipe put his back to the alley wall and stared out into space.

Mack smelled undigested booze and Felipe's stomach acid. Mack blew a big cloud of Latakia smoke, and smelled pepper and rust instead. It was better that way.

Felipe said: "This is my family." Felipe's eyes rested on each face. "This is my uncle Sebastian, and my aunt Marisol, and my cousin Manuel, and his wife Isabella, and their daughter Alejandra. We called her Jana."

There was a long silence.

"I need to get out of here."

Mack thought of his grandfather and his grandmother, and the way they'd danced when the bullets ripped through them. He thought of his father, and how the grip of the knife had felt sticky for days afterwards.

Wordlessly, Mack pulled his flask, and handed it to Felipe. He took Felipe by the arm, and lifted the smaller man to his feet.

Mack said: "Get some fresh air, lad. Come back when you feel ready."

Mack paused, and scratched his nose. Mack's voice was very quiet. Mack said: "Call your mother. Hear her voice. It'll do you good, Felipe."

Once Felipe had moved away, Mack turned to Alan. "Find me a cartridge casing. Find me a bullet. I want to know what the murder weapon was, Alan." Mack sighed, and rubbed the back of his neck. Mack's eyes followed Felipe. "Find me a bullet," Mack murmured, "and then you can go after him."

Harry gave Felipe a sympathetic look. Harry and Christopher got in their car and headed back down High Street toward Truman Square. If Old Man Cuypers was still at the office at this time of night, it was because he was screwing his secretary. Harry and Christopher were stoics; that was why Mack had sent them. If the governor was eating out a late-night slice of tart, they'd be fine waiting outside the office door until he was finished.

Ronnie and Celestia had not left. Celestia looked shell-shocked and angry. Ronnie said: "Mayor may have been briefed about what happened. But is there anything else you'd like us to say to him, besides what the headline should be?"

Mack felt a flicker of annoyance. Ronnie took charge. Ronnie thought things out. That was good. Ronnie overcomplicated simple fucking tasks. That was bad.

Mack took a drag on his cigarette. Mack needed to sleep. The world was an unjust place.

"The governor won't have the ID that Felipe just gave us. He needs to know that this was the Carilla family. Other than that, no - you don't need to say aught else." Mack shook his head. "Cuypers is an old dog. He'll have an idea of how he wants this news to play out, politically. We need to know what he's planning." Mack managed a dry smile. "We serve at the pleasure of the governor, after all."

"So - on your way, now, Ronnie."

Mack looked back at the scene. The Carillas. Fucking encomienderos. People with land. People with money. People with power.

No robbery. Unidentified murder weapon. No forensic evidence. And misplaced graffiti.

Alan Costello says, This looks more like a message than a robbery.

Mack ground out his cigarette under his heel. Mack quietly said: "Fuck."

[Reverend Norv]

Friday, April 3, 2015
155 North High Street
New Leiden, Portocielo
18:45

Juan Cruz jumped again when Rebecca spoke up behind him. He startled easily. He wiped damp palms on his trousers. He was good-looking, in a vaguely predatory way: a sharp blade of a nose, clearly defined cheekbones, dark eyes. He saw Rebecca, and relaxed a little.

“Uh, yeah,” Cruz said. “Eyewitnesses. Sure. Follow me.”

Cruz led Rebecca to a café across the street from the crime scene. Ordinarily, it would have been closing down; tonight, with the street in front of the café cordoned off by police, the joint had been requisitioned by the PTPD. A half-dozen bluesuits sat around inside, sipping lattes and shooting the shit. One of them saw Rebecca, and gave a knowing wink to the others.

Behind the bluesuits were four civilians, clustered near the bar. There were two men in business suits: one old and white and wearing an expensive gold ring, the other young and even more white, and built like a heavyweight boxer. There were two women. One was a barista for the café, a few years younger than Rebecca; she sat with her head in her hands. The other was clearly the wife of the old white man; she was maybe fifty, wore a fancy dress and sat next to the old guy.

The bluesuits hadn’t bothered to separate the witnesses, to keep them from corrupting each other’s stories. The bluesuits knew that once Liam Mack showed up, the Goon Squad was going to write a new story, and the job of the eyewits was only to confirm it.

The air in the café smelled of roasted coffee beans. The bodies across the street were hidden from sight by the crowd of cops. You could almost forget that they were even there.

Almost.

Cruz nodded at the civilians. “These are the eyewitnesses,” he said. “Henrik Smuts, age sixty-five; Paula Smuts, age fifty-nine; Mia Fernandez, age twenty-two; Petr Bolyakov, age thirty-one. They all were in the café when the shooting went down, and saw it through the front window. Mister Smuts was the one who originally called the police.”

Cruz looked back and forth between the witnesses and Rebecca. “Nobody’s talked to any of them yet. Do you want to interview them together or individually, Detective?”

[Reverend Norv]

Friday, April 3, 2015
Governor's Mansion
New Leiden, Portocielo
18:45

The official residence of the governor of Portocielo was a great neoclassical pile of white limestone topped with a totally incongruous Dutch roof: steep gables, shingles, the whole nine yards. It faced onto Truman Square: a solid acre of antique cobblestones, pimpled apparently at random with various fountains and monuments. Directly across the Square loomed the Baroque mass of Pope Tower, New Leiden’s only real skyscraper. Even at this late hour, the lights in Pope Tower still burned bright.

Most of the lights in the Governor’s Mansion were off.

The Ranting Dutchman didn’t trust the PTPD; he used his own private security team, who were rumored to be mercs hired from all over the world. Two of them were guarding the door of the Governor’s Mansion when Harry and Christopher arrived: they were big men in blue jeans and body armor, with assault rifles held across their chests. They asked to see the two detectives’ badges, and then begrudgingly let them in. The guard who did all the talking had some kind of Slavic accent: Polish, Lithuanian, Russian.

The mansion was empty and pin-drop quiet. It was all marble floors and mahogany wainscoting and portraits of red-faced Dutchmen sweating in the tropical heat. The splendor of a bygone age. The wallpaper was discolored and beginning to peel.

The merc from Eastern Europe pointed down a long, echoing hallway. “Governor’s office that way,” he said. “Go.” With that, the big guy turned and walked back to his post at the door.

The hallway went on forever. Ten-foot double doors led off it. Every single door was locked. A television on the wall played local news on repeat: the Troopers were about to play Puerto Rico. Obama was talking about removing Cuba from the federal list of state sponsors of terrorism. Pope Enterprises was about to get the contract to start work on the PC2 highway.

The hallway eventually ended. It opened onto what was clearly a waiting room. As they approached, the two detectives could see an elegant woman in her forties sitting behind a desk. She spoke in a calm Dutch-accented voice: “I’m sorry, sir, but the Governor is not at home, nor does he have power over zoning ordinances that govern private enterprises.”

The detectives walked into the waiting room. They could see a man facing the receptionist. He was in his mid-thirties, agitated, with a shock of unkempt hair that made him look younger than his age. He was all but shouting at the receptionist: “You don’t understand. This is my community. I’m responsible for them. The governor has to know that these are my people he’s –“

Harry Schwartz recognized the shouting man. He was Rabbi Eli Metzler. Eli saw Harry walk into the room. His jaw dropped, and then his mouth snapped shut, and he swallowed hard. He gave the woman behind the desk a worried glance, and muttered: “Harry.”

[Reverend Norv]

Friday, April 3, 2015
Restaurant Ortolan
New Leiden, Portocielo
18:45

Restaurant Ortolan: haunt of choice for the great and the good of Portocielo. Well, one out of two ain’t bad.

The restaurant was a few blocks from Truman Square proper. It was a low brick building with lots of windows, furnished to look like a classical French bistro. It had its own parking lot around the side, where Ronnie and Celestia could park the Charger.

One of the governor’s private security guards was standing watch at the restaurant’s door. He was a big guy with a white-blond buzz and a bad sunburn. He squinted at Ronnie like he recognized him, and stepped aside without a word.

Inside, the restaurant was a who’s who of New Leiden. There’s Ingrid Claar and Miranda Santos sharing a bottle of red wine. There’s Geert Steenkamp and Wikus Venter deep in conversation. There’s Sebastian and Augusta van Rijn, defiantly slurping their way through a platter of oysters. There’s Frederick Kloeter and Clara Ramirez gently flirting; Clara noticed Ronnie and Celestia, and gave them a curious little wave.

There’s Wayne Cuypers, a bull of a man, stuffing his face with foie gras and filet mignon. And who’s that with him? That’s Don Carlos Lanza, short and stocky and jovial-looking, smoking a cigar. And that’s Harry Pope, tall and sere and wearing a ten-thousand-dollar suit, leaning in close to say something to Cuypers.

Another of Cuypers’ security guards stood at the governor’s shoulder. The guard saw Ronnie and Celestia, and cleared his throat. Harry Pope’s mouth snapped shut, and he leaned back in his chair, and he gave Ronnie and Celestia a careful, appraising look. Don Carlos just grinned like he was Celestia’s favorite uncle and he was happy to see her again.

Cuypers chewed and swallowed. Cuypers wiped his mouth clean of duck fat with his napkin. Cuypers turned his chair to face the detectives, and saw Ronnie. The governor chuckled and nodded as if some expectation of his had just been confirmed.

“Ronnie, my boy,” the Ranting Dutchman cried. “How are you? And what brings you and your lovely partner up into my world tonight?”

[Reverend Norv]

Friday, April 3, 2015
Raamgracht Expressway
New Leiden, Portocielo
18:45

The Green Cobras always fled east.

You couldn’t wait around in Truman Square after committing a crime. Police response times were far too fast. But if you fled west, you ended up in Orange Park, and that was a dead end – there was only one gate in the wall that ran through the middle of the park, and that gate was under PTPD control. Besides – even if you did make it through, you’d be in Little Rio, and you’d wish you’d let the cops get you.

So the Green Cobras always fled east, toward the chaos of Monteflores. If they could get across the Raamgracht Expressway into the projects, they could find a place to lie low for a while.

Unfortunately, the Raamgracht was a four-lane highway with bumper-to-bumper traffic moving at a minimum of forty miles per hour at pretty much every hour of the day or night. And that made it easy for Yin and Raijen to set up under a streetlamp and stake out the roads that dead-ended onto the Raamgracht from the west.

Not many cars came down those roads, and few of those that did looked like vehicles belonging to Green Cobras running for their lives. There was a limousine, doubtless carrying some big-shot from Truman Square to the airport further up the Raamgracht. There were a couple of Cadillacs. There was a big black Chevy Suburban, presumably carrying some politician’s security detail. There was a pickup, its bed filled with black women still wearing custodial uniforms, headed home across the expressway to Monteflores.

And then, of course, there was the young Carib-looking male, age about twenty, who came careening onto the Raamgracht on a moped and almost got run over by a Ford Focus. The young man who kept looking over his shoulder. The young man who had a dark green bandanna still wrapped around his upper arm, and whose hands were stained dark.

He was maybe a hundred yards away.

[Astrolinium]

The mint gum in his mouth had lost its flavor long, long ago, but Detective Schwartz kept chewing it regardless. He needed something to occupy his jaw and he didn't feel like switching out for another stick. He'd been playing Amy Winehouse on the ride over and he was still chewing in time to the silky, smooth sounds of her voice: they tried to make me go to rehab, but I said no, no, no. What Harry needed more than anything right now was a fucking drink. He'd had a shot or two of whiskey at the bar, but that was hours ago. He wiped at his upper lip with the back of his hand and thought of the sensation of alcohol burning its way down his throat, dulling the world around him and slowing everything down a bit so he could try to deal with it, with everything.

As he rounded into the waiting room, he was ripped from his thoughts, though, by a familiar voice. Harry's jaw dropped too, and the pale, chewed-up ball of gum in his mouth fell neatly onto the carpet. He glanced from the receptionist to the rabbi, snapping the jaw shut, suddenly very conscious of the space where the gum currently wasn't. He sighed.

"Shabbat shalom, Eli. What's going on here?"

[Cylarn]

Ortolan's was a restaurant that should normally be above Ronnie's paygrade; instead, he had married into the right family so that he could fully enjoy the benefits of eating at such a lavish restaurant. He'd be lying if he said that the food wasn't to die for, or that he felt that Ortolan had cultivated a mystique just for show. This was where Ronnie had met Wayne Cuypers for the first time, following his crash investigation in which he had met his future wife. Ronnie and Celestia approached the establishment, noticing one of Cuyper's bodyguards. The guy had money, and he invested in foreign and American expats, mainly guys who had spent their nad-dropping years in Iraq or Africa. They looked like hard-asses, but Ronnie didn't care. He continued towards the man, brushing aside his jacket to reveal his badge, though it wasn't needed. Ronnie saw the guard squint a bit, and then step aside. Ronnie offered the man a nod, and walked inside.

Everyone who was someone in the city was there, and Ronnie could see them all as he entered the main dining area. It was opulent, and clearly millions had gone into making this place what it was. Ronnie stood close to the entrance, looking for Gustavo Silva among the dining parties. His eyes scanned the room, until they came across the Triumvirate of Portocielo: Harry Pope, Carlos Lanza, and Wayne Cuypers, but no sign of Silva. Still though, Wayne needed to know what was up, so Ronnie moved forward through the dining area, his eyes fixed on the three men. He caught Clara Ramirez in his peripherals, offering a wave. Without breaking his pace and course, he flashed a smile and a quick nod at Ramirez. She was older than him by a few years, but she still looked younger than him.

"Good evening, gentlemen," Ronnie greeted as he arrived at the table. He stood tall, his hands crossed in front of him as he made eye contact with Wayne. To this day, Ronnie could never figure out why Wayne had agreed to let his daughter marry a virtual nobody. Many of the Dutch aristocrats on Portocielo arranged marriages between their children and other elites, but Ronnie hit the jackpot when he had no standing in the aristocracy. Maybe Wayne genuinely liked Ronnie, seeing that he thought more of Andrea than just a one-night-stand. Maybe Wayne didn't really care for who his daughter married, preferring her to marry a white man as opposed to some Macaco or Indio. Ronnie kept his facial expression neutral as Wayne inquired about why Ronnie and Celestia were at Ortolan's.

"Governor Cuypers," Ronnie began, keeping it formal with his former father-in-law. "We're busy tonight. Could I speak with you in private for a moment?"

And Ronnie waited for a reaction. He wouldn't be surprised if the Triumvirate forced him to spill his guts before them; he only wanted to speak to Wayne, but the other two powerful figures on the island were probably just as curious as to why a bent cop was standing in Ortolan's, asking to speak to the Governor in private.

[Rudaslavia]

Wayne Cuypers, Harry Pope, and Carlos Lanza -- Portocielo's ruling trio of no-good fucks. If Celestia had her way, all three would be doused in gasoline and set ablaze for her amusement. She hated each of the bastards in different regards.

Cuypers was an arrogant weakling whose greed made him a watering hole for parched criminals. He claimed false dominance over the island like a delusional king. Hell, the man would be nothing without his Lanza confidants. Celestia despised Ronnie's ties with the Cuypers; even more so, the fact that little Christopher bore the family's rotten blood. Wayne's grasp on the governor's throne soiled Portocielo's purity with a black stain of crookedness.

Pope was just a piece of shit in rich man's clothing. He was the baron of unprincipled business whose questionable stakes made him a modern-day John D. Rockefeller. Celestia was an elitist, and thus exhibited little opposition to a powerful "one percent." But Pope actively utilized his unlawful influence to satisfy his egocentric wants. It was a sin that Celestia could not forgive. Thus, Harry was as much an undesirable as Wayne Cuypers.

Celestia fostered a unique abhorrence for Don Carlos, the lord of the Lanza Mafia. He was a dominant kingpin of the criminal underworld...but also an indirect contributor to Celestia's own survival. It was the Lanza family's workingmen that rescued her from the jungle all those years ago. She was alone, naked, beaten, and petrified -- a child desperately fleeing for her life. In her distraught escape, she came upon an encampment of contraband traffickers. The men were operating by Lanza funds and had assumed the guise of lumber workers to conceal their activities. Taking civilized pity on the girl, they had her transferred to the care of the Sisters of Charity of New Leiden. After her physical recovery, the Sisters conveyed Celestia to St Benedict's Orphanage near Eindhoven.

de Jaager's recollection of these events were vague. Her mind seemed to have (somewhat) censored such memories, but she nonetheless acknowledged the Lanzas' part in her escape. Indeed, the family had earned her thanks...but not her servitude. After all, she hadn't asked them for help. Not an ounce of debt was owed. The Lanzas remained a parasitical disease in Portocielo, and Celestia vowed to have them utterly annihilated.

As Ronnie addressed the governor and his inner circle, Celestia held an assertive glare over the men at the table. Her slight smirk served to subconsciously mock their sense of authority and entitlement. All three of them were pigs. They deserved little to no respect as human beings, regardless of their esteemed bloodlines and positions. Celestia's lack of fear was both a strength and a weakness. These men were criminals, yes...but they were powerful criminals. It was unwise to question them.

Of course, they had no reason to suspect her of working against them. Celestia hid her agenda quite well. The tasks she'd previously completed in service of Mack and the Goon Squad made her worthy of trust.

"Governor Cuypers," Ronnie said. "We're busy tonight. Could I speak with you in private for a moment?"

Yes, Celestia thought, we'd like to speak with you in private. That way, we can bash your skull in and feed your brains to the monkeys.

The fantasy of committing such an act pleased her. But for now, she had to stay focused on Mack's orders. Killing the governor wouldn't benefit their cause...yet. Oh, Celestia truly hoped she could one day put Cuypers in the ground.

[Walabam]

Rebecca cocked an eyebrow as the officer jumped in shock. Surely she wasn't that scary, she thought. Rebecca patted the officer on the back, assuring him that "it's okay", and apologized for the sudden beckoning. She allowed the officer to answer her question without interrupting.

“Uh, yeah,” Cruz said. “Eyewitnesses. Sure. Follow me.”

Rebecca nodded, following his footsteps.

The pair stepped into a cafe, right across the street. The aroma of coffee made its way towards Rebecca, 'awakening' her. Rebecca scanned the area with her eyes, noticing a group of blue-suits, sipping away from their cups as if nothing had happened. Treating these "retards", as Rebecca would call them, as invisible ones, she walked through them towards four civilians, who were introduced to Rebecca as the eyewitnesses by Officer Cruz.

"Henrik Smuts, age sixty-five; Paula Smuts, age fifty-nine; Mia Fernandez, age twenty-two; Petr Bolyakov, age thirty-one. They all were in the café when the shooting went down, and saw it through the front window."

Rebecca shot a glance at every of the supposed eyewitnesses while Officer Cruz introduced them, one by one. She took particular interest in Mia Fernandez, the barista, whom had seemed to be in distress. Rebecca turned her head towards the counter, then towards the front door, before turning to look at Officer Cruz as he questioned; "Do you want to interview them together or individually, Detective?”

Rebecca smiled. "I'd like to interview them together." She knew it probably wasn't going to make a difference because the "retards" had not bothered to separate the witnesses. "I'll take over from here, Cruz. You've been a great help," thanked Rebecca as she gave him a playful wink.

Rebecca looked at the witnesses, analyzing each of them. "Hey, I'm Detective Rebecca van Rijn with Criminal Investigations, PTPD. I'd like to ask all of you some questions." Rebecca didn't bother to remember which unit she was in, but she reckoned she was probably in Criminal Investigations, since she'd been identifying herself more as a member of the Goon Squad. Surely, though, she felt she couldn't introduce herself being from the 'Goon Squad', as the name seemed to informal to be in an introduction.

Rebecca gave an assuring smile before asking the questions. "Firstly, what did all of you see, around what time? Secondly, how many suspects did you see? Thirdly, what kind of weapons did the suspects use? And lastly," Rebecca looked at the barista, "Miss Fernandez, are you able to provide us with CCTV images, if you have any?"

Rebecca took out her notepad and a pen, ready to write down the witnesses' statements.

"Oh, and before I forget, did you see any getaway vehicles? If you did, could you describe the make and model to me?"

[Nude East Ireland]

Alan Costello's eyes bounced around the scene. The family of a cop would mean war. He had little doubt that this was a message; especially now. He carefully stepped around the pool, where blood and dirt now intertwined. His hand traced the wall, until his middle finger fell into a hole created by one of the bullets. He reached into his pocket, retrieving a pocket knife. The blade shot out, and he carefully penetrated the bullet hole with the knife tip. After a minute of patience, Costello was able to remove the bullet from its place in the wall. He held it with his thumb and index finger, twisting and turning to examine it fully.

His shoes clacked along the pavement as he approached Mack. He sheathed the blade of his knife and slid it back into his pocket. His left hand raised to eye level; the bullet was visible to them both. He gently squeezed the bullet several times.

"These bullets are made of plastic. There are too many in the bodies and the wall for it to have not been an automatic weapon. Because they aren't metal, the bullets have deformed into a mushroom-like shape. This makes it hard to tell what gun the killer used; but, based on the size, I would guess it was an AK."

His eyes diverted to the grounds around them. "There are no shell casings; the shooter collected them all before leaving. The killer was a professional, not a street thug. This is bigger than the Cobras, Mack; I handled a lot of ballistics in my time, but these bullets are like nothing that I've seen."

[TriStates]

Friday, April 3, 2015
Raamgracht Expressway
New Leiden, Portocielo
18:45

The Green Cobras always fled east.

You couldn’t wait around in Truman Square after committing a crime. Police response times were far too fast. But if you fled west, you ended up in Orange Park, and that was a dead end – there was only one gate in the wall that ran through the middle of the park, and that gate was under PTPD control. Besides – even if you did make it through, you’d be in Little Rio, and you’d wish you’d let the cops get you.

So the Green Cobras always fled east, toward the chaos of Monteflores. If they could get across the Raamgracht Expressway into the projects, they could find a place to lie low for a while.

Unfortunately, the Raamgracht was a four-lane highway with bumper-to-bumper traffic moving at a minimum of forty miles per hour at pretty much every hour of the day or night. And that made it easy for Yin and Raijen to set up under a streetlamp and stake out the roads that dead-ended onto the Raamgracht from the west.

Not many cars came down those roads, and few of those that did looked like vehicles belonging to Green Cobras running for their lives. There was a limousine, doubtless carrying some big-shot from Truman Square to the airport further up the Raamgracht. There were a couple of Cadillacs. There was a big black Chevy Suburban, presumably carrying some politician’s security detail. There was a pickup, its bed filled with black women still wearing custodial uniforms, headed home across the expressway to Monteflores.

And then, of course, there was the young Carib-looking male, age about twenty, who came careening onto the Raamgracht on a moped and almost got run over by a Ford Focus. The young man who kept looking over his shoulder. The young man who had a dark green bandanna still wrapped around his upper arm, and whose hands were stained dark.

He was maybe a hundred yards away.

Raijen Skorzeny looked bored to death, leaning up lazily on the rear of the motorcycle. The detective was not a man for whom patience came easy. Which made him hard to deal with on stake out. Had he been a little less deaf, he would probably bemoan his discomfort to any who would here. Or an "accidental" grope on one Sergeant Yin. Glancing at the noticeably curvaceous outline of his partners back, a wolfish leer appeared on the mans face. It wasn't lust per say. More like an involved appreciation of the feminine form. At least, thats what he would have called it.

He'd been partnered- no, that wasn't right. He'd been chained up with the young woman since his first days as a Goon. He never figured out whose bright idea it had been to stick both of them together, though Mac must have been the to have the final say. As much as Mac respected Skorzeny unlike the rest of the department, he probably though it best keep Raijen out of trouble by tying him with Yin. Much to each detectives mutual disapproval. Only recently had there been any partnering in their relationship. They were now more of a team, than a feral cat and dog chained together. Strictly work related, of course. And for all his coarse joking around, Raijen didn't think of her as his type anyhow. And if there was any warmth from the other end, Yin held it behind the worlds greatest poker face.

As it was, Raijen amused himself by taking out his bailsong and putting it through the paces. A graduation gift from the Old Man, back when he was in that prison of a high school in Chechnya. American's called it a butterfly knife. It certainty had the grace of one. With a practiced flick of his hand, the sturdy steel seemed to fly apart and then back together, a stainless steel blade poised where there once was nothing. Another flick, and the knife was gone. The little contraption was one of Raijens most prized, and used, possessions.

Any distraction the balisong proved was nothing compared to the commotion a speeding two-wheeler caused as it raged up the on-ramp, and onto the sparsely populated freeway. The moped's high-pitched whine and the surprised honking of the other cars was lost on the detective, but he had a perfect view of the commotion from his seat. With a final flick, the balisong folded and was returned to his pocket. Tapping Yin on her shoulder, Raijen gave a exclamatory grunt, his thumb pointing at the obvious target.

His ears were handicapped, but not his eyes. And at a measly 300 feet, they told him that the driver was either a Cobra, or had a fetish for green. Either way, the little road hog was burning rubber like it was going out of style. More than enough cause to clamp down on the son of bitch, who was disturbing his peace. An eager grin stretched out across Raijen's tan faced, waiting for his partner to kick the bike into gear.

Time to go to work.

[Rupudska]

Raijen Skorzeny looked bored to death, leaning up lazily on the rear of the motorcycle. The detective was not a man for whom patience came easy. Which made him hard to deal with on stake out. Had he been a little less deaf, he would probably bemoan his discomfort to any who would here. Or an "accidental" grope on one Sergeant Yin. Glancing at the noticeably curvaceous outline of his partners back, a wolfish leer appeared on the mans face. It wasn't lust per say. More like an involved appreciation of the feminine form. At least, thats what he would have called it.

He'd been partnered- no, that wasn't right. He'd been chained up with the young woman since his first days as a Goon. He never figured out whose bright idea it had been to stick both of them together, though Mac must have been the to have the final say. As much as Mac respected Skorzeny unlike the rest of the department, he probably though it best keep Raijen out of trouble by tying him with Yin. Much to each detectives mutual disapproval. Only recently had there been any partnering in their relationship. They were now more of a team, than a feral cat and dog chained together. Strictly work related, of course. And for all his coarse joking around, Raijen didn't think of her as his type anyhow. And if there was any warmth from the other end, Yin held it behind the worlds greatest poker face.

As it was, Raijen amused himself by taking out his bailsong and putting it through the paces. A graduation gift from the Old Man, back when he was in that prison of a high school in Chechnya. American's called it a butterfly knife. It certainty had the grace of one. With a practiced flick of his hand, the sturdy steel seemed to fly apart and then back together, a stainless steel blade poised where there once was nothing. Another flick, and the knife was gone. The little contraption was one of Raijens most prized, and used, possessions.

Any distraction the balisong proved was nothing compared to the commotion a speeding two-wheeler caused as it raged up the on-ramp, and onto the sparsely populated freeway. The moped's high-pitched whine and the surprised honking of the other cars was lost on the detective, but he had a perfect view of the commotion from his seat. With a final flick, the balisong folded and was returned to his pocket. Tapping Yin on her shoulder, Raijen gave a exclamatory grunt, his thumb pointing at the obvious target.

His ears were handicapped, but not his eyes. And at a measly 300 feet, they told him that the driver was either a Cobra, or had a fetish for green. Either way, the little road hog was burning rubber like it was going out of style. More than enough cause to clamp down on the son of bitch, who was disturbing his peace. An eager grin stretched out across Raijen's tan faced, waiting for his partner to kick the bike into gear.

Time to go to work.

Jin, luckily, saw their 'target' about the same instant that Raijen tapped her shoulder - she had been expecting something more along the lines of a compact, and mentally beat herself up for expecting a car instead of a two-wheeler when she herself rode two-wheelers.

Fuckin dumbass chink brain, she thought to herself. She nodded, not bothering to turn her head to let Raijen read her lips as, really, it wasn't necessary. What she was about to do was painfully obvious. "Hold on, Raijen. We're moving into the pursuit." With this stated, she gunned the engine.

Well, not really. Hayabusas aren't meant to carry two people, let alone two full-grown adults who combined weighed almost as much as the poor sportbike itself. And that meant, powerful as its engine was, there was not a chance in hell that Jin would be able to go full throttle from a standing start without flipping over. With what little gas she gave it, it was a wonder she managed to keep the front wheel on the ground at all.

Not that she was concerned - even weighed down as it was, there wasn't a moped on Earth that could escape from the world's fastest production motorcycle. She gradually increased speed as she approached the Green Cobra.

[Reverend Norv]

Friday, April 3, 2015
162 North High Street
New Leiden, Portocielo
18:50

Plastic bullets.

Alan had dug one out of the wall with a switchblade. Alan had studied the bullet. Alan had held the bullet out like a Papist sacred relic, so that Mack could gaze upon its wonders in the glow of squad car lights.

The bullet was plastic. It had mushroomed like a high-velocity hollow point. Mack glanced at the bodies and took in the damage. It made sense. An automatic weapon firing rounds that collapsed, expanded, and blew flesh and bone to smithereens.

Alan hadn’t found any shell casings. Alan was methodical. If he hadn’t found them, they weren’t there. From the approximate caliber of the bullets, Alan pegged the murder weapon as an AK.

Alan smelled a professional hit. Mack knew that he was right. The cat was out of the bag.

Mack stepped away from the scene and draped an arm around Alan’s shoulders, leading him further down the alley so as not to be disturbed. “You’ve done good work, lad,” Mack said quietly. “And I am much inclined to accept your assessment of the situation: this is bigger than the Cobras, and we are dealing with a professional.”

“But that’s not the story we need right now. That story is not in anyone’s interest: not the governor’s, not the public’s, and not ours. The idea that there’s a contract killer with customized ammunition running around New Leiden – that has all the makings of a public panic.” Mack chuckled grimly. “It would be bad for everyone.”

“So for now, we need to keep this under wraps.” Mack glanced shrewdly at Alan. “We’ll make this story go away. That’s what we do. You’ll dig all those funny plastic bullets out of the scene, and we’ll scatter some Kalashnikov shell casings about, and the SID boys will get the message and write the appropriate reports.”

“But that’s not the end of this story,” Mack added firmly. “Not for us. I don’t give a damn for spic aristocrats in general, but these were Felipe’s kin. He’s one of ours, and whoever did this went after him. So we’ll find the fucker. But we’ll do it our way – quietly, off the record, not with the public and the commissioner breathing down our necks.”

Mack glanced at Alan again. “When we’re done here, we’ll take the bullets to Angelica Duarte. If you’ve never seen them before, they must be damned rare, and that means that they might tell us where the killer is from – or even for whom he’s working.”

Mack squeezed Alan’s shoulders. “Clean the scene up, lad. And then go find your partner, eh?”