American Wasteland

[Heretic209]

With a reasonably permanent base for the ECS in L.A., and numerous gangsters loyal to him, Neil decided that it was time to reach out to some of the other criminal entities in the city. The first one that crossed his mind was the Horde; however, he didn't want them to know that he and some of his best troops were in L.A., because that would tell them that they weren't in Chicago. That would give them a huge advantage if they decided to strike at their eastern operations. He also ruled out the cartel operating out of Los Angeles; he wanted the drug trade all to himself. He knew someone he could do business with, and conveniently, Neil knew that she happened to be in the city.

Sitting in one of the rooms downstairs in their base, he found Anastasia's number in his phone and pressed call. He nodded at the two gangsters drinking at the bar - Robert and Natasha - and they silently left the room. Alone, he heard the phone connect on the other end.
"Is this Miss Alexandrov? This is Neil Murray. Do you have time to talk?"

[idlehands]

Stasia and the Shadow Brotherhood sat in the rented black Lexus SUVs, watching the seedy club. Outside in the darkened parking lot among the cars there were at least twenty or so Harley-Davidson motorcycles. She could see the jackets of the owners of the bikes and they all bore the same club patch, a black bar with white old English lettering which read “Cro-Mags”. The bikers were all white men, some with shaved heads and most wearing beards. She tapped her fingers against the door panel.

“It seems Sergei has hired some bodyguards,” she stated. “I doubt these guys are all here just for the show.”

Ivan grunted, “It could be for the ass they sell here.”

“I’ll call Mr. Cortez, maybe he can give me some insight to these men,” she said, digging out her cell phone. “I don’t want to walk into a hornet’s nest. If they’re protecting him, we will be in deep shit, even with our weapons.”

She went to dial the phone when it beeped loudly with an incoming call. Stasia raised a fine eyebrow and recognized the number, it was Neil Murray, the leader of ECS. She answered it, unsure of why he would be calling her now.

“Allo? This is Anastasia. I have a few moments,” she stated, looking out at the parking lot again. “What can I do for you?”

[Heretic209]

Neil smiled, glad he got through to her. "Well, I was wondering if we could talk about another business opportunity. Have you been to Los Angeles before? Quite a nice place, I'm here right now actually."

"Funny you should ask, Mr. Murray," Anastasia replied over the other end. "It seems to be very popular at the moment. You know I am here then. What do you wish to discuss?"

"I'd like to discuss the prospect of a deal between our respective parties involving the, hm, shall we say regarding the assets that Los Angeles has to offer? Similar to our prior-" Neil stopped as he heard a knock from the door leading down to the basement. Robert stuck his head in, holding is revolver up in the air and mouthing 'trouble'. Neil nodded, and held his index finger up to indicate that he'd be just a minute more.
"Sorry, I'm afraid I'm going to have to cut this short. Can we continue this at dinner sometime, say, tomorrow? At seven, perhaps?"

"I am open to entertain an offer but I will be speaking on the Shadow Brotherhood's behalf, not Vasiliyev. Da, I can meet you tomorrow night. Tonight I am a bit busy...though perhaps it is something you would be interested in. We will speak of it tomorrow."

"That's alright with me," and, after a pause. "And what kind of something? Anything the ECS, or myself, can lend a hand with?"

"It would be a favor to me. I have a certain party that needs distracting. He's a rat, I'd tell you more but not over the phone. Just meet me at Xtasy in West Hollywood. I'll be in the black Lexus SUV. All I need for you to do is come in and have a talk with him, like you're interested in business. I can handle the rest. When you get here, I'll explain why you will want to do this. It can make you a good deal of money."

"I'll be there." The Irish mob boss hung up the phone, and walked over to meet Robert. The man opposite him didn't seem frightened or concerned in any way; though that wasn't a good indicator of the situation - Robert had a very limited scope of visible emotions. The ones Neil saw most often were generally 'content', 'mildly amused', and 'concentrated'. The man was like a rock - a very well trained rock.
"What's the issue?" Neil asked.
"You know those small-time local thugs we got under our protection?" He replied.
"Those punks are giving us trouble? Really?"
"No, not them, some dealers who used to have the gang push their coke. Now that we supply them, these dealers are angry," Robert looked down at the 6-shot pistol in his hand, ejecting the cylindrical barrel and loading it from a pocket in the front of his kevlar vest. "They're demanding to speak with our leader."
Neil laughed, genuinely amused at the demands of the low life L.A. dealers. He walked over to the basement's weapon cabinet and grabbed a long foldable blade and his Colt Delta along with about 40 rounds.
"Then let's go give them what they want."


The coke dealers' location of choice was a two story run-down building in one of L.A.'s poorer neighborhoods. Neil could tell upon entering that they used this location as their "offices". And that the meth and coke labs weren't too far away. Neil and Robert walked through the creaky door, past the walls with paint half-peeled off, and met with the man who identified himself as the leader of their operation. The man standing opposite from him identified himself as Devin Wallace; he was tall and lanky, and in his late twenties or early thirties with a drawn-out face and tattoos covering nearly all of his right arm. Despite seeing the well dressed Irish mobsters, the leader still tried to carry himself with self worth and determination. Neil instantly realized that the man and his three guards strewed around the room somehow had no idea who they were dealing with.
"Hello," Neil said with just a touch of annoyance. "I'm assuming you have a good reason for calling me down here." Wallace, expecting to be in control of the situation was immediately taken aback.
"I.. You.. Your men have been selling drugs on my turf!" He stammered, taking a provocative step forward. "I want them, and you, out of my part of the city." Neil let out a chuckle, which enraged Wallace even more.
"Well, Mr. Wallace, I think you should probably come to terms with the fact that this isn't your turf anymore." At this point, Devin simply lost it.
"Who the fuck are you to make that kind of a claim?!" The young ECS leader nodded subtly, cuing Robert. The former Irish Special Forces soldier drew two revolvers from back holsters and leveled them at the guard to Wallace's left. The first shot ripped through his upper chest, and the second bullet tore into his neck. The man dropped to the ground, convulsing. Right on cue, two more ECS soldiers detonated the controlled explosives on the second story floor, directly above Wallace and his men. The three living dealers were momentarily lost in the collapsing rubble as the Irish gangsters jumped down from the low hole above. One of the guards tried to get up and run away, and was swiftly shot in the thigh by Natasha, just now appearing from above. Robert advanced putting the other guard out of commission with two devastating kicks, first to the stomach, and then to the groin.

Wallace was near the right side of the room, trying to crawl away with a massive wooden shard protruding from his tattooed arm. Neil walked over and violently ripped the shard out of his arm, promptly being greeted with a shriek of pain from Wallace. He silenced it by stomping his shoe onto the wound, pinning him there. He knelt down, the large pistol aimed at the dealer's temple.
"I'm glad we had that little discussion. Now, you're gonna clean up, and resume production. I'll have my men give you directions to the place I want your next shipment to go." He stood, walking out of the front door with the other ECS gangsters. As he left, he called out "It was a pleasure doing business with you!" And then, as they got into their black town car, "Mind driving me to my hotel room, Robert? I've got to get ready for tonight."

[Byrd Man]

Stasia dialed Cortez's number, she had it memorized as she detested the way technology made a brain soft and forgetful. She watched one large man with a blonde beard wearing a Cro-Mag patched leather jacket give a half assed Nazi salute to another member as they stood outside, drinking beer. She narrowed her eyes at them, muttering a curse in Russian. The phone rang twice before it was answered.

*****

"Miss Alexandrov," answered Mike. He was in the backyard of his East LA home, propped in a lawnchair with a beer in the hand not holding the cellphone. "Didn't expect you to call. Meeting's not until the morning. How goes the pest control?"

"It seems the rat has bought some friends. Do you know a club called the Cro-Mags?"

"Yep," said Mike. "White trash spouting a bunch of white power bullshit. Horde used to clash with them back in the day. Bunch of ugly gangwars back in the 70's, but we left them alone after one of our guys capped their prez in the 90's. Now we just stay out of each others way."

"Is a club called Xtasy in West Hollywood in your way? There is about thirty of them here at the club where we are to pick up Sergei. Looks like he was screwing over your guys too, working both MCs at once."

"Thirty of them?" Mike asked, running the numbers over in his head. "I can muster about ten guys right now. Most of them are...," he thought about the two brothers resting in their freshly dug graves. "Busy with other business. I don't know how deep your people go, but I can probably get five more in a pinch."

"I have seven armed men and two snipers. We have you covered but we need your guys to be a distraction. Get them out of the club and away from Sergei for a time. I have some help coming to keep Sergei busy. He may be a dirty rat bastard but he's a careful one. I don't want him slipping away this time."

Mike thought about the room at the MC clubhouse the Horde used as an armory. Woody had rigged up a dozen pipebombs six months ago and then stashed them in a cabinet somewhere to use for a rainy day.

"Yeah," said Mike with a chuckle. "Causing a distraction won't be a problem."

"Good, thank you, Mr. Cortez. I'll be waiting across the street in the Lexus."

"We'll be there as soon as possible."

With that, Mike hung up and stood, killing the rest of his beer in two quick swallows. With the empty beer bottle in his hands, Mike walked through his backyard towards the parked Fatboy in the driveway.

[idlehands]

Sergei sat in a back VIP room of the club Xtasy, clutching a bottle of champagne with straw poking from the top. He was dressed in a decent suit, nothing too flashy but he wore gold chains and a few gaudy rings. His sandy hair was cut short and carefully styled to seem like he rolled out of bed without combing it. In front of him was a small table with a mirror dusted with white powder and one of the dancers slowly gyrating for him wearing next to nothing. He looked up at her, a slightly bored expression on his round face. The Russian was evaluating her skills, or lack thereof, for sale as either a dancer or a prostitute. Only the prettiest and those with actual dancing talent made it onto the stages, the rest served drinks and served on their backs in rooms like these.

The woman, or girl rather, was good looking enough though her English was very limited. She was a leggy natural blonde from some tiny village in the Ukraine with an angular face graced with slightly tilted grey eyes and full lips. Sergei watched her, deciding she could use a boob job but other than that she was nice looking enough for the stages of the clubs where he sold his girls. Her dancing skills could use some work, she was a bit stiff and had a slightly frightened look on her face. He knew how to solve that though and he reached into his briefcase and took out some prescription bottles of Vicodin and Xanax.

In the club, there were several members of the motorcycle gang calling themselves the Cro-Mags. They were white, some with shaved heads and combat boots, styling themselves as skinheads, but most were typical bikers with beards or goatees and shaggy hair. Sergei had hired the Cro-Mags to provide security for him, he had no delusions about how he was seen by other mafias. He would be killed if he stepped foot in Chicago and in LA it was not much better but he had been able to carve a niche, providing girls to clubs and pimps from his old contacts he still worked with in Russia. Sergei had also made a fragile peace with the Chechens who were the big Red Mob in the city. He provided the movement and sales of illegal liquor and he gave them a nice fat cut to keep himself off their shit list. Sergei Petrov was building his own business despite his rat status.

Rob Anderson sat at the bar, smoking and nursing a PBR. He was in his early thirties, a tall man, broad across the shoulders and his dark hair was shaved off to hide his receding hairline. He had bright blue eyes and would have been handsome if he ever smiled. He wore dark jeans and his distinctive oxblood Doc Martins with white laces. The Skrewdriver t-shirt he wore was covered with a black flight jacket displayed his club patches and under his cut was his president scroll. He was an odd figure, sporting a mixture of skinhead and biker styles. Tattooed on his side of his neck was the lightening bolt SS logo and a spider web on the base of his throat. He was elected president of the white power biker gang because he was ruthless, he had helped build the club back up and was pushing into their old stomping grounds that were now under Horde control.

One of his men, a burly middle aged man with a long beard that was forked and braided, came up to him. He spoke in his ear about three black Lexus SUVs that had been parked across the street and had not moved for the last thirty minutes. They had seen people in them and none had come into the club. Rob nodded and left his beer, heading outside to see what he could make of them. Across the parking lot he saw what his man had spotted and he narrowed his eyes. The SUVs were too nice for cops and they were rentals. They were too far away to make out the people, it was dark and the windows were tinted. He reached back and touched his .45 tucked in his waistband and could feel the familiar comforting weight of brass knuckles in his pocket.

“Keep an eye on them,” he said to the bearded man. “I want to know if they make any type of move and...”

His words cut off when he saw another vehicle drive up to park next to the SUVs. Something was definitely up and he went to alert Sergei, it could be people he was waiting on. His associates could be very strange sometimes, slipping in incognito as if afraid to be seen doing business with the Russian.

Stasia looked up at approaching vehicle, her hand going to her micro Uzi. Ivan looked up sharply as the unknown car pulled up next to them. She looked out the window and recognized the profile of the man inside, smiling a bit.

"It's our Irish friend," she said, "Watch the club, any of those men move toward us, fall out and take defensive positions."

She got out of the SUV and waited for Neil, her arms crossed over her chest and a slight smirk on her red lips.

[Heretic209]

Neil cleaned up nicely, seamlessly switching from work to play in a matter of a half an hour. He chose to wear a fine black Italian suit, because the Italians know style best his father had always said, along with a crisp white undershirt and black dress shoes. Next to him in the back seat was his "date", Natasha. Her dark brown hair was cut to shoulder length, and she was wearing diamond earrings and a tight red dress. She had been reluctant to go in without any firearms, but Neil eventually talked her into only taking a switchblade hidden in the heel of her left shoe. Neil on the other hand did have a gun, hidden inside of his suit jacket, however he couldn't fit his bulky Colt there without it being incredibly noticeable. He had to settle for the smaller Beretta PX4 Compact instead.

Robert pulled the car up to the curb outside Xtasy. Neil and Natasha exited and walked toward Stasia in the distance while the car drove away. Neil had told Robert and Baker to stay in the area and be ready to intervene in case anything went wrong or if they'd been set up. He thought the latter was unlikely, but he didn't want to leave any stone unturned. The two ECS stopped in front of Stasia and the other Russians, and Neil shook her hand.
"How can we be of service?" He asked, and then with a quick glance over at Natasha, he added, "She's alright - one of us."

[idlehands]

Stasia looked over the woman and turned back to Neil, "Do you normally bring a date to a strip club?"

Ivan looked Natasha over and grinned, tossing a comment in Russian and caused the men to smirk at her. Stasia gave him a warning glare and he stopped smiling, going back to his usual stoic expression. She gestured toward the club, lighting a cigarette.

"He should be in one of the VIP rooms, knowing him, probably drunk and high by now. But he loves to brag and talk about what money he's making so it will be easy for you to engage him in conversation. As I said, he's now into liquor sales, if you help me take him out, it can be all yours. Of course, he may have connections with other mobs. I will owe you a favor for this, Neil. You have my word on that."

Stasia turned her gaze to the street, watching for the Horde and she took a deep drag, the smoke drifting out from her red lips. "I am waiting for some friends to distract those boneheads. I would suggest you go in first before they arrive and engage Sergei. They should be here any moment."

[Byrd Man]

The twelve bikers roared through the streets of West Hollywood, their chrome and black motorcycles glinting off the street lights they passed. Their cuts had been left at home, they all wore black bandannas on their face. Mike was in the lead with his hand steady on the throttle. Woody was behind him, his voice carrying over the engines as he screamed Wagner's Ride of the Valkyries at the top of his lungs.

Mike held up a hand as they turned a corner. Club Xtasy loomed at the end of the street. He gave them the signal and the twelve men gunned their ignitions. The twelve bikes tore down the street at speeds close to eighty miles an hour. The Cro-Mags outside watch in stunned silence as two men in the Horde group pulled guns from their saddle bags and opened fire, aiming just above the heads of the people outside the club.

Panic ensued, as Mike had intended. With everyone scattering and running at the gunshots, Mike and Woody each pulled a pipe bomb from their saddlebags. Lighting it, they tossed it towards the club as they roared by. Mike heard the metal clinking against the pavement as the pipe bomb laid up on the sidewalk. Stopping at the end of the street in a skid, Mike turned and watched as the two bombs exploded, taking out a half dozen of the Cro-Mags security men.

"There's your distraction," Mike said softly, pulling a Mac-10 from the saddlebag. "Let's make another run, boys. Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more."

Back in the lead, Mike tore down the street with his gun raised, popping off shots at any Cro-Mags that happened his way.

[Jambo1117]

Joe decided to call a friend, who happened to be a doctor too, and more than a few occasions has patched up the members of the Horde MC. This time however, the Doc wasn't free. The Screw up, Sloan. Had to get the next best thing. A vet. The vet came down to do the best they could to help treat. "I appreciate this" Joe said to vet, walking into the Chapel to call a vote. Joe was sitting at the V.P chair, with the top of Chicago Horde MC. "Right, we're going to wait on the Prez, but I want Sloan out, and fast. Okay? He's nearly gotten us killed a few times now. We get rid or we die" Joe said, everyone nodded. Joe nodded. "Let's go, the Jesters have sent word through the vine. They want a meet, just a meet. A few of them. A few of us. We're not going in just a few. You call up every member. I want as many bodies on this. It could be retaliation"

Within minutes most of the Chicago horde was waiting outside their club house. Many engines roaring in unison. Joe waved a hand at them as he passed on his Harley. Everyone followed suit, riding in formation to the meeting. A quick hand signal again, and half the members slowed down. Leaving just the top half riding with Joe. They neared the meet, and a few more bikers slowed. The staggering meant muscle was close, close enough to ride in and help at short notice.

Joe and four other bikers road to see two black cars in the distance. About 3 visible men. Joe pulled up to a stop in front and the men lifted their shirts to show their weapons. "You brought more than me" A man said, climbing out of the car. "Well, there's just no love between us, bro" Joe said smiling, as he showed his own weapon. "Look, I know my boys did you wrong, and you had to show you're a big boy. You cost me, and my bosses a lot of money. Somehow we have to right that wrong. And ideas on how to?"

Joe placed a hand on his pistol. "I have an idea, you won't like it. There's a few holes in the details" He smiled, then bike engines roared again, Joe sighed. He didn't order his guys in. "This you? You trying to screw me over?" the Jester boss shouted, as he signaled for more guys, he didn't trust the MC just as much. Both men turned, they were Bikers, but they weren't Horde MC. "Shit, This isn't good." Joe said, ducking behind the Jester car as the Cro-mags opened fire. "You shouldn't have fucked with our L.A charter, you've got a war you pussies" A cro-mag rider shouted, before being gunned down by a Jester.

"Look, this isn't us. They're here to kill us both, we both want to make it? Help me kill them" The Jesters nodded. "We shoot the racist MC, the Horde is given a pass for now" the Jester shouted. Joe and him shook hands quickly, before Joe jumped on his bike. A horde MC was hit and killed instandly, but his death allowed the rest to get away.

Joe whipped out his phone, dialling for the Prez of his chapter. "Joe? Tell me that's you brother" Joe asked a bit breathless and panicky. "What has gone down in L.A? The Cro-mags, who used to leave us alone, and only beefed with the Jesters, just attacked us, bro. I nearly got killed. I'm heading to the Club" Joe said, weaving in and out of traffic to get back safely, he met up with the staggered members and reported it to them.

[Heretic209]

Neil glanced over at Natasha, and then looked back at the Russians. "I do when my date happens to be trained in two forms of martial arts, and is one of the best long-range shooters in the world," he praised, looking over at Ivan for a moment. He didn't understand the comment with his limited knowledge of Russian, but, being a guy, had a good hunch what he was intending. Neil then produced a smile; he was constantly impressed by the way that Anastasia managed to keep order.
"Alright, anything else I need to know? Any potential guards? Will they be checking for weapons?" He opened his suit jacket slightly to reveal the Beretta.

Before any of his questions were answered, he heard the violent roar of motorcycles further down the street. When they came into view, he realized that they were Horde members. Neil instinctively put a hand near his gun, ready but not openly provoking. However when the bikers pulled up to the club and opened fire, their leader addressing Anastasia directly. As they pulled away to supposedly do another run, Neil looked at Stasia with distinct surprise.
"What in the hell..?" He managed to get out, before drawing the compact Beretta and holding it pointed downward but at the ready. "You're working with the bikers?" He looked back down the street as the engines once again became louder and sighed, then looked back up at Stasia.
"What do you want me to do?"