1705
Ahari Stadium, Clovis Marches
The Condominium
1 August 2009
Meetings among the great crime bosses and slum warlords hardly ever took place behind closed doors. There were a multitude of reasons why - such as the possibility of the meeting place becoming a bloodbath. It had happened before, enough times that the bosses all came to the agreement that any and all “negotiations” would take place on neutral grounds. Nevertheless, the Antediluvians never revealed themselves to the denizens of their city, instead sending “Concierges” to negotiate on their behalf. Violence is still commonplace; neutral ground keeps everyone at an equal start when the bullets start flying.
Ahari Stadium could barely suffice as a reputable area, by cosmopolitan standards. The worn-down arena was once home to an actual professional soccer team, owned by the Ahari-gumi during their Condominium heyday in the '80s, up until most of the team was killed in a plane crash before their ‘86 game in Moscow. The concrete oval surrounding the dead field, with its numerous missing chunks and graffiti, had grown in ignored among the collection of cheap tenements around it. Seating for some two-thousand people had long been neglected. Dense swamps of trash filled many of the aisles, and some piles had even become large enough to topple into the field. Once a verdant green field meticulously nurtured and groomed for many a game, the playing field at Ahari was but patches of ashen-brown grass marked by wide swaths of brown dirt.
It was a place of the old world, forgotten long ago by its neighbors and condemned to wait for a slow dive into ruin. It suited the Antediluvians enough to hold their meetings at Ahari.
Up above the sky, two helicopters - AW109s colored in white paint schemes with a horizontal blue stripe on both sides - swept high over the rooftops of Clovis, rapidly approaching the stadium.
Aboard the helicopter...
Howard Ingles stared intently ahead out of his window, deaf to the rumbling around him as he listened to the sounds within his headset. As the chosen Concierge for the meeting, it was in his best interests to represent the interests of his employers and ensure success. This was a time in which Ingles was feeling the pressure, evident by the gathering glisten of sweat on his brow.
“I want to be sure that you understand the importance of our predicament,” an older, raspy, Italian-accented voice said to no one but Ingles.
The Concierge gave a curt nod, as if he was speaking to the Antediluvians in person.
“I understand it fully, sir,” the Concierge replied. “The uncertainty worries me.”
“As it does the rest of us. The Exchequer will most certainly be opposed to being defanged, but if there is one thing that asshole orphan knows, it's how to get everyone in his pocket.”
“Sir, what if the bosses refuse the offer?”
“Then be in the air in the next twenty minutes.”
The call abruptly dropped, and Ingles was jarred to reality by the voice of the pilot in his ears.
“Approaching the LZ now, sir.”
The Concierge looked away from the window as the helicopter came to a hover, casting a glance around the compartment at the men sitting with him. They were clad in navy-blue flightsuits, wearing black plate carriers, black balaclavas, and flight crew helmets. Their weapons - Heckler & Koch G3s and MP5s - rested with their butts down and barrels pointed upwards. The armed men settled their gaze on Ingles, waiting for his word. He reached out to the right ear-muff of his headset, and changed his frequency.
“Protocol is standard, gentlemen. Team Leaders, ensure that the grounds are secure. Team 1 will be covering the helicopters. Team 2, you have the high ground. If everything goes the way it should, not a shot will be wasted on these mongrels. If not...ensure that Gamma Protocol is in place.”
Ingles let out an internal sigh, invisible to the men in the helicopter. He had serious doubts that any boss would accept the buy-out. Change was coming to the Condominium, and Ingles feared that the failsafe option would only accelerate the sparks of conflict.
1745
Approaching Ahari Stadium
Clovis Marches, The Condominium
1 August 2009
A line of four grey SUVs barreled down the patchy street, flanked on all sides by the goings-on of a local market. People coming to buy produce and “fresh” meat soon found themselves having to dodge the convoy as it cut through. The driver of the lead vehicle, a Mercedes-Benz G-Wagen, occasionally beeped his horn at the fish-like schools of market-goers. A few civilians raised their fjsts and belted out curses in a variety of languages, but the sight of three M4 carbine barrels protruding from half-opened windows of each SUV represented the danger that any escalation might pose.
In the third vehicle from the front, a Mercedes-Benz GLK, Sam Mahler-Cardona sipped a glass of bourbon, as his three companions in the vehicle argued over the purpose of the meeting. He leaned back in the front passenger chair, M4 resting in his lap and his eyes pointed towards the ceiling. The volume of the radio was curbed down, with the sound of Phil Collins coming muffled in the air.
Ben, his driver and long-time friend, rambled on about some gossip that he had heard. Something about the Chinese taking an interest in the Condominium. Sam had heard stories, but nothing that he particularly believed.
“So that Xheng guy I told you about,” the driver said, before being cut off.
“That Tong punk out near the Oolong fish market? You been hanging around with that sorry piece of work?” a woman's voice from the back spoke up. Her Hebrew was carried by an American accent.
“Anyways, Sarah, Xheng was talking shit to our guys when they were unloading fish last Wednesday,” Ben went on, moving his hands along with his words. “He said that the Reds over in Mainland China are invoking some ancient-ass decree that they supposedly have ownership over these islands. They said he was ecstatic about it, like he wants China to take over.”
Sam leaned his seat up, looking over at Ben. He sipped his bourbon.
“Is this that crap about Zheng He putting a garrison on Khonar, some hundreds of years ago?” Sam asked rhetorically. “That's some bullshit fairy tale, and prove me wrong. I don't trust Xheng at all, and neither should any of you.”
A walkie-talkie, clipped to a cupholder on the front console, buzzed to life with the voice of one of the men in the forward vehicle. Sam leaned in, silence took over the compartment.
“Stork 2, Stork Actual; approaching the stadium. Counting multiple cars, in three different clusters. Over.”
Sam sat his glass down in the cupholder, and unclipped his walkie-talkie, bringing it up to his mouth. He looked ahead, and saw the chipped white brick of the stadium growing closer and closer. Up in the distance, across an intersection and further down from the long cobblestone path to the stadium, there were cars waiting outside. No one parked in front of the entrance, leaving it as the middle ground.
Sam couldn't exactly tell who was waiting up ahead, but casting his sights up at the top stands of the stadium, he saw four silhouettes.
“Stork Actual to all Storks; bring it up past the intersection, but don't cross the entrance. I'm seeing four men on overwatch, top stands. Spaced...five meters apart, roughly. Angle with Stork 2 as to provide cover. Hop out and keep your barrels in the air. I want all sides covered and everyone on their guard until we know where everyone stands. Over.”
Sam lowered the walkie-talkie, and lowered his eyes to his clothing. A Birdseye Grey three-piece suit with a black tie, custom-tailored by an eight-generation Jewish tailor of Russian origin. He patted his chest, feeling the sturdy mixture of hard canvas and Class III kevlar plates underneath his dress shirt. He patted underneath his left arm pit, feeling the outline of a leather holster and the grip of a BUL M-5. Everything was where it was supposed to be.
The four vehicles pulled up to their chosen spot and, in practiced movements with careful consideration to reaction and speed, assembled in a diamond formation with their vehicles. Parked in such a way as to provide a formidable defense in such a shootout, it was a formation that the Liebermans could depend on. Ben brought the vehicle to a stop, at the rear of the formation, and threw on the parking break. Sam set his M4 to the side of his seat, and opened the door with his right hand, quickly climbing from the vehicle.
The Lieberman troops climbed from their vehicles, clad in professional suits and visible plate carriers, while toting a variation of automatic weapons. Between twelve and sixteen in total, the troops took positions around the vehicles, standing up straight with their rifle and carbine barrels turned up. Ben, carrying his Galil Carbine by his left side, approached the driver side of the forward vehicle - the G-Wagen, positioned fifty meters from the beginning of the path. He looked up towards the gated entrance. The rusted iron gates were closed, with a solid iron chain securing them together. The middle-aged Border Police veteran turned around, approaching Sam as the boss walked towards the rear of the G-Wagen.
“Gate's closed. Probably waiting for more people.”
Sam nodded, and produced a pack of Marlboro Red cigarettes from his pocket. He passed one to Be, and placed another in his mouth.
“I'll be up by the hood,” Sam muttered. “Shout if anyone pulls up on our side of the demarcation line and keep any stray shots from ringing out on our side.”
“Yes sir,” Ben replied, as he patted his pocket for a lighter. Feeling nothing, he looked up to see Sam holding a lighter out for him, the burning flame awaiting the cigarette. Ben grinned, and leaned in to light his cigarette. Without a word, Sam turned away and walked ahead of the G-Wagen, his eyes focused on the other side of the path, at the cars and figures opposite of him. He looked back towards the men on the stands. Exhaling a cloud of smoke, Sam wondered what would be happening next.
