Likely Lads (IC) [Closed]

[Reverend Norv]

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

The four eyewitnesses listened in silence to Rebecca’s questions. As the detective spoke, Henrik Smuts’ florid face slowly turned beet-red. As soon soon as Rebecca finished, the old man slapped the table in front of him. He hit it hard. He wore heavy gold rings, and Mia Fernandez flinched at the sound of metal on wood.

“Who the hell do you think you are, Detective?” Henrik demanded. “So far tonight, my wife has watched a family gunned down in cold blood, your friends here have trapped us in this café for the last hour, and now you show up to – to – to fucking interrogate us like so many street thugs, without so much as a goddamn ‘Sorry for the inconvenience’ or ‘I know this must be hard for you.’ Where the fuck do you get off on this?”

Paula Smuts gently laid a hand on her husband’s arm, and the old man subsided. Henrik just sat there and fumed.

Mia Fernandez held her head in her hands. Petr Bolyakov shot Rebecca a wry, sympathetic grin, and winked. Juan Cruz glared at him.

Paula Smuts took a deep breath. “It was about six-ten or six-fifteen. We were sitting at that table.” Paula pointed at a table by the café’s front window. It was currently occupied by two bluesuits. The men shifted awkwardly in their chairs.

“There was a lot of traffic,” Paula continued. “I was talking to my husband. Then I heard gunfire from the street outside. There were people screaming, and the traffic went crazy. I saw those – “ Paula paused, and swallowed hard “ – those poor people lying on the sidewalk across the street. My husband pulled out his cell phone and called the police.” Paula shook her head. “I’m sorry. That’s all I saw.”

Henrik nodded emphatically. “We didn’t see any suspects, Detective.” The man’s tone dripped acid. “We didn’t even see a getaway vehicle, let alone weapons. The street was full of cars. Someone shot some gun from some car. And then the traffic went crazy. Everyone was trying to get away, all at the same time. The car you’re looking for could have been any of them. It was quite impossible to tell where the shooting had come from.”

Petr Bolyakov shrugged. “It was like that,” he agreed. His Russian accent was almost musical. “Many cars. Gunfire. Many cars drive away. Dead people. All very fast.”

Mia Fernandez took her hands away from her face and looked up. She was very pretty; her mascara had streaked from weeping. “We have CCTV,” she said shakily, “but it’s only for the café and the sidewalk outside. I don’t know how useful it would be, but I can show you the feed from tonight if you want. It’s in the back room.”

[Reverend Norv]

Friday, April 3, 2015
Governor's Mansion
New Leiden, Portocielo
18:50

Eli Metzler looked at Harry Schwartz. He looked, a little apprehensively, at Christopher Shape. He glanced over his shoulder at the woman behind the receptionist’s desk. He glanced over his shoulder at her a lot.

Note the sheen of sweat on the rabbi’s face. Note the subtle hand-wringing gestures. Note the constantly moving eyes. Note the hesitation, the care in formulating a response. Note the way he swallows to wet his throat before speaking.

“Shabbat Shalom, Harry,” Eli replied. “I was looking for the governor.” The rabbi nodded at the woman behind the desk. “Apparently, he doesn’t want to talk to me.”

The woman gave an iceberg smile. “I’m afraid that Governor Cuypers is out to dinner – as I said, Rabbi Metzler. And he will not be taking visits from the public after dinner, no matter how urgent the issue may be.”

Eli shot Harry a brittle grin. “As you see.”

There was a moment’s silence. The receptionist lazily spun a Mont Blanc pen between long, perfectly manicured fingers.

Eli glanced out the window. Across Truman Square, the last rays of the sun were fading behind Pope Tower. Eli closed his eyes and the strength flowed out of him like water. His shoulders fell.

“I should go,” Eli said quietly. “I have to get back for services.” Eli glanced at Harry, and smiled sadly, and nodded. “I wish you better luck than I have had.”

[Reverend Norv]

Friday, April 3, 2015
Restaurant Ortolan
New Leiden, Portocielo
18:50

There was a painful moment of silence after Ronnie had finished speaking. Wayne Cuypers shot a glance at Harry Pope, and laughed, and stammered apologetically. Don Carlos leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers, and gave Celestia a long, looooong look.

Harry Pope chuckled, and shook his head, and gave Ronnie a pitying look. “Son, there’s no secrets among friends.” His voice was a nasal Boston bray. “And I’m sure we’re all friends here. Right?”

Don Carlos watched Celestia. Don Carlos stared. Don Carlos was short and stocky, and wore a casual linen summer suit, and was going bald on the top of his head. His eyes were large and dark and liquid and impossible to read.

Wayne Cuypers laughed nervously. “Hell, we’re not friends. We’re family. Harry, this maat is Ronnie Viljoen. He married my daughter.”

Harry Pope raised one thin eyebrow. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Viljoen. Now, what is all this about?”

“From the demeanor of the good detectives, I’d say that they’re here on official police business,” Don Carlos observed. “Not that I’d know anything about that, of course.”

Everyone laughed. Wayne Cuypers wheezed. He gasped out: “These two work for Liam the Mack. There’s nothing official about them!”

Harry Pope chuckled politely, and said: “Well, perhaps we should hear what they have to say.” Harry Pope was not a man used to asking for something twice.

Don Carlos nodded. “Yes, yes.” The short man pushed his chair away from the table and stood. He picked up his wine glass and rapped his fork against it.

Everyone looked up. The attorney general and the police commissioner, the Bewaker Voorzijde politicians, the old Dutch aristocrats and the judges and the call girls - they all fell silent.

“Apologies for the interruption,” Don Carlos said casually, “but I require the room.”

There was a moment of silence. A wine-glass cracked in Sebastian van Rijn’s hand. A few tables away, Clara Ramirez stared around at the drama and smiled delightedly.

Ingrid Claar managed a good-natured huff and got up from her chair. Miranda Santos followed her. In under a minute, the elite of Portocielo drained out of the restaurant and gathered in the parking lot to wait.

Candlelight gave a golden gleam to half-filled wine glasses and cooling foie gras. Don Carlos sat down and raised an eyebrow. “Privacy,” he announced.

Harry Pope smiled for the first time. The expression would put any shark to shame.

Wayne Cuypers cleared his throat awkwardly. “So, Ronnie,” he managed. “What’s this all about, then?”

[Reverend Norv]

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

Yin’s Hayabusa gained steadily on the kid’s scooter. For the first minute or so, the kid didn’t even notice the bike on his tail. He weaved through traffic, squeezing between cars. He kept shooting alarmed glances back over his shoulder to the west, toward Truman Square.

And then the kid cottoned on.

His gaze hit Yin. His gaze hit the bike. His mouth opened: It’s right behind me. His eyes widened. Cops.

The kid revved his little scooter. Yin kept pace with ease. The kid glanced back over his shoulder again and shouted something. The words were lost in the roar of traffic.

The kid weaved around a semi truck. Yin followed. The kid reached into his hoodie and pulled a piece: a dull black number, probably a Glock.

The kid twisted around and started shooting.

It was loud: high, sharp, nine-mil crack-crack-cracking, like a bullwhip snapping in front of a concert mike. The kid didn’t hit much of anything, but the expressway went nuts. Bullets tore up asphalt and ricocheted off the guardrails. A pickup swerved, and hit a hatchback, and they both careened off the road. Bullets punched through a random sedan’s front tires, and the vehicle started spinning like a top, clobbering other drivers as it went. The big black Suburban that the detectives had seen earlier went into full, professional evasive-driving mode, cutting neatly around the whirling sedan and accelerating out of danger.

The kid kept shooting. Bullets peppered the side of the semi, and the truck smashed through the guardrail and toppled onto its side with a crash like a million pots and pans hitting the ground. The back end of the trailer was still on the road, blocking one whole lane.

The impact knocked the doors of the semi’s trailer open. There was an avalanche-like rumbling. About fifteen thousand fucking oranges poured out and started rolling all over the Raamgracht Expressway.

The kid screamed. The kid hit his brakes. The kid’s scooter ran over a half-dozen oranges, and then the front wheel spun out in a pool of viscous orange pulp. The bike went out from under the kid, and he landed on his back. The piece flew out of his hand and landed a few yards away, on top of a pile of a few dozen oranges.

The kid looked at Yin and Raijen, and raised his hands. His foot and ankle were twisted at an unnatural angle. “I didn’t do nothing,” he wheezed.

But his eyes followed the big black Suburban up the Expressway and out of sight, and in that gaze there was nothing but fear.

[Walabam]

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

The four eyewitnesses listened in silence to Rebecca’s questions. As the detective spoke, Henrik Smuts’ florid face slowly turned beet-red. As soon soon as Rebecca finished, the old man slapped the table in front of him. He hit it hard. He wore heavy gold rings, and Mia Fernandez flinched at the sound of metal on wood.

“Who the hell do you think you are, Detective?” Henrik demanded. “So far tonight, my wife has watched a family gunned down in cold blood, your friends here have trapped us in this café for the last hour, and now you show up to – to – to fucking interrogate us like so many street thugs, without so much as a goddamn ‘Sorry for the inconvenience’ or ‘I know this must be hard for you.’ Where the fuck do you get off on this?”

Paula Smuts gently laid a hand on her husband’s arm, and the old man subsided. Henrik just sat there and fumed.

Mia Fernandez held her head in her hands. Petr Bolyakov shot Rebecca a wry, sympathetic grin, and winked. Juan Cruz glared at him.

Paula Smuts took a deep breath. “It was about six-ten or six-fifteen. We were sitting at that table.” Paula pointed at a table by the café’s front window. It was currently occupied by two bluesuits. The men shifted awkwardly in their chairs.

“There was a lot of traffic,” Paula continued. “I was talking to my husband. Then I heard gunfire from the street outside. There were people screaming, and the traffic went crazy. I saw those – “ Paula paused, and swallowed hard “ – those poor people lying on the sidewalk across the street. My husband pulled out his cell phone and called the police.” Paula shook her head. “I’m sorry. That’s all I saw.”

Henrik nodded emphatically. “We didn’t see any suspects, Detective.” The man’s tone dripped acid. “We didn’t even see a getaway vehicle, let alone weapons. The street was full of cars. Someone shot some gun from some car. And then the traffic went crazy. Everyone was trying to get away, all at the same time. The car you’re looking for could have been any of them. It was quite impossible to tell where the shooting had come from.”

Petr Bolyakov shrugged. “It was like that,” he agreed. His Russian accent was almost musical. “Many cars. Gunfire. Many cars drive away. Dead people. All very fast.”

Mia Fernandez took her hands away from her face and looked up. She was very pretty; her mascara had streaked from weeping. “We have CCTV,” she said shakily, “but it’s only for the café and the sidewalk outside. I don’t know how useful it would be, but I can show you the feed from tonight if you want. It’s in the back room.”

Rebecca crossed her arms while she looked at the man calmly. She smiled as the man asked her who she thought she was, replying; "I'm Detective Rebecca van Rijn, in case you have hearing problems, from the Goon Squad," putting emphasis on the last two words, "and my job is not to calm people down. If you really want that to happen, perhaps I could offer you a lollipop to suck on?" It was a known fact that Rebecca wasn't a patient individual, and neither was she the best at questionings - the man's behavior had irked her. "Nonetheless, I thank you for doing your job as a good citizen by calling the Police," she concluded.

It did not take long for Rebecca to start consoling Mrs. Smuts, though. Patting Mrs. Smuts on the shoulder, Rebecca listened closely to what she had to say. The woman apologized. Rebecca assured her it wasn't her fault.

Then, another eye-witness stepped forward to speak up.

“We didn’t see any suspects, Detective," started the other eye-witness, Henrik, "...It was quite impossible to tell where the shooting had come from." Rebecca frowned. So far, the eye-witnesses haven't had any stable accounts of what had happened across the street, and it wasn't going to help the Goon Squad solve the case. She, too, was afraid to disappoint Mack by going back to him empty-handed.

The Russian man spoke. Rebecca had seen him winking at her earlier on, but she didn't think too much about it. “Many cars. Gunfire. Many cars drive away. Dead people. All very fast,” stated the man. Rebecca nodded at his statement, once again in disappointment. She looked him in the eye, and returned a wink before turning towards Mia Fernandez.

Rebecca pondered while her hand approached the young lady in shock. Plan B, perhaps. Plan B.

Instead of giving the lady just a simple, "it's going to be okay" bullshit, Rebecca walked her to a seat, offering it to her, before kneeling down with one knee next to her. Using her thumb, Rebecca delicately wiped the tears and the ruined mascara off the young lady's face, only laying the "it's going to be okay" bullshit after it.

"It's going to be okay, Mia. Don't cry now, you ain't looking pretty anymore," giggled Rebecca before standing herself up. "You said you have CCTV recordings? That's nice. Doesn't matter what it shows. I'll just take a look, yes?"

If this doesn't work out, though. Plan B. Plan B. Rebecca thought deeply as she turned back to stare at the Russian man.

[Cylarn]

Ronnie was not a fan of talking to rich people, because it was exactly like dealing with his commanders in both Patrol and VMI. You approach them, and they immediately begin to patronize you. It was clear that Harry and Carlos weren't going to leave the table and give Ronnie his privacy with Wayne. Harry made the assumption that they were all friends, but that was a stone-cold lie. The Cuypers-Lanza-Pope conglomerate was a testament to the power struggle on Portocielo; all three were rivals for control of the island, but they were willing to coexist with their current power structure to keep anyone else from exerting a significant level of power on the island, political and otherwise. Ronnie simply stood there, waiting for an opportunity to speak.

He was given a demonstration of that power when Don Lanza tapped his fork on his glass, grabbing the attention of the elite faces of Portocielo. The gesture was more than just a way to clear the room; it was a show of how powerful Dan Lanza, Wayne Cuypers, and Harry Pope actually were. Ronnie betrayed no emotion to the action, to save face among the triumvirate. The last thing he wanted to do was to look weak before these men. Pretty soon, the room was devoid of life, save for Ronnie, Celestia, and the most powerful men on the island. This was how close to privacy with the governor that he was going to get. He scanned the triumvirate for a quick moment, and delivered the news.

"Sebastian Carilla was among 5 casualties today over near High Street today," he said. "The Green Cobras were responsible, sir."

He gave them a moment to take the news and debate it. He was going to give them a chance to give him the answer he was looking for, without giving them the question.

[Rudaslavia]

Celestia met Don Carlos's gaze with a daring leer. The man placed himself on a Caesar-esque pedestal; he believed that he'd surpassed Portocielo's time-honored elite. Ha! What a ridiculous concept! Don Carlos Lanza was a degenerate hog. He and his ancestors held no legitimate titles. What right to power did he have on the island? None. None at all.

Challenge me, she thought, I beg you to challenge me. I'll carve out your heart.

But de Jaager emitted not a hint of negative energy. Like with Mack, she actively reflected the pondering glares of the triumvirate. It was a difficult task, especially in the face of Don Carlos. Luckily, her efforts to mask her innermost rage were cut short by Ronnie's explanation.

"Sebastian Carilla was among 5 casualties today over near High Street today," he informed Cuypers. "The Green Cobras were responsible, sir."

Celestia positioned herself directly at Ronnie's side, almost as if to give him support amidst the overbearing egos of Cuypers, Pope, and Lanza. Ronnie felt uncomfortable addressing the rich, and Celestia knew him well enough to sense it. She hoped her partner could feel her reassuring presence.

As the pair of detectives awaited the Governor's response, Celestia resumed her quiet game of cat-and-mouse with Don Carlos.

[TriStates]

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

Yin’s Hayabusa gained steadily on the kid’s scooter. For the first minute or so, the kid didn’t even notice the bike on his tail. He weaved through traffic, squeezing between cars. He kept shooting alarmed glances back over his shoulder to the west, toward Truman Square.

And then the kid cottoned on.

His gaze hit Yin. His gaze hit the bike. His mouth opened: It’s right behind me. His eyes widened. Cops.

The kid revved his little scooter. Yin kept pace with ease. The kid glanced back over his shoulder again and shouted something. The words were lost in the roar of traffic.

The kid weaved around a semi truck. Yin followed. The kid reached into his hoodie and pulled a piece: a dull black number, probably a Glock.

The kid twisted around and started shooting.

It was loud: high, sharp, nine-mil crack-crack-cracking, like a bullwhip snapping in front of a concert mike. The kid didn’t hit much of anything, but the expressway went nuts. Bullets tore up asphalt and ricocheted off the guardrails. A pickup swerved, and hit a hatchback, and they both careened off the road. Bullets punched through a random sedan’s front tires, and the vehicle started spinning like a top, clobbering other drivers as it went. The big black Suburban that the detectives had seen earlier went into full, professional evasive-driving mode, cutting neatly around the whirling sedan and accelerating out of danger.

The kid kept shooting. Bullets peppered the side of the semi, and the truck smashed through the guardrail and toppled onto its side with a crash like a million pots and pans hitting the ground. The back end of the trailer was still on the road, blocking one whole lane.

The impact knocked the doors of the semi’s trailer open. There was an avalanche-like rumbling. About fifteen thousand fucking oranges poured out and started rolling all over the Raamgracht Expressway.

The kid screamed. The kid hit his brakes. The kid’s scooter ran over a half-dozen oranges, and then the front wheel spun out in a pool of viscous orange pulp. The bike went out from under the kid, and he landed on his back. The piece flew out of his hand and landed a few yards away, on top of a pile of a few dozen oranges.

The kid looked at Yin and Raijen, and raised his hands. His foot and ankle were twisted at an unnatural angle. “I didn’t do nothing,” he wheezed.

But his eyes followed the big black Suburban up the Expressway and out of sight, and in that gaze there was nothing but fear.

Raijen gave the kid a sardonic smile as he read his lips, dropping a mock nod of understanding, while he casually walked over to the injured gangbanger. Dropping to a crouch opposite of the kid, the Detective reached deftly into his jacket, and withdrew the balisong. With practiced flick of his wrist, the knife came into being with a slick sounding snick, the blade gleaming in the sunlight. The jingle of metal dogs tags could be heard as they danced around the Detectives neck, disturbed by the sudden movement.

By now, those present were probably ready for some Inquisition-interrogation shit to go down. The younger Skorzeny's fame, or infamy, on the Force was built on his track record for getting under peoples skin. Flipping thugs, netting confessions, intimidating the intimidators. Maybe it was his presence. His eerie silence that sounded deafening. His presence? The kind that seemed to suck all the warmth from a room. Or how his sunken, shallow eyes never seemed to miss a single, solitary, movement.

But thats what would be expected. Raijen didn't do expected. So, with a tired huff, the middle-aged man plopped his ass on the asphalt, picked up one of the battered fruits. Drawing the knife to him, Oriental cop proceeded to peel half of it, before taking a big, noisy, bite. All the while, his eyes never left the kid.

And so Raijen sat. Eating oranges.. next to a bike crash and a bleeding Cobra.. on a Portocielo freeway.

After taking his time to chew and swallow the last bite, the detective dropped the half eaten orange. Raising his free hand so it could clearly be seen, Raijen began to sign slowly, so that Yin could interpret for him.

"I don't know who you are. And thats not important. What is, is that you know who I am. That you're coming with us. And you'll do everything we'll tell you. Think about that before you speak, because one of two things is going to happen: Either I'm going to skin oranges or..."

"I'm.. going.. to skin.. You..."

That last bit came from Raijen. And in case broken words and part-time translators weren't clear enough, Raijen firmly tapped the mans broken ankle with the blade.

This is where we'll start

No words, spoken or sign, were needed for that to be said...

[Reverend Norv]

Friday, April 3, 2015
155 North High Street
New Leiden, Portocielo
18:55

Henrik Smuts fumed. Henrik Smuts snarled: “I don’t care who you are, you jumped-up little bitch, I’ll – “

Paula Smuts grabbed her husband’s arm with both hands and chirped: “Henrik, Henrik, Henrik, Henrik – “

Henrik spat disgustedly and glared at Rebecca. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer. Maybe he can even bring a lollipop for you, whelp.”

Petr Bolyakov caught Rebecca’s wink and grinned delightedly. Petr raised his eyebrows and inclined his head just a tiny bit in the direction of the Smutses. His expression said: Unbelievable, right?

Mia Fernandez placidly followed Rebecca to a seat. She flinched and gasped slightly when Rebecca touched her face. She started to pull away, then gave Rebecca a frightened look and visibly forced herself to sit still. Mia waited, her whole body rigid, until Rebecca had finished cleaning Mia’s streaked mascara. Mia’s breath came rapid and shallow. When Rebecca was finally done, Mia tried to hide an uncontrollable sigh of relief. She didn’t laugh at Rebecca’s little joke.

“CCTV recordings,” Mia Fernandez nodded. “Yeah. Yeah. Absolutely. I, um” - she gave Rebecca another wide-eyed glance – “The monitors are in the back room, right through there.” Mia pointed at a door behind the café’s counter. “You should be able to access it right away. I, um – I have to use the bathroom.”

With that, Mia fled toward the ladies’, followed by a longsuffering bluesuit.

The back room of the café was dreary: concrete floor, peeling paint on the walls, bare lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling. Note the big plastic tubs full of coffee beans. Note the folding table and chairs, still littered with playing cards and bottle-cap chips.

Note the three boxy TVs showing real-time footage of the street outside. Note the little digital recorder to which they’re all connected.

The recorder could be rewound. The recorder buzzed and hummed. The TVs crawled with static and then shifted, showing the street at about six o’clock that evening.

Rebecca saw cars crawl back and forth in grainy black-and-white footage, stuck in black-and-white footage. She saw pedestrians hurry along: the business-suit and briefcase brigade, headed back to homes in Angelwood.

The footage wasn’t much use: the café’s CCTV cameras showed only the café’s side of High Street. The vics had been gunned down on the other side of High Street. The cameras didn’t show so much as a glimpse of them.

The footage showed something else, though.

At 6:04:21, a big black SUV with tinted windows came onscreen. It was headed north, and the cameras just barely caught it: the vehicle was half on-screen and half off-screen. The license plate was out of view.

At 6:04:39, the SUV stopped right in the middle of the road. The car behind it stopped too, careening to a halt as the driver slammed on the brakes.

6:04:41. The cameras picked up weird, strobing artificial light coming from the off-camera side of the SUV. Muzzle flash.

6:04:45: Pedestrians ran every which way, mouths wide, dropping briefcases and purses as they fled. Traffic went crazy; cars careened around each other, accelerating away in a mad race. The big SUV zipped offscreen, lost in the press.

6:11:22: A PTPD black-and-white arrived, bar light flashing, and the bluesuits started setting up their perimeter.

And that was all she wrote.

[Reverend Norv]

Friday, April 3, 2015
Governor's Mansion
New Leiden, Portocielo
18:55

The sound of Eli Metzler’s footsteps receded down the long hallway and died into silence.

The woman behind the receptionist’s desk turned the Christopher Shape and Eli Schwartz. She was maybe forty, with the kind of looks that only money could buy. Her blonde hair was perfectly coiffed. She was still playing with that Swiss pen. She studied the two detectives with a languid, scientific curiosity. The plaque on her desk read: “Aalders”.

“As I said,” the receptionist explained, “the Governor has finished his workday and is now out to dinner. He will not be taking any more visitors tonight.”

The woman gave Shape a long, curious look. “However,” she added slowly, “I can leave a message for you, if this matter warrants the Governor’s attention. Forgive my bluntness, but: why are you here, Mister…”

The question trailed off, ending in an interrogatory raised eyebrow.

[Reverend Norv]

Friday, April 3, 2015
Restaurant Ortolan
New Leiden, Portocielo
18:55

There was a long moment of silence after Ronnie delivered his news.

Don Carlos bowed his head, his hands clasped as if in prayer on the table before him. Harry Pope pondered the chandelier, his face expressionless.

Wayne Cuypers leaned back in his head, and let out a long breath. “Sebastian Carilla. I – that’s” – the governor shook his head. His eyes flickered to Harry Pope, and then away. “I don’t know what to say. Jesus, Ronnie.”

“The Green Cobras.” Don Carlos looked up; his sad brown eyes rested calmly on Celestia. “The Green Cobras are a menace to civilized society.”

“I know,” Wayne Cuypers almost shouted. The old man took a deep breath. “I know.”

“So.” Harry Pope did not take his eyes off the chandelier. “What are we going to do about it?”

“Five casualties,” Don Carlos murmured. “Sebastian was in town with his family.” Don Carlos stared between Ronnie and Celestia. The horror in the mob boss’s eyes looked authentic. “It was his family, wasn’t it? They killed his whole family.”

“So,” Harry Pope repeated patiently, “what are we going to do about it?”

Wayne looked at Ronnie. “You and Mack have been raring to go after the Cobras ever since – since Andrea.” Wayne took a deep breath. “I want that too. But I can’t have gun battles in the middle of Truman Square. Washington would establish fucking martial law.” The governor shook his head. “Bring me a perp. Dead, preferably, and with convincing fucking evidence that he’s our guy. But kill him slow. Send the Cobras a message that they don’t get to fuck us with – with – what’s the word?”

“Impunity,” Don Carlos said quietly.

“With impunity.” Wayne nodded. “No war, Ronnie. But teach them to fear us. You understand?”

[Reverend Norv]

Friday, April 3, 2015
Raamgracht Expressway
New Leiden, Portocielo
18:55

The Green Cobra’s eyes got big when he saw Raijen pull a butterfly knife. “Fuck, man, stop,” he babbled. “Look, I didn’t do anything, I didn’t see anything, you’ve got the wrong guy, oh fuck, oh fuck – “

Raijen started eating an orange.

The kid stared for a moment, and then tried to pull his leg out from under the bike, and howled in pain. “Jesus! God! Oh, fuck. I need a hospital. You gotta take me to a hospital, right? I need a doctor, man, I need – “

Raijen turned to Yin and started signing. The young man stared incredulously. “Wait, are you deaf?”

And then Raijen spoke, all slurred and guttural: “I’m – going – to skin – you.” And the butterfly knife touched the kid’s ankle.

The Cobra yelped. The Cobra whimpered. The Cobra’s jeans turned dark around the crotch and the acrid smell of piss wafted over the road.

“What do you want?” The kid flailed his arms helplessly, slapping at the asphalt. “What do you even fucking want?”

[Cylarn]

Ronnie listened as the men spoke with one another, preceded by a few moments of silence that felt like an eternity. Indeed, they were taken aback by the grisly murder of the family. The long silence reminded Ronnie of 9/11, when he and Hector Estevez were at the Blue Moon when word was received of the terrorist attack. They could hardly believe that they were seeing on the TV, when Matt Lauer's interview with an author was interrupted by the fateful news that would forever transform the duties of American law enforcement. The two officers sat dumbfounded, trading stares with the images on the TV and one another. Andrea was in New York City that day. He felt a sense of shock at that moment, and he felt as though the shock that the triumvirate was feeling was similar.

The triumvirate discussed action. Wayne Cuypers wanted something to be done; he wanted one of the hood rats to be brought to him, dead. He knew that Ronnie and Mack wanted to pulverize the Green Cobras and flood the streets with their blood, but with Monteflores recovering from its own war, too many gang wars in the streets of New Leiden would bring the focus of the federal government down upon New Leiden. Part of Ronnie wondered if the intense federal scrutiny wasn't necessarily a bad thing; the feds would finally be expected to deal with the Fronte Nacional, but then the PTPD would be brought under a microscope. The department would be restructured completely; Santos would be kicked out of office and be replaced by some federal puppet from the US mainland, and the Goon Squad would be placed behind bars. Ronnie couldn't even begin to imagine what would happen to Cuypers, or the rest of Portocielo's triumvirate.

Still though, Ronnie had wanted the Green Cobras to be dealt with 6 years ago, when the headlines detailed his wife's grisly rape. 5 Cobras devoured by pigs in the Laagveldt were only a temporary curb to Ronnie's desire for vengeance. Sooner or later, a more permanent solution had to be considered. Just because Ronnie saw and accepted the situation at hand didn't mean that he was completely in favor of it.

"We're already on it, sir," Ronnie said. "They'll understand their place in the city, but at some point, green bandanas and snake tags need to be relics of a by-gone gang. For the headlines, what are you imagining? 'Carilla Family Murder Caught Hours After Act,' or something else?"

[TriStates]

Friday, April 3, 2015
Raamgracht Expressway
New Leiden, Portocielo
18:55

The Green Cobra’s eyes got big when he saw Raijen pull a butterfly knife. “Fuck, man, stop,” he babbled. “Look, I didn’t do anything, I didn’t see anything, you’ve got the wrong guy, oh fuck, oh fuck – “

Raijen started eating an orange.

The kid stared for a moment, and then tried to pull his leg out from under the bike, and howled in pain. “Jesus! God! Oh, fuck. I need a hospital. You gotta take me to a hospital, right? I need a doctor, man, I need – “

Raijen turned to Yin and started signing. The young man stared incredulously. “Wait, are you deaf?”

And then Raijen spoke, all slurred and guttural: “I’m – going – to skin – you.” And the butterfly knife touched the kid’s ankle.

The Cobra yelped. The Cobra whimpered. The Cobra’s jeans turned dark around the crotch and the acrid smell of piss wafted over the road.

“What do you want?” The kid flailed his arms helplessly, slapping at the asphalt. “What do you even fucking want?”

Raijen released a tired sigh as the kid soiled himself in the midst of all his babbling. The detective was beginning to get bored with all this talk.

I want your cooperation. Doctors come after. Now, don't move. Or I'll do some surgery of my own.

The signed words were done quickly for Yin to translate. Standing up from where he sat on the road, Raijen continued signing, though these were for his partner's benefit only.

Call Mac. Give him a sit-rep. Find out what if he wants the kid ASAP, or he wants him patched up first.

Tossing a look at the kid behind him, Raijen grounded out the letters between a skull like smile.

"Don't -- move."

With the perfunctory intimidation done, and awaiting further orders, Dog Tags leaned against his partners propped up motorcycle. Tucking in his chin to his chest, a shadow was casted over his face, obscuring his unwavering gaze from view. Nothing to do but watch and wait.

[Rudaslavia]

Celestia loathed the triumvirate's pretenses of benevolence. How many families had they themselves destroyed? How much devastation had their antics caused? Their blood was stained crimson, but they didn't give a shit about "humanity" until they got a taste of their own medicine. The Carillas' demise was repugnant in every form; it was a nauseating feat of the Devil. But Celestia had no doubt that similar tragedies often occurred at the will of the triumvirate. Fuck Cuypers, fuck Pope, and fuck Lanza.

"The Green Cobras," said the Mafia kingpin, his eyes meeting Celestia's. "The Green Cobras are a menace to civilized society."

What the hell was Don Carlos trying to do? Every comment dug deeper into her skin. Luckily, Lanza's remarks were overshadowed by the governor's subsequent warning: "I can’t have gun battles in the middle of Truman Square. Washington would establish fucking martial law."

Celestia resisted the urge to smile. She had long prayed for the feds to come crashing down upon Portociello. The triumvirate, the gangs, the Fronte Nacional -- all of them would be shredded like paper. Kate Wallace and Celestia could then openly pursue the Goon Squad. And Mack...Mack would finally suffer the gruesome fate he deserved.

The thought pleased her so intensely that she almost wished to start a gunfight herself. Aye, such a move would be impractical. But the idea had potential. What if she and Wallace were to give Washington an incentive? What if they could orchestrate the perfect provocation?

For now, it would have to wait. Celestia and Ronnie were not yet free from the presence of the triumvirate pigs.