Crimes Against Art (Open RP) - Current Pace: 1 post / day

Ian nodded as Dmitri explained the plan, slowly drinking from his bottle. "Well, we can always just "borrow" a normal, non-flashy car. Although I think that would bring us more unwanted attention. I know a girl, a Kenyan I've worked with several times, she's got herself a delivery van. Now, I'm not sure if that's something you'd want or-"

He stopped when he heard his name. The voice was familiar, and as he turned to face the source it all came back to him.

"...D?" He looked her over quickly; something was wrong. "Are...Are you alright?"

Dmitri glanced between them, his face stony. If nothing else, the man could probably play poker.

"Not necessarily," he said evenly. He turned to Ian. "Friend of yours, I take it?"

He turned back to Dmitri, nodding. "Yeah, another Limey from across the pond."

He looked between them, pondering for a moment.

"She's also pretty good with a gun, if you think we could use an extra hand."

He stared into his mug. The steam from his coffee still wafting into the air. The black swirls of his beverage melded into the wooden finish of his table. But he wasn't paying attention to that. He was fixated on the small "party" forming at the back booth. All his focus was set on it since he heard the thump of the small girls fist on the table. Then he see's he pull a gun on the man across from her.

"It wasn't just friends sitting around for a small chat, something was up." He thought. "Beside, who pulls heat on a friend, and then doesn't shoot? Seems like a surefire way to end a friendship. Something is defiantly in the works. It wasn't small time either, looked like to much talking for that. Couldn't be to big either, to public a venue." He mumbled to himself. Wishing he could get closer to hear something. "That girl is on edge." He watched as her head twitched every time something audibly louder that pin-drop echoed in the room.

He slouched in his chair, turning back to his coffee as the two men glances shot across the room at someone. He didn't exactly know what was up, but they certainly weren't SSPD, or 'forcers and he needed money.

It wasn't the first time he had to shelve his twisted sense of righteousness to make a few quick bucks, and it certainly would be the last.

"Can't hurt to at least find out"

He grabbed a small coaster from the center of his table and wrapped a napkin over it. Using the pen from his long overdue bill he scribbled furiously.


He motioned the waitress over.

"Buy that man in the corner booth a coffee and serve it on this." He said in a low voice trying to avoid detection as he handed her the makeshift note. "Don't say who its from, here." He motioned to his pocket pulling out some small bills and handing them to her.

He made his way to the door sliding his cigarettes from his pocket.

"Shit, last one."

An audible groan escaped the felled man on the sidewalk.

Tony was rolling around in discomfort, trying to regain his composure. The impact of his body hitting the ground knocked the wind out past his bruised ribs. He had tripped over the outstretched leg of a redheaded beggar sitting on the sidewalk. He didn't even see her, his eyes both swollen form the alley brawl he just managed to recover from.

Struggling to his feet, he continued through the rain without a word to the homeless lady.

He managed a slow march with labored breaths, an arm tucked in protectively at his right side, a clear sign of his bruised ribs. His nose was tweeked and bloody, most likely broken and hindering his breathing. He decided that he would need better shelter from the rain that was beginning to increase in ferocity, than the shaded bus stop he had originally decided upon before his incident with the beggar.

He decided that he would enter the first place with a bathroom to try and clean himself up.

Continuing his ragged march, he managed up the block and around the corner onto Beaumont Street. Ahead he saw, or partly saw, a man smoking on the sidewalk in front of what Tony had hoped was some sort of diner. It wasn't until he was in front of the structure he realized it was a bar by the sign he struggled to read.

Doing his best to avoid eye contact, Tony made his way past the smoker and through the door. As he entered he dropped his protective arm and squared his shoulders standing tall and proud, imagining the old days and the first time he wore his Dress Blues. He didn't want to draw anymore attention than his swollen eyes, bloodied nose, and overall ragged appearance would bring him. His blue jeans and boots were muddy, his white A-shirt was bloodied, and his unbuttoned black over shirt was frayed.

Doing his best to control his breathing and avoid eye contact, Tony made a bee line to the back hoping to find a bathroom. He ignored the bartender as he passed a random girl eating a sandwich, and a strange group in a booth.

After locking the bathroom door behind him, Tony made his way to the sink to assess his condition in the mirror.

-

Outside, eleven men gathered in front of the Tap Room, all head to toe in green.

"Ricky said they got jumped around here. Check around the block; that fucker couldn't have gotten far. Jon, you and Gary check the bar. Be sure to ask nicely."

Jon nodded his head, resting the baseball bat against his shoulder. Gary was absently flicking his butterfly knife around, making the blade appear and disappear.

"Everyone else look around the block. If you find him, put the word out. Fuck him up, but save some for the rest of us."

With that, the group dissolved to just two, Jon forcing his way past the idle smoker and into the bar, followed by Gary.

-

Tony had managed to rid himself of his swollen eyes by breaking the restroom mirror and using a shard of glass to to make a cut to let the blood out. He managed to straighten his nose as well, though it had made his eyes water horribly. Content with being able to see again, he quickly rang the rainfall out of his over shirt before exiting the bathroom.

At the bar, were two men, fully decked out in green. One had a knife in one hand, and the bartender in the other, making hostile jabs with the knife. The other was smashing glasses and bottles with a baseball bat.

"Are you sure you didn't see him," asked Gary.

"I didn't see anyone," exclaimed the bartender.

"Aw, c'mon Joe," teased Gary. "We know that you see everything that happens on Beaumont." Gary began to bring the knife closer to one of the Bartender's eyeballs.

It was then that Jon noticed the ragged man standing at the back by the bathrooms.

"Well, look what we have here. Gary, I think we found our boy," Jon said while pointing at Tony with the baseball bat. "Go get the crew."

With only an evil smirk, Gary released the bartender and ran out the front door.

"You're fucked now," Jon said viciously as he began to advance on Tony, baseball bat at the ready.

"Another hand would be welcome," Dmitri said as he glanced down, reading the napkin that had been sent over. He nodded once. "Or a pair of them. Should step outside for a smoke. Looks like we may have just rounded out our little band of--"

His gaze jerked towards the bar, hearing the bottles smash. Apparently it was amateur hour. Two would-be predators, and they way they were closing in on the bloody man by the bathroom doors, he didn't have to guess hard about their intended prey.

On one hand, it was none of his business. On the other hand, it looked like they were intent on making some noise in a very public way, the kind of noise that draws enforcers like sailors to a bordello. He gave a subtle nod to the others at his table and jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

"What do you think about that?" he asked casually, as if discussing the weather.

The events unfolding in front of him were becoming less and less subtle. Two would be gang bangers chasing some battered guy into the bar was anything but subtle, and now he could here them smashing up the place. "Perfect" he thought, "just what i need." This could cost him this deal.

From here he couldn't see the corner booth, he didn't know if they had taken interest in these two wannabe's or not, and to make matters worse one was coming back out the door cellphone in hand. "He's calling the rest of them." This would screw everything up. There was no way he could sit back and chat with that group if there were 'forcers crawling all over this joint.

He had to make a decision, and quickly, the gang banger was getting closer, his eyes still fixated on his phone. Panic welled up inside, he didn't want to get involved, he couldn't tell what was going on in that corner booth, the frosted glass windows blurred his already poor angle.

The door swung open and the wannabe in green stepped off the landing, phone passing up to his ear. He wasn't paying attention. "Check around" he thought, as his eyes darting through the rainy streets, they were almost empty a few people going in and out of establishments but red lights held up traffic at both ends. "Now or never."

He reached for his pistol gripping the barrel. He swung with a fast, accrurate sweep, the pistol butt connecting with the thugs temple. A satisfying thud. The thugs eyes welled up and rolled back as he could see him losing consciousness.
He grabbed the wannabe's arm quickly before he fell placing him gently up against the landing concealing the blow against the wall of the bar.

"Heh, just another drunkard." He thought as he pitched his last smoke, shook off some rain, and stepped back into the bar..

Tony had no choice but to confront his assailant before anyone got hurt that wasn't involved. Choosing to advance, he met his attacker by one of the billiard tables. As they grew closer, the attacker began a wild swing from over his right shoulder.

Tony used his attackers aggressiveness against him by using one hand to reach up from under the attackers arms grabbing the baseball bat, planting his other hand on the attackers shoulder, while simultaneously slipping his left leg behind his attackers legs. All he had to do from there was pull the attacker over his leg to make his attacker lose balance.

As the attacker fell, his head struck the corner pocket of the billiard table. The baseball bat clattered on the ground uselessly, all but forgotten.

Tony, using the billiard table to brace himself, delivered one ferocious stomp to his victim, robbing him of his breath. All the victim could do now was roll around on the floor helplessly, shielding himself with his arms protectively, groaning.

Tony, still gripping the billiard table, paused to scan the room. All was still, that awkward moment seeming to stretch into infinity until the smoker from outside broke the spell by stirring through the front door.

For that moment he had to defend himself, Tony forgot all about his ribs and the sharp pain made him regret it immediately. Snapping back into reality, Tony rushed, as fast as his bruised ribs would allow, past the smoker and out the front door. As he passed through the doorway he noticed the other gang-banger unconscious against the building.

Confused, he didn't notice the other gangsters running at him from down the street until they were close enough for him to hear their feet angrily slapping the ground. Things were going to get ugly real fast, and he didn't want to go back into the bar. Enough had been broken and he didn't want to risk harm to anyone who wasn't involved.

He fled away from his pursuers, ducking into an alley and managing to climb over the chain linked fence blocking access to it. Running between the buildings, the alley suddenly opened up to reveal an empty dirt lot, in the center of which was a chain link fence enclosure. This one was in a giant square, topped off with barbed wire that was stained with blood. It looked like a cage from hell.

The gangsters behind him had caught up, and more had somehow cut him off. He was trapped in the middle of a group of nine angry men, some with knives, some with chains, some with baseball bats. The only one that was weaponless was a monster of a man whom Tony only measured up to about the mans shoulders. The monster was all muscle, and looked like he made a habit of eating screws and shitting nails. Tony stood an impressive 6'4" tall and for the first time in his life he felt small.

"This fucker is mine," said the Monster, a twisted smile stretching across his lips as he gestured to the cage with his head.

Tony was then overwhelmed by three men at once, who managed to subdue him after a brief struggle. They knocked the wind out him him and threw him into the cage, followed closely by the Monster.

The dirt was long turned into mud by rainfall; the sky roaring angrily as a flash of lightning darted across the sky. In the cage was Tony, still in the mud, and the Monster standing over him. The other eight gangsters were on the borders of the cage, still on the inside, whooping and cheering for the Monster.

"Fuck him up, Big Jon!"

Big Jon looked at the surrounding hoods questioningly.

"Where's Little Jon and Gary?"

The following silence gave Tony enough time to get to his feet and take a defensive combat stance. Big Jon slowly returned his attention to Tony, and although he said nothing else his cold stare was all that was needed to tell Tony that he was going to die if he didn't beat this guy.

The tense moment broke away suddenly as Big Jon charged with a furious series of punches. Tony was able to back shuffle and move into a hole in Big Jon's offensive, countering with a hook to the body. Tony's counter attack didn't even faze Big Jon as he retaliated with an uppercut, taking Tony off his feet and sending him backwards.

Tony's ears were ringing and vision blurred as he looked up to Big Jon standing over him. Big Jon's hands were already circling Tony's neck as he pulled Tony off the ground and began to tighten his grip. Tony tried, in vain, to pry Big Jon's arms away. The man was just simply too strong.

Unable to think clearly, Tony mustered enough strength to punch Big Jon in the Adam's Apple, and this gave Tony an opening to gouge Big Jon's eyes with his thumbs. Big Jon's howl of pain was accompanied by another crash in the sky.

Taking this as a cue to intervene, one of the gangsters advanced on Tony with a chain. The gangster began swinging the chain wildly at Tony, trying to hit him. Tony, after getting some space between Big Jon and himself, stuck out an arm and allowed the chain to wrap around it, painfully. With his arm bound in the chain, Tony pulled it away from his attacker, putting him off balance and punching him in the mouth with it.

As Tony was struggling with the chain wielding gangster two of the hoodlums went to check up on Big Jon as two more were advancing on Tony from opposite sides, the closest of which was wielding a baseball bat.

Tony held the chain in his hand, allowing it to unwind off his arm. As the Hoodlum with the baseball bat began to attack, Tony grabbed both ends of the chain and raised it at an angle to intercept the bat. The chain was relaxed enough to slow the bat in mid-swing and allow Tony to grab it, abandoning the chain. Tony quickly pried the bat away from the hoodlum and struck him, full swing, in the head. He quickly turned and struck the other advancing hoodlum, this one with a knife, full swing in the head as well.

The final three idle hoodlums seemed to snap out of whatever stupor they had been in, and began charging Tony. Big Jon seemed to recover as well, at least partly, from the cheap attack on his eyes. The two hoodlums tending to him seemed to forget Tony. Of the nine that surrounded him, six were still standing.

The sky erupted in a crashing boom once again, seeming to egg on the bloodshed.

Tony rushed over to Big Jon first, stepping between the two would be medics. Bringing the bat over his his head, Tony then brought the bat full force back down at an angle upon Big Jon, crashing down on his neck. Big Jon stumbled a bit before sagging to his knees as Tony then introduced the baseball bat to the two hoodlums that were concerned for Big Jon. As they fell bloodied and unconscious, Tony swung the baseball bat, letting it go as he completed the swing, tripping up the first of the three final hoodlums rushing Tony.

Tony then stepped forward sending a straight kick to the second hoodlums chest, knocking him off his feet mid-stride, as well as stealing the air from his lungs. For the final charging hoodlum, Tony was ducking as they met and suddenly popped back up as the hoodlum doubled over Tony's shoulder, sending the hoodlum heels over head past the second hoodlum and down upon the first.

The scene was almost still then, were it not for the rain falling and the pained writhing of those still conscious. Tony looked over to Big Jon, who was oblivious to the few moments that happened after Tony hit him with the baseball bat. Tony steadily approached the big man, who was down on one knee.

As Tony neared, Big Jon turned to see who was coming, the fierce look in his eyes now gone, replaced by a dumb stupor. Tony left his rear leg planted as he slid his leading leg forward, cocking back his right arm while linking the twisting of his hips with his arm. He then planted his leading leg after getting just the right amount of distance, snapping his right arm forward and twisting his hips, putting all his strength and weight into the final punch.

The sky seemed to emphasize the contact between the two men with a final deafening crash, as they both crumpled to the ground.

Tony managed, just barely, to muster the strength to roll onto his back. Apparently he had been on his last leg when he fought Big Jon and his band of angry men. The primitive fight or flight instinct in Tony had given him a second wind, allowing him the strength to ignore his injuries and survive. It was gone now, abandoning Tony in the mud, leaving him with the beginnings of a fever and the shakes after an adrenaline rush.

He didn't mind the mud, though, as the cool mud gave him a reprieve from his bruised side and the beginnings of the fever that was getting ready to ravage his body. Once again he forced himself onto his feet, on sheer willpower alone. Long ago, he had been trained to always stand back up, to always meet the challenge, no matter how hopeless it seemed.

From the Halls of Montezuma...

It was the beginning of the Marine Corps Hymn. He recited it in his head as he shambled his way past his fallen opponents back to the street, the hymn a welcome distraction from the pain.

To the shores of Tripoli

He continued up and over the chain link fence, landing back onto on Beaumont.

We fight our country's battles

He set his course back to the Tap Room, the bar where this chase had started.

In the air, on land, and sea

He had to make amends with the owner.

First to fight for right and freedom

Unfortunately, words were the only thing he could offer.

And to keep our honor clean

He had to find a way to make some money fast.

We are proud to claim the title

It was because of him that the bar was attacked, and his honor wanted him to pay for the damage done.

Of United States Marine

Tony had made it back to the bar, washed clean of mud thanks to the lifting rain. As he entered, he noticed that the unconscious hoodlum near the door earlier was absent. Inside, there was no sign of the other hoodlum he defeated near the billiard table.

"You son of a bitch!"

The voice came from the bar where the bartender stood, angrily staring at Tony as he compressed a large laceration on his arm with a rag. Tony wanted to apologize, he wanted to say that if he knew this was going to happen, he never would have come here.

"Sorry."

The single word was all that Tony could say, hanging dumbly in the air as an awkward silence followed. Tony believed wholeheartedly that actions spoke louder than words, and as such he avoided speaking when he could.

The bartender responded with a bottle, thrown across the bar, smacking Tony angrily on the chest.

Ian quickly pulled Dolly a bit closer as the fighting broke out, his hand moving to his hip. As it cooled down, he looked up at her, nodding. "They have stuff for that, you know."

Tony strained not to collapse from being struck with the thrown bottle; He wanted to avoid fighting back to his feet for the umpteenth time in the last hour. The bottle then crashed into the ground, sending dozens of shards of glass scattering across the ground like startled roaches.

Tony turned away from the bartender, avoiding his enraged stare. Instead, he scanned the rest of the bar and the patrons who were still there. He noticed that the strange group of people towards the back had not budged, a newspaper neatly spread out on the booth. Tony was too preoccupied to pay them any attention earlier, but upon closer scrutiny, he realized that they were probably planning something.

The stern man in the leather jacket screamed mafia, Tony had seen that practiced apathetic stare hundreds of times in big cities like LA, New York, and Miami. He didn't look Italian, Mexican, and was no where near Triad or Yakuza. If Tony had to make a bet, it would be on Eastern European.

He was probably the brains, Tony decided, as the strange girl in purple, average Joe looking fella, and the girl looking like she was hurting for a hit of something-that-turns-your-brain-into-mush, didn't really seem like the planning types. He took a moment to study their faces, to remember them. Whatever they were planning, it looked serious. With some luck, Tony might be able to figure out what it is they're after and beat them to it or at the very least tail them and liberate them of their prize when their guard is down.

Without a word, Tony turned and made his way to the door. He needed to find a newspaper, and some painkillers.

It was going to be a long day.

Ian nodded in agreement, letting go of Dolly and flashing her a bright grin before turning his attention back to the table. "Very messy. If we're going for a speedy, quiet approach, he might not be the best choice. But if things get loud, and I think they well, I'd sure as hell want that guy on our side."

The small mom and pop pharmacy was only a few blocks away from The Tap Room, the bar where this whole crazy mess had started. Tony was lazily thumbing through today's edition of the local newspaper. The only moderately interesting article was about some art heist that happened the day before. Tony read and reread the article.

Maybe he misread the group back at the bar.

Maybe they were celebrating a successful heist.

Tony absently scratched the stubble on his chin. No, that couldn't be right. They didn't seem too happy, but then again Tony's presence could have crashed the party. With a frustrated exhalation, Tony read the article once more.

The brutal attack on the gallery, or at least how it was described, fit the bill of a hit and run tactic used in Guerrilla warfare. Tony knew that mobsters could be this brutal, but they usually saved it for someone that needed to be made an example of. Something was wrong with this picture.

How did the robbers get in and out so fast? If they scouted out the area first, they most likely would have stuck out like a sore thumb. That would have made it easier for them to be identified. No, the smart thing to do would be to get someone on the inside.

But who? It had to be someone with some decent security clearance to get the robbers into where they stored the hard drives for the cameras. It may have been one of the security guards, but two got wasted and one was in the Intensive Care Unit. No, security guards just got to sit behind the big consoles with all the different camera feeds, and Tony doubted they had access to the actual storage devices to prevent something like that from happening.

Besides, modern computer technology has gotten to the point were almost everything is on a computer now. Since so much relies on the computers, most people backup all their information on separate hard drives. You mean to tell me an art gallery hosting a painting that was touring the world didn't feel inclined to beef up it's security for the event? Who could make those kinds of critical decisions?

Tony studied the face of the gallery owner, Tim Sullivan. Grabbing a bottle of some over the counter painkiller off a nearby shelf, he popped a handful of the little blue pills before pocketing the bottle.

It was a freaking shot in the dark, but it was better than nothing.

-Shouldn't ever come to this bar again-

Journey had the morning newspaper down a bit while she watched the chaos break out at the bar. It concerned her little and in her opinion was quite frankly uncalled for this early in the day. She had been quietly sipping her tea and reading the paper in the back of the bar at a table by herself. She preferred it that way. People were messy. People were rude. People didn't get along with her. These types of people especially wouldn't get along with her well.

-Scoundrels- She thought, with a smile.

Journey had dealt with these types of people often enough. This city was full of them , and she loved it. They all had a sense of style and casualness about them that reeked of misdeed.

"So you gunna get up and introduce yourself or you just gunna hang here like a little tart with your stupid bloody newspaper?" Tilly said, as she casually looked down into the half cup of tea Journey was drinking." I bet these lot 'ere have lots of trouble we can get into. Look at them there at the booth. They're up to nothing good I'll tell ya that. They need me an you for whatever they getting into."

"Shove off us, will you love...Don't give us a 'ard time today..." Journey whispered to the empty chair next to her. " We already got into enough troubles with that silly 'forcer yesterday."

-Tilly never knows when enough is enough-

"You know, Tilly, I've been very good lately. And these people 'ere look like okay sorts. Lets try and be civil and stay here with the tea for once eh?" Journey turned to the empty chair with hopeful eyes, waiting for a reply.

Tilly looked like she was going to say something for a moment, caught her breath midway, and picked her pointer finger up and popped Journey on the nose curtly.

"Be a good girl then." She said with a wink.

Journey was about to complain until she realized the figment of her imagination was already gone. She returned to sipping her tea and quietly observing the patrons in the booth. It was nice always having Tilly there to talk to she thought. At least Tilly wasn't smashing up bars or trying to scheme with other crazy criminals.

Journey chuckled quietly to herself at the irony of calling the other bar patrons 'crazy'.

Tony fought the urge to yawn as he stretched lazily inside the old cramped coupe. He had "borrowed" the black car from a parking garage back on the other side of town. He was now parked against the curb across the street from the Sullivan Gallery, carefully observing the scene. The place was still buzzing with Enforcer activity.

Tony couldn't get any closer to take a look. He knew that he didn't fit in with the normal Financial District crowd, and the Enforcers were hurting to get a hold of someone to question. Instead, he was watching the reserved parking space at the side of the building. The reserved parking space that read "Tim Sullivan," with the fancy bright red two door sports car.

He had been there for about an hour now, watching the space and waiting for the owner to leave. Tony was going to shadow him for the rest of the day to see if he did anything suspicious. A small nagging voice in the back of Tony's head told him he was foolish and wasting his time.

Suddenly, Tim Sullivan appeared from the front entrance of the gallery flanked by an Enforcer. They were quietly talking about something, but there was no way Tony could hear it from across the street. They finally went their separate ways, Sullivan making his way to his red sports car while taking his cell phone out to make a call. Sullivan stayed in his parked car for the duration of the call, and from what Tony could see in his body language, Sullivan was in a stern argument, although he tried not to show it.

As soon as Sullivan was finished, he started his car and began to exit the alley. Tony started his borrowed coupe as well, and waited for Sullivan to get three car lengths ahead before following suit. The little nagging voice of doubt returned, going on and on about Tony's foolishness. The little nagging voice was cut short, as Tony saw Sullivan get on the highway in the direction of the Waterfront District.

Tony was sure a man making enough money to buy a nice new red sports car could afford to live in the posh downtown skyline. What the hell was Sullivan doing going towards the harbor and the grimy slums surrounding it?

Dmitri rose, looking over the wreckage of the bar with barely-registered disdain. So much broken glass, like a frozen rainstorm on the gnarled floorboards.

"We should go," he said, with a little more emphasis on the last word, "now."

With every minute lost, that painting was that much closer to being loaded on a freighter and spirited away. Once it was gone, it was gone, and their money along with it. He wasn't going to let that happen. Not that he had any alternative: he'd spent his last dollar on that pint of lukewarm beer. Abandoned, untouched, at the table as he held open the front door for the others.

"Enforcers won't be far off. We don't want to be here when they arrive. Lot of people getting accidentally arrested these days. Or accidentally shot trying to escape."

Ian nodded, taking one final swig of his beer before standing up, stretching his neck. "Good. Me arse was starting to fall asleep."

He turned to face Dolly, walking backwards to catch up with Dmitri. "Looks like you have to come along, D. Don't want you getting caught up with 'Forcers, do we? Just stick with me, and you'll be fine." He spun back around, before turning back.

"And try not to accidentally shoot me, eh?" He flashed another grin before finally catching up to walk next to Dmitri.

"So any direct plan of attack?"

Journey and Tilly watched in silence as the people in the booth clambered out of the bar. She took a couple more sips from her tea, and looked at Tilly questioningly.

" Well at least follow them , they look pretty harmless to me. Well cept that little girl in the back...she seems... a bit off her trolly if you ask me...which you din't but I'm to let'you know anyhow." Tilly stated as she nudged a briefcase on the floor up against Journey's leg. "Take the case wif'ya love. Never know when we'll be needin' it."

Journey glanced down at the briefcase like a scorned lover. Hatred and longing written all over her face. She hated doing things Tilly's way. The violence never changed.

"Okay then Tills' we'll follow'em for a bit yeah? After that I really wanna get home for a nap ya'know...Lets at least try not to blow anything up this time." Journey looked down into the now finished tea cup. " Not enough vodka in this tea to be mucking around with all these criminals this early."

Journey got up, and tossed some cash down on the table and carefully picked up the briefcase. She placed it on the table and opened it to make sure everything was in tip top shape and gave Tilly a wink of approval.
They both left the table and Journey never thought it was odd that she held the door open, for someone who wasn't there at all.

Journey and Tilly walked outside both grinning from ear to ear.

The ocean breeze was calming, almost caressing Tony's face as if it was a long lost lover finally reunited, helping to numb the various bruises on his body with cool steady hands. Tony silently placed another little blue painkiller in his mouth as he hid behind a shipping container at the harbor. He was just barely within earshot of Sullivan and another man he didn't recognize.

The man was gruff, shoulder length hair tied up in a ponytail with a cold stare and tattoos as a substitute for a shirt. The man struck Sullivan right in the nose as he approached.

"What the fuck," Sullivan exclaimed, trying to contain his bleeding nose from spilling onto his expensive shirt.

"No one speaks to Oleksandr Karchenko with such disrespect," the gruff man sternly stated with a heavy Russian accent. "I was sent to make example of you."

Tony silently remembered Sullivan arguing with someone over the phone back at the gallery, as the gruff man began beating Sullivan to death with a knuckleduster. It only took a minute for the gruff man to turn Sullivan into a brain dead slab of flesh laying in pooling blood, the final punch echoing through the hundreds of shipping containers in the harbor. Tony had seen plenty of horrible things back during the war, and he was sure that this would be in his nightmares along with all the other atrocities he had witnessed.

The gruff man produced a small cellular phone and had a brief conversation in what sounded like Russian, most likely reporting to this Oleksandr Karchenko that the job was finished. The name was unfamiliar to Tony, but it was a piece of the puzzle.

Tony looked back at broken body of Tim Sullivan one last time before following the hitman deeper into the Waterfront District.

Out on the dusty street, Dmitri stood in the shadow of a crumbling overpass. A Carpenters song was warbling over a tinny, far-off radio, fading to static. This city was broken.

"Plan of attack? We pay a call to Oleksandr's hangout. If he's not there, we get what we need from his friends. Of course, I don't expect them to volunteer the information."

Rusted-out cars lined the curb outside the taproom. He shook his head.

"We need wheels."