American Wasteland

[Aegis]

Quinto stepped off the boat, and into his new home. He was wearing what he would consider casual, shirt, no tie, jacket and pants, and was flanked by several rather unsavory looking characters. All of them had fought in the dirty little wars that most people hear about, say, "That's awful," and chew their steak. Now, they worked for him. At the moment, there was comparatively little need for them. The various bangers of South Central were complacent, happy to be dealing his blow, working for his Coalition. No, the reason Quinto was there was fro an altogether more grandiose purpose.

Recently, things started to heat up between the major crime outfits. Certain organizations were making power plays in cities where they never had before. The CDS was safe down south, but knew that it would have to gain a considerable foothold in the U.S to really become the most powerful cartel in the world. Mostly, they needed the market. America may love Baseball, Mom, and Apple Pie, but they'd bet on baseball, steal the pie, and prostitute Mom for a hit. The CDS was perfectly happy to oblige, and had set up in LA to expand. Quinto was here to take direct control of the operation. The Assembly trusted no one else.

Walking towards a warehouse converted into office building, he saw the drugs being brought in, processed, and readied for street distribution. Every 10 minutes or so, a black SUV would roll up, and a few bangers sporting various colors would show up. The CDS allowed a large amount of independence in its American branches in order to keep them under control. They reported to them, but Quinto didn't like that the occasional idiot would get it in his head that he should be the one in charge. In any case, they all wore an armband with "CDS" emblazened boldly across it. The SUV's rolled up, picked up the yayo, weed, MDMA, whatever their set was assigned to, and headed back to the barrio. Quinto would've been fascinated, or at the very least interested in how his operation was run day-to-day. It was how he got here, but he pressed on, heading to the lavishly furnished office on the second floor, where he was to make his base of operations.

Stepping through the door, he lit a cigarette and observed his surroundings. On the wall, he had ordered a huge map of the U.S to be put up. Stepping towards it, he eyed it with characteristic ambition. Bringing himself back to reality, he sat at the desk, taking a long drag. He had prepared a very official looking document on the trip up to the States. Creating an email, he typed in the address of the diplomatic channel of the Horde. The details were as such:
1. The Docks and surrounding industrial park are recognized as CDS territory.
2. The various establishments owned by the Horde in Los Angeles are to be respected by the CDS and its constituent organizations.
3. The drug trafficking and distribution is to be divided thusly: 75% for the CDS with Coke, Heroin, and Marijuana being their exclusive domain, and the remaining 25%, including unchallenged control of Meth, to The Horde.
4. The Horde agrees to transport product for the CDS on a national basis.
5. The two organizations enter into a state of friendly relations, with street-level thugs being instructed to show respect to either side.

Adding it as an attachment, Quinto wrote only this:
"This will ensure peace in our city, and cash in your pockets. I believe it agreeable to both sides. Your prompt response is appreciated."

Hitting "Send", he sat back in his chair, and looked back at the map, envisioning the possibilities...

(P.S: Sorry about the wait, but I should be posting with more regularity now. Also, I've cleared this deal with Byrd, just wanted all of you to know the details. Watch out!)

[Heretic209]

Neil stood looking out the window of the Hotel 71 penthouse suite as two black range rovers pulled up to the entrance below. This was where Rick had scheduled the meeting with the Russian spokesperson, Grigoriy. Partly to accommodate the Russians, and partly to impress them, Neil agreed that it was the best place to host the meeting. Neil saw something out of the corner of his eye and out of instinct tensed up, looking over at the two buildings that were eye-level across the way. However he quickly relaxed when he remembered that his team had already cleared both buildings for sharpshooters. The Murrays had become extremely cautious, after numerous attempts on their lives.

He turned his back on the window and looked over at Rick. The man looked a tad nervous, but quickly quelled any fears with a swig of his flask. Outside, he heard a murmur of voices, and then the door opened. It was one of the guards that Neil had posted at the door.
"Sir," he said, looking back outside the door at someone unseen.
"Thank you, let them in," Neil replied, straightening his collar and moving closer to the door. About half a dozen members of the Russian mob entered the penthouse, some fanning out at the door. An older bearded man, as well dressed as Neil was stepped forward and introduced himself as Grigoriy Vasilyev.
"A pleasure, Mr. Vasilyev. I'm Neil Murray," The ECS leader said, shaking the man's hand. "If you wouldn't mind, I'd like for your guards to wait outside. No tricks - it'll just be me and Richard," he gestured toward the warehouse manager, "Inside as well. Anyone else you want to discuss with, is welcome to stay as well." Grigoriy turned around and addressed his posse, uttering some words in Russian. Most of the group turned around and left; one larger man in a leather jacket looked rather angry to be left out, but left nonetheless.

Left in the room were the two ECS representatives, Gregoriy, and another woman whom Neil had never met before. She was an attractive blonde, distinctly Eastern European, and about Neil's height if not slightly taller. Rick, who until then had been leaning against the wall focused intently on his flask of whiskey, stood straight up and tried to straighten out his button-down shirt. Neil suppressed a smirk at his associate, and turned his attention back to the woman who had just introduced herself as Anastasia. Neil waved over his shoulder at the penthouse interior, and with a charming smile, said "Please, make yourself comfortable. Theres drinks at the bar, if you'd like. If not.. Let's get down to business."

[Byrd Man]

The Horde MC Clubhouse
7:30 PM


The pack of bikers in the parking lot were getting rowdy. Two dozen of them were gathered around their bikes, waiting to go. They chatted, joked, and there was the occasional excited whoop from one of the Bakersfield boys. Mike stood at the doorway leading into the parking lot, a cigar in his hands. He took a long puff on his stogie and slowly exhaled the smoke.

"Mike," a voice said behind him. Mike turned and saw Herb standing behind him with one of his devices in his hand. Herb was just a year or two younger than Mike's youngest son, and Herb was into that technology bullshit. He'd been patched in just six months earlier. "I... just got something."

He handed Mike the smart phone and he squinted to read the small text on the screen. "What is this?" Mike asked, looking up.

"An email from CDS."

Mike stopped looking at the screen and back up at Herb. Herb shrugged his shoulders. "It looks legit. They want to go into business with us."

"An email from a goddamn cartel? That's proof of a fucking criminal conspiracy!"

Mike came close to throwing the phone down before Herb held out a hand to stop him.

"I check it, okay! It's been rerouted through like six proxies and a dummy email account--," Herb trailed off when he saw Mike losing interest. "What I'm trying to say is that the email's untraceable, okay?"

"Well, what does it say?"

"They want to work with us like an alliance. We'd mule their shit across the country. In exchange, we get a cut of their drug connections and a foothold to deal our meth."

Mike mulled over what Herb had just said. He chewed on the end of his cigar while he thought. Finally, he pulled it from his mouth and spat on the ground.

"Fine. Reply to them that I'm interested, but I don't agree to nothing unless we pull off a face to face deal. Set it up. Also, call up Chicago. I want One-Eyed Joe here."

One-Eyed Joe had been one of the first few members of the Horde. Pushing 70, Joe had founded the Chicago chapter of the Horde. Despite the nickname, Joe had two eyes that worked perfectly. The nickname came from what he had swinging between his legs. A conservative estimate at one time said he was pack at least ten inches down there. The joke they used to have was that in a pinch, One-Eyed Joe could use it as a blunt weapon to hit someone over the head with.

"I want him to ride to LA with whatever muscle he has. I need advice on this one."

Herb nodded and went away to work on his reply email. Mike leaned back against the door's threshold and tried to gather his thoughts. There were a lot of strings at play here. The Horde still moved product across the country for Starr. Mike doubted either one would like the Horde running drugs for both of them. And when it came to CDS, Mike knew he couldn't fuck around. He didn't know much about them except what he saw on the news. Bloody drug wars and revolutions all through South and Central America. These people weren't idiots in baggy clothes throwing gang signs. They were serious and they didn't fuck around. If the Horde went into business with them and made one wrong move, they would tear the Horde apart like a surgeon cutting out a cancerous growth.

"Mike," Woody said as he approached him. Woody had a shotgun in one hand, a nine in the other. "We're ready to ride."

Mike nodded and tossed his cigar to the ground. He stomped it out and took the nine from Woody's hands. He slid it into the holster in the small of his back and got on his bike with the rest of the group. Two dozen of them all started at once, their engines roaring in unison. Mike backed his Fatboy out of its parking space and waved for the rest of the bikers to follow. Together and in formation, the members of the Horde rolled through the streets of LA in synch.

[idlehands]

In the hallway leading to the penthouse, Grigoriy Vasilyev grumbled to her, “Why did you have to wear those damned high heels?”

The forty year old Georgian-born mob boss was not a tall man but very broad shouldered and stout, with a thick black beard and dark penetrating eyes. His dark blue Armani suit was tailored to flatter his squat powerful build and he wore a heavy expensive diamond studded Rolex. His shoes were handmade from Italy and he was a bit generous with his French cologne. When he spoke, the light glinted off of a few gold capped teeth.

He looked her up and down, he hated it when she stood next to him in her heels, she was nearly a head taller than he was. It did not help that she wore a knee length black pencil skirt and tall boots with made her seem even longer and leaner. Her neatly tailored jacket was houndstooth and her long hair swept up into a smooth twist, making her appear professional and he growled in Russian, “Couldn’t you at least have showed off the goods more? You look like a fucking librarian.”

Stasia shrugged slightly and replied in her native tongue, ignoring the wary glances of the Irish bodyguards, “I didn’t know librarians wore patent leather, Mr. Vasilyev.”

He grunted and grinned a bit, “They do in my world, just much less of it.”

She bristled at this, his reference to his many strip clubs and houses of prostitution he oversaw in Chicago, the ones on the affluent northwest side and downtown where the patrons had money for fine women, good drugs, and imported liquor. He had asked her more than once if she was interested in working personally for him in that capacity and it was all she could do to not stab him. Her fingers twitched slightly, she had removed her switchblade she usually carried with her out of respect for the meeting.

Stasia had gone to these houses before, with Nikolai and the Shadow Brotherhood to collect taxes from the pimps and deliver a package of drugs including Viagra to sell to patrons and Vicodin, Percocet, Xanax for the working girls to help them deal with their situation. She had hated every moment. The girls were thin and pale, mostly immigrants from the Ukraine or Belarus. They were fair haired, pretty and far too young to have such old eyes. She did not know if she pitied them for their condition or despised them for it, perhaps both. If it were not for the protection from her brother, she could have been in the same situation back home or worse.

“Ivan, Stasia, these Irish are very polite and big on their hospitality, do not mistake that for trust and friendship,” their boss warned, continuing to speak Russian despite the sidelong looks from the guards. “I’ve dealt with their kind when I was a lieutenant in New York City. They stick to their own even if they are not worth a shit. Overly sentimental bastards that they are.”

They approached a penthouse suite stopping as the guard knocked on the heavy oak door and it opened a crack. They exchanged a brief word and the door opened, allowing the Russians into the room. They walked in, Ivan and the guards spreading out in practiced ease, guarding their boss from all sides.

Stasia glanced around the penthouse, it was well appointed but not overly lavish. Her cool gaze fell on the leader of the Irish mob. His suit was black, neatly tailored and fit him well and he seemed quite young for a man with his position. He was dark haired, handsome and polite, in fact he seemed more a youthful politician than a mob boss as he shook hands with Grigoriy and introduced himself. Neil Murray, he said and welcomed them before asking them to leave their guards outside. Ivan looked agitated and took a step closer to Stasia and their boss, eyeing the younger Irishman. Grigoriy muttered in Russian for him to leave and Ivan clenched his jaw and turned quickly, his broad shoulders tense with anger.

She stepped forward looking Neil straight in the eyes, with her high heeled boots she was nearly six feet tall and she introduced herself. Her voice was smokey and low pitched but feminine, her English accented and formal, “I am Anastasia Alexandrov, of the Shadow Brotherhood. I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Murray.”

Walking to the bar he gestured to, Stasia observed the man discreetly. His charming smile and youthful appearance belied the self assured aura he exuded, the confidence of his position and power was brimming and she picked it up, feeling both at ease and concerned. Mr. Vasilyev did not like men he thought were more interesting or powerful than he was, taking them as a personal threat. With all his talk of professionalism, her boss had a large but fragile ego and it did not take much to bruise it.

Stasia picked up a heavy cut crystal tumbler, wincing inwardly as her hand was still sore from the day before, her knuckles showing slight discoloration. She held it up, looking directly at the short blonde man Rick, and noted his reaction when he saw her. A slight smile touched her red lips. “I usually drink vodka, but I am told Irish whiskey is something to be savored. What would you recommend?”

[TheFrontLine]

A warm gust of wind rippled through James's white t-shirt as he walked down the desolate block. Gum, blackened from layers of dust, and small pools of melting tar blanketed the otherwise gray sidewalk. The rumbling of a jackhammer, and the crunching of upheaved pebbles being crushed vibrated through the wooden walling painted in permits as James passed under the adjacent scaffolding of blue-painted wood, supported by silver iron beams. He winced and coughed to the side as a small whirlwind of rubble and dirt collided into him, a result of the summer breeze.

James quickened his pace to escape the buffet of specks. He was headed for an acquaintance's home, who was also a drug dealer, but not associated with the CDS. He arrived at an apartment building tightly packed between two others. Its red bricking showed signs of wear and tear after years of erosion through nature and the occasional rough bump. James went up the short, crude concrete stairs, reaching the door with a single step over three levels. He pushed open the black metal door, its knob long retired, and entered the foyer as the door slammed against the wall, contributing to the existing linear indent. The interior of the building was dimly lit with a single raw light bulb, tiled with checkered marble flooring, and walled with decaying wooden panels.

He passed through an entrance way, framed with more wood, and painted in white. He stomped up the hollow staircase, each step echoing through the lobby. James paused at the top, glanced at the line of doors, then continued towards the second-to-last one. A rectangular plaque indicating the apartment number, 204, covered the door's peephole, evident by a small circular bump roughly in the center of the zero.

James knocked twice in quick succession, then paused, looking at the ground whilst he awaited an answer. Within seconds, he could hear shuffling against the carpeted floor. He eyed the doorknob as it turned and creaked. The door opened swiftly, revealing a gray-bearded, light-skinned man clad in a stained red sweater and black sweatpants. His fair complexion and gray hair contradicted one another. "Oh, it's you again," the man answered, in a youthful voice. His name was George Newman, and he was James's accomplice in the drug trade. James got the drugs, and George sold them.

James entered the small apartment as George shut and locked the door behind him. The bathroom was directly to one's left upon entrance, and the closet to the right; the bedroom and living room were interchangeable, as a large bed laid in the center with two coffee tables on either side; and the kitchen joined the living room. James pulled out a hundred dollar bill from his pocket, pushed it against George's chest, then proceeded to sit on the bed.

"Damn, that's quite a bit so early in the day," George said, slightly surprised at his large cut.

"Yeah...," James replied, laying on the bed with a forearm over his eyes.

George walked over to the bed, sat down, then leaned over James to place the bill on a coffee table. "I'm going out later, so you'll get your share tomorrow."

"Whatever. Just don't tell anybody where you got it from," James groaned, referring to the drugs. He had been keeping some money from the CDS, and splitting it with George for a greater profit. George had his own flow of drugs from God knows where, but a good portion came from James. George gave an equally-large portion of his own profits to James in return, but he still made more money than before the agreement. James, on the other hand, only had to give a low-to-decent cut to George. They both knew if the CDS found out about their little secret, they would both be fucked.

"Yeah, yeah. I ain't no dumbass, man."

"You'll be surprised," James joked.

"Hey, shut the fuck up, cunt," George retorted.

"You know not to insult me."

"It was a joke! Why can't I make one wid out you getting all bitchy, but you can?" George asked furiously. As part of their agreement, he couldn't do anything that would remotely discomfort James. He couldn't for the life of him figure out why, and was getting tired of having to watch everything he said.

James paused, moving his free hand towards his pocket.

"Daddy doesn't like it."

[Byrd Man]

Palo Alto, California
Midnight

The convoy of bikers were just a few miles outside of the city of Palo Alto when the ambush was sprung. The LA Horde members were in a pack by themselves, about eight of them. The Bakersfield members were riding two miles back and out of sight as the two packs traveled north up Highway 101. Mike was riding point with the LA Horde members. The ten bikers formed a diamond shape with their bikes, the two bikes carrying the drugs rode in the middle of the diamond. This was how the Horde usually drove when they were escorting people and things. If whoever had attacked the two couriers this morning had been watching them, they knew to expect this.

Four miles outside the Palo Alto city limits, a white van drew even with the bikers. The sliding door of the van began to open. Mike motioned with his left hand and the bikers began to disperse from their group formation, breaking off into groups of two and blowing pass the van. The Horde pack was putting distance between themselves and the van when two SUVs pulled off the side of the highway and blocked the four lanes of the freeway. Mike cursed and pulled the pistol from the small of his back. The two SUVs were a hundred yards off, but Mike could see in the dim highway lights that figures were piling out of the cars and taking up defensive positions. He signaled for the Horde members to slow their approach. He felt something whiz by his head, and then heard a gunshot follow it just a moment later.

Mike hit the brakes on his bike with his left hand and aimed with the pistol in his right. The gun kicked in his hand and he saw a bullet ricochet off the pavement at an attacker's feet. His Fatboy skidding to a stop, Mike leaned forward and fired off more shots at the now firing attackers. One crumpled to the ground, holding his stomach. Bullets whizzed by as Mike stayed in place and fired on the men. Bolder Horde members were flying pass him their guns blazing. Some of the Horde members fell to gunfire, others fared better. Mike saw Woody mow down two men with a close range shotgun blast before riding away unscathed. Mike turned as he heard a car approaching. The white van they had passed was now behind them, armed men getting out to help their friends. Their backup didn't last long, though, as the Bakersfield Horde chapter roared on to the scene like a crazed cavalry, mowing down the men with their weapons and bikes. With the tide turning, the attackers began to retreat. Seeing this, Mike gunned his bike and followed. He got off a few shots and dropped feeling men. One of the men running came into view under the halogen lights on the side of the road.

"Chuck?" Mike yelled over the roar of his own bike. The running man didn't look back to acknowledge his name being called. Enraged, Mike sped towards him and knocked him to the ground with the butt of his pistol. A few minutes later the Horde members were miles away from the highway and taking tally of the battle. "We got three wounded," said Monkey, Mike's VP. "We got them patched up. We're gonna ride them up to San Fran and drop them off there with our brothers there."

Mike nodded and caught his son's eye. Juan was okay, thankfully. He said he got a few guys with his machine pistol, but none of them could shoot for shit. They got lucky that they were dealing with a bunch of gangbangers. Anybody worth a damn and they would have been seriously fucked. And speaking of who they were dealing with... "Chuck," Mike said to Monkey. "Where is that piece of shit?"

Monkey led Mike a few feet away where the tall, blonde man was tied up on the ground. Charles Stillman had been a member of the Horde up until a few years ago. He thought he, not Mike, should have been made president. His bitterness had led to him going over to the police as an informer. Luckily, Monkey had a man with LAPD who tipped them off. The Horde took a vote on if Chuck should be killed. Of the thirteen votes cast, Chuck was allowed to live by a vote of 7-6. They stripped Chuck of his title as VP and he was cut from the MC life. Mike, as a sign of mercy, had voted for Chuck to live. He and Chuck had been prospects together, they had both saved each others lives many times. Now, Mike was regretting the decision to spare Chuck.

"Wake him up," said Mike.

Monkey slapped Chuck on the face. He awoke with a startled gasp.

"Wakey wakey, cocksucker," said Monkey. Chuck looked around and saw Mike looming over him.

"Mike," Chuck said in a raspy voice. "Mike, Mike, listen to me."

"Answer me truthfully and you might live," said Mike. "Money or revenge?"

"Both."

"Bullshit. You know how much we carry when we send packages. It's only worth a few thousand, nowhere near worth the risk."

"It was about sending a message," spat Chuck. "I wanted to show everyone that the Horde ain't shit. They're weak pussies! All of you are."

"You nearly killed my Hector! My fucking son! The same one you were godfather to!"

"Fuck you! You want to play on my sympathy? Fuck you, you fucking Mexican piece of shit!"

"Funny you talk about sending a message." Mike pulled his pistol back out and held it to Chuck's forehead. "I think I'll send one of my own."

"Mike, no! NO! You said I you'd let me live!"

"I said might," he replied, pulling back the hammer of the gun. "My dad had a saying he learned as a boy in Mexico.Los ácaros se encuentran en el culo de un pollo 'Mites are on a chicken's ass.' This is what happens to traitors."

Mike pulled the trigger and looked Chuck in the eye as he died.

"Cut off his head," he told Monkey. "Send it to those fucking bangers he was working with. Show them what happens when they try to fuck with the Horde."

[Jambo1117]

Joe had completed his shipment of drug mulling. He received a package of money in it's place. This was now club money. He would run it back to the MC and they would dispense it fairly to the members. They were making a lot more with the drugs then most others. It was their best money maker to date.

Joe reached the Club house. Where his Prez. Also, known as Jo. One eyed Joe. Sat down. He had just got off the phone with L.A. They wanted him up there. He was going to go. Being one of the oldest members in the Horde. He felt like it was his duty to go help out his Club. Anyway he could. "I'm coming with you" Jo said to his Prez. One eyed Jo didn't say no. He simply nodded.

"We'll leave now" The Prez said, getting to it. Straight onto his Harley. He was going to ride the whole Two thousand or so miles to reach Mike. Their Mother Charter President. As V.P Jo wasn't going to let his prez go alone. He sent a few members with him. Staying to hold the fort down in Chicago. A couple of members tagged along. Joe also thought he would send the newly patched members. Let them prove their worth right away.

They hit the highway soon enough. It was going to be a long ride there. About 7 patched members from the Chicago chapter were heading to it.

V.P Joe went and sat back at the table. Thinking he should have gone with them. With the others. To show his love and support for his club. Maybe he'll go the next time L.A needs them. He decided to send Woody a text. 'Chicago rides to you. Brother. One Eyed should be there soon enough'

Joe sat looking to the members at the table. They were cut down, just short of half. Good thing they just patched in those members. He thought. "We'll keep our business up and running for Joe. Unless they need us too. We'll drop everything and ride out to L.A. Okay?" Jo said. Asserting his lead as V.P. They nodded. He nodded. It was done. They knew what to do when the time comes.

Joe headed to the club bar next. Wanting to have a drink. This could potentially be a tough old week for the club. Two potential wars on their doorstep. It wasn't going to be easy. Joe wasn't going to be the reason the Chicago chapter fell to the hands of outsiders. He was going to keep this charter running.

[Heretic209]

Rick made his way over to the bar, bringing out four glasses and a couple bottles. He poured with one hand, while speaking and waving his other around animatedly.
"Well, it is all usually quite smooth, and I'll drink just about any of it; but my personal favorite is the Midleton. It has a taste of honey and almonds, with a-" the Irishman realized he was rambling, and quickly stopped himself. "Here you are, try it for yourself."

Anastasia took a sip, keeping her pale blue eyes on the talkative man. She licked her lips slightly, a habit of hers when drinking, and a smile tugged the corners of her mouth. Her sleeve moved as she put down the glass, the black tattooed letters “MNP” are visible for a moment on the back of her wrist. “It is very good, Richard, you did not exaggerate. I will have to send you a bottle of Russian Standard Imperia, it is made with glacial water and filtered through quartz crystal from the Urals. It is splendid cold and served straight. May I ask, what work do you do for Mr. Murray?”
Stasia glanced over at the Irish boss and back at Rick. She looked down at him and tapped her red lacquered nails lightly against the crystal glass. Her eyes gave him the once over and she smiled slightly at his casual dress and informal presence. It seemed he was not there to impress, he left that to his boss.

"I'm much looking forward to trying it," Rick said with a smile. When Anastasia asked him about his job, Neil glanced over at Rick, but was not worried. One of the reasons he had promoted the man in the first place was because he was friendly, but not so overfriendly as to be compromising.
"Mainly jobs here in Chicago. Drug transport, mainly, and to be quite frank. We're all adults here, after all."
Neil nodded, and then looked over at Anastasia, asking curiously, "Your accent.. You are from around Moscow, yes? Stasia finished her whiskey and put down the glass, “As you say, we are all adults. What sort of drugs I wonder?”

She heard Neil’s question and turned her attention to him, meeting his warm brown eyes. “Da, I am from SoIntsevo,” she looked at him with new interest. Neil distinctly remembered that SoIntsevo was a very rough and violent neighborhood in northwest Moscow, known for being a hot bed of Russian mafia, both street level and higher up with a lot of drugs, prostitution, money laundering, trafficking, and popular nightclubs. From her change in expression, Neil judged that it must be extremely rare for an American to pick up her city's accent.
"Have you been to Moscow before?" she asked, stepping closer to him, leaving Rick at the bar.
"A few times," Neil replied. "I used to go there with my father quite a bit when I was younger. I don't think it was his intention, but every time we went I'd always convince my bodyguard to let me go out and talk to the locals." He walked closer to Anastasia, crossing her to get to the bar. Neil picked up one of the glasses of whiskey and took a sip.
"My father would get mad, saying it was 'unsafe', and on the next trip, he would assign me an additional bodyguard to make sure I wouldn't run off. He even tried to assuage me with an English-to-Russian translator one time. Of course, that simply didn't do for me, I liked to talk to the people that spoke it."

“That shows initiative, to go off on your own in a foreign land so young,” she commented, catching her boss’s bored expression as he downed a whiskey in one gulp.

"Granted, I know very little Russian," he said in their language, before returning to English. "But the accent was what I picked up on most. Anyway, enough about me. Let's talk about why we are both here." He left the bar, bringing his glass and the bottle of Midleton over to a sitting area, setting it in the center of a dark wooden table surrounded by leather chairs and couches. He picked one of the chairs and took a seat.
"The Shadow Brotherhood and Éire's Champions have been in Chicago for years," he began. "And it is obvious that neither are going to just pack up and leave the city - we really aren't interested in that happening, either. There are a few.. services, that you do, and we don't. I'm sure it is the same the other way around as well. And as we often are not so much competitors rather than neighbors, I feel like we could potentially reach a beneficial agreement for the both of us."
Stasia took a seat at the end of the couch facing his chair, crossing her legs. Grigoriy sat too close next to her, working on is second whiskey. He swirled the glass and listened to Neil, his eyes focused on the young man.

“You say we can offer you services, what are you interested in? I know you do not run whores, maybe you’d like to dip into that, eh?” he asked, raising a bushy eyebrow. “But, net, you Irish like to keep clean so maybe you need someone to do your dirty work? Maybe keep the scum in check for you?”

Neil nodded subtly, almost unconsciously, and crossed his arms. "Oh, I assure you Mr. Vasilyev, that the ECS is not interested in expanding their business to include whore houses. It is profitable, I'm sure, but it simply isn't something that we want to expand into yet," he told the Russian mob boss. "Drugs, on the other hand.. We deal primarily with cocaine, heroin, and various other harder drugs, shipping them around the world from right here in Chicago. In addition, we sell drugs to the local gangs for them to push on the streets. I'd like to see to it that the ECS was the only drug distributor in Chicago, and we would make it worth your while as well as paying good price for any stock and facilities." Neil paused to take a sip of the smooth Irish whiskey. "Also, in exchange for sole management of the drug business here, we would stay out of all prostitution dealings in the city, and protection rackets - provided that ECS owned companies are exempt from payment. But that leaves the whole city available for you to extort." With a smile, Neil looked from Grigoriy to Anastasia, waiting for their response to his proposal.

Grigoriy poured himself another glass of whiskey, drinking it too fast. He mulled over Neil’s offer, stroking his thick beard.
“Your terms are fair, Mr. Murray. We would not want to step on each other’s toes. You deal the coke, heroin and what have you. Now I would ask, we have exclusive dealings inside some of the night clubs downtown and on the northside, would you ask us to give that up? Our girls work those clubs as well, it is a package deal. Coke we have, but prescriptions and MDMA is what we mostly deal in there.”
Grigoriy watched him as he downed the last of his whiskey; those certain clubs were financed by business fronts owned by the big heads of the Russian Mob out of New York City, he just kept an eye on the men that ran the day to day businesses, making sure they did not get too ambitious. Their prescriptions came through from Canada by way of Detroit and into Chicago but lately the shipments were late or missing products.

Stasia spoke up finally, “I agree you offer very fair terms, Mr. Murray. Would you be interested in becoming our dealer for prescriptions. Our sources in Canada are becoming a bit unreliable. I can give you a list of what we would need, if you can provide them.”
The stout Georgian looked at her with a slight frown, clinking his glass down. He knew this was true but was not wanting to give anything over to the Irish. Stasia glanced at him, catching his dark look, and turned away, confident in her decision to test the resources of the Irish. Prescription drugs could be wildly easy or difficult to get, depending on what they were and who was getting them.

The two Irishmen listened to their Russian counterparts while they spoke, and shared a brief glance at eachother as if silently determining how to proceed. After a couple seconds, Neil spoke.
"In these nightclubs, we could work out a deal so that the drugs are acquired by us, but sold by you. We would get a cut, of course, and those details can be worked out later, but that way we are still in charge of all imports and exports of drugs in Chicago, and you keep business running smoothly in your nightclubs."
Rick leaned in and whispered something to Neil, who listened intently, then seemed to nod in agreement.
"As for prescription drugs, you may be in luck. We - and by 'we', I mean our legitimate corporation - have began talks with another corporation to buy out many of their entities. Now, one of these companies that we are interested in is a fairly large pharmaceutical manufacturer. Of course, we won't physically own the company for another three, four months; you know how businessmen are. But I think that will set us up nicely for what you have in mind here."

Stasia’s mouth twitched in a small smile and Grigoriy nodded slowly “Yes, I think we can proceed with this then.”
He poured his fourth whiskey and toasted them, “Payé khalee! Let’s get started, my friends. To your health!”
He knocked back the full tumbler as if it were a shot and chuckled, reaching out and putting his hand on Stasia’s knee. She stiffened, her nails digging slightly into the leather, resisting the urge to slap his hand away.
“You Irish certainly have a good taste for liquor. This is very fine,” Grigoriy’s face was now florid and he laughed again. “We are going to make much money, Mr. Murray. You with your drugs and me with my bitches.”

He gripped her knee and slid his hand a bit higher along her thigh. Stasia’s face stayed still as stone but her jaw clenched, the muscle jumping a bit. She hated when he did this, treating her like one of his girls and not the thief that she was. He patted her thigh and turned to her, “Isn’t that right, de'vachka maja.”

Stasia took a deep breath and smiled stiffly at her boss, her face a porcelain mask. “Of course Mr. Vasilyev. Excuse me, I must visit the powder room.”
She stood and his hand slid off her leg. She walked away to the restroom, her stride controlled but she fumed inside. When she entered the luxurious bathroom and shut the door, Stasia picked up one of the hand towels and twisted it viciously, grinding her teeth.


Neil smiled and clinked glasses with his new business partner. He chose to ignore the obvious tension between the Russian mob boss and female associate. When she stood, he glanced up at her, but kept his face neutral despite what he was thinking. He didn't want to risk the deal because his morals were beginning to get in the way.
"Fantastic. I'm sure in the next few days we can work out the details," the young Irish-American stood to stretch his legs, setting his empty glass down on the table. He walked around begind one of the couches still facing Grigoriy, and leaned against it.
"Is there any other business you wish to discuss?"
Grigoriy waved his hand dismissively, “Always business, you should come to one of my clubs someday, try Cloud Nine, downtown. Bring your little friend there and I’ll let you each fuck as many whores as you can handle, on the house. I just got a little redhead from the Ukraine who is very sweet. I hear you Irish like redheads.”

He poured another full glass of whiskey and stood up, swaying slightly and took a drink. “Where is Stasia? That u'mnitsa, my clever girl. Stasia! Come out here and say goodbye to our friends! Women, eh?”
The man chuckled and looked at Neil, “I always thought you Irish drank more? What’s wrong, too American now? Let me guess you don’t smoke either.”

Stasia emerged from the bathroom and made her way to her boss. She recognized the sound of his voice, he was drunk and he was going to become antagonistic. Wanting to avoid screwing up the deal they just made she went to him and took hold of his arm, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow.
“Come, Mr. Vasilyev, our deal is done. I need a cigarette,” Stasia said, trying to calm him before he got on one of his anti-American rants. It was not that he had issue with the country itself, but he hated what he saw as the weak nature of their culture. He loved to go on about what he called the pussification of the American men, how soft they were with their women and how they worried about living past seventy and needing a blue pill to get hard.
Grigoriy finished his drink and set the glass down with a loud bang. He put his arm around Stasia’s waist and squeezed her, speaking in Russian. “I need a smoke too, I don’t think these guys smoke. After that I need something else and since you’re a block of ice with lipstick have the driver drop me off at Cloud Nine.”
She nodded and started to guide him to the door. Her face felt warm with embarrassment, her boss just made himself look like a village thug rather than a head of a large wing of an international mafia. She turned back to look at Neil, “I will make sure everything is arranged and I will deliver the list if you can give me a contact. It was a pleasure to meet you both and to do business with you.”

Neil and Rick shook hands with the Russian criminals; the young head of the ECS smiled and replied, "The pleasure was all mine." Before closing the door behind them. After a couple minutes, their guests long gone from the hotel, Neil turned to Rick who was busy pouring himself another drink, and asked "Do you think they are interested in Las Angeles like we are?"
Rick gave a snort, and took a sip of the whiskey. "I wouldn't doubt it. Everyone is interested in the City of Angels.."

[Byrd Man]

Downtown LA
11:40 AM


Mike sat in the booth at the small diner. He sipped his coffee and watched as the tall and gray-haired Latino man came into the restaurant. His eye caught Mike's and Mike nodded. The tall man unbuttoned his suit jacket as he slid into the booth on the other side of Mike.

"Are you the man I'm supposed to meet?"

"Yeah," replied Mike. "Nice to meet you. Big fan of yours. I voted for you, you know."

"Every vote counts," said LA Mayor Andre Giagos. "Thanks for your support."

"You know how it is. Us Chollos gotta look out for each other right, ese?"

"Let's get something straight." Giagos pointed a finger at Mike. "I'm not your fucking chollo, or your goddamn ese."

"Oh, I know. You married a white woman, live in Hancock Park. You as white as white can be...except when it comes time to count the votes, huh? Then, you're out in East LA, shaking hands with any Latino that's looks like they can vote." Mike shrugged and took another sip of his coffee. "Hell, I can't judge. I'm a Latino in a goddamn outlaw biker gang. The fuck do I know about Latino solidarity."

Mike slid the manilla envelope beside his mug towards the Mayor. "But I can judge this." Mike watched as he gingerly opened it and looked at the photos inside. They were clear shots of the Giagos giving it to some whore in a South Central no-tell motel. Herb's surveillance equipment was top of the line, high-def he called it. "Solicitation is a crime. Adultery is a moral sin, but you'll see those last few photos of you doing blow that those pictures mark the end of your career in public service."

Giagos looked up at Mike, white-faced a pale.

"What?" he asked in a quiet voice before clearing his throat. "What do you want?"

"Simple," replied Mike. "Anything I or my people need, you do. I ask you to put pressure on the LAPD to softball something, you do. I need help with property and taxes breaks, you talk up the city council and get it done. I ask you to jump and you say...."

"How high?"

"Good boy," Mike said with a rueful grin. He polished off the last of his coffee and nodded at the photos. "Keep those. We have extra. Lots and lots of extras. You fuck up, we send our photos to the papers, TV stations, and your wife's place of work."

Mike leaned back in his seat and looked the stunned politician in the eye.

"I own you, Mr. Mayor. You got it, ese?"

"I got it... ese."

"Good. Now get out of here, I'm sure you have a busy day ahead of you."

*****

Horde MC Clubhouse
6 PM


Mike sat on the roof of the clubhouse, looking out at the city of LA as the sun was setting behind it. He had a half-smoked cigar burning in his right hand while he pondered. He now had the mayor of LA in his backpocket. He owned a politician like someone owns silverware. Giagos aisde, the word coming back from the Lobos, the small time gangbangers that had helped Chuck out in the raids, was that they wouldn't get close to the Horde again. Mike supposed sending the Lobos Chuck's severed head served as a damn good deterrent against any action. Mike flicked the ashes from his cigar and took a long drag off of it. No reply from CDS yet. Mike was wondering if someone was just fucking with him about CDS, pretending to be the cartel. One-Eye and his Chicago boys were still a day and a half out. He'd have a sit down with the old bastard.

Mike looked at the skyline and thought about the future of the Horde. For years, they had been nickle and diming in with bullshit courier runs, making crank in some rundown trailer parks. The Horde had always been one of the upper tier outlaw biker gangs, but to Mike that was like being the world's tallest midget. At the end of the day, it didn't mean a whole lot of difference compared to folks like the Mob. Mike exhaled a large smoke ring and watched it dissipate in the warm evening air. Pete and Bax Jones had been pressing Mike to get into running girls. He had been stonewalling them, but maybe running whores wasn't such a bad idea. It all depended on what CDS wanted with the Horde. The shit with Giagos was a damn good start, but Mike had to play his cards right. He did that and the Horde would take the leap from being considered biker trash. No more nickel and dime shit. Mike knew if he pulled this off, his grandkids would never have to work a day in their lives.

"You're mine," he said to the entire expanse of LA. "You don't know it yet, but you are."

He stood, his knees popping as he picked himself up. Mike tossed his smoldering cigar on to the roof and stomped it out with his bootheel. He gave the city one final look before he turned away. "God help whatever motherfucker tries to get between you and me."

[idlehands]

Stasia was dressed down, wearing jeans and a beige cardigan, she wore little makeup but for a touch of mascara and her long hair was in a single braid. She approached the visiting area, noting the number of tearful women and fussy children today and sighed with irritation. Her friends stood with her, both of them dressed in plain and modest clothing, neither looked like a cat house madam or a wife of a mobster.

Natasha smiled at a woman with a chubby toddler on her lap, she was the pretty young wife of one of Vasiliyev’s guards and had been a friend of Stasia’s for years. She put her hand on the bump under her dress and sighed, making the other woman with them roll her eyes. Irina was an associate of hers and ran the day to day affairs with the girls at Cloud Nine. She was tall and thin with a good boob job, her hair dyed an unnaturally bright red.

“Why can’t we smoke in these fucking places?” she muttered, fingering her pack of Camels. “They’re depressing as shit.”

The young mother turned away at her language and Irina made a face at her, “Why are you so high and mighty? Looks like you spread your legs for a criminal just like the rest of us.”

The woman blushed and moved from her chair to another at the far side of the waiting area. Irina laughed and Natasha sighed at her and said in Russian, “You are so crude, we’re supposed to act respectable here.”

“You are getting so boring, Tasha,” Irina replied irritated by the ex dancer’s new found pride at being a wife and expecting mother, not to mention her insipid bobbed haircut and canvas tennis shoes.

“Enough,” Stasia said, looking at the woman. They were not exactly friends but Irina was the closest thing she had to a compatriot in the man’s world they occupied. She was no thief, just a very good whore with a mind for numbers and no nonsense approach to her job.

Stasia had chosen them to come with her to the federal prison in Marion because three women did not seem dangerous, though each one of them could handle a gun with ease. They were followed by Ivan, Vlad, and Natasha’s husband, Fyodor in another truck for extra security. She sat and crossed her legs, trying not to appear to restless.

When it was her turn she walked to a chair, sitting down in front of the thick glass pane and lifted the receiver, smiling at her brother. His familiar blue eyes so similar to her own, his fair hair shorn close in a prison haircut. He looked heavier, broader across the chest, the result of hours of nothing to do but lift weights.

"Niko, it is good to see you looking well," she said when he picked up the receiver. She spoke in their native tongue, in the local slang of SoIntsevo which was indecipherable by even a native Russian speaker unless he was from there and involved in the criminal life. They could speak freely as long as they kept up the pretense of cheerful social chatter, laughing and smiling even as they discussed serious business. "I have picked up the trail to our little fox."

Stasia told him about their finding of Tyrone and the process and he smiled, shaking his head slightly. "Sister, you did well to find the man but you made several mistakes. Those mistakes can undermine your position, can make you seem like less of a leader."

She paused, her smile frozen, "What do you mean? I got the information didn't I?"

"Da, you did but you did two things that are very wrong. First, never stand in front of your subject, always sit to his side or behind him, where he cannot see you but you can view his face, get a damned camera and monitor if you have to. It is what the KGB did and it works very well. Second, never kneel to a man, Stasia. Even if you mean to hurt him. Your men are watching and it will seem to them as something else, because you are a woman. Do you know what I mean?”

Stasia mulled his words and nodded slowly, he was right as usual. "It will not happen again, Niko. But I do plan on following up the information I received, why would he be there if he is on the run? It is a good place to get killed that is for sure, no one would give him help knowing he is a rat and he is bound to run into someone who knows his treachery, everyone plays in that sandbox."

Nikolai shifted and spoke closely into the phone, "Because we had dealings, Sergei and I, with some bikers. A few years ago I went out to the city to see about setting up shop with some girls. I spoke to their leader, Mike, he was not interested in prostitutes but some of his gang were. We made a deal with two brothers called Baxter, behind their leader’s back. We would drive down some girls and get paid for them. These were decent girls, though not up to Vasiliyev's standards for his clubs so he never missed them. I was trying to get us back into the city after Vasiliyev fucked it up with the Chechens and nearly started a war. Sergei would go to the bikers I think, they may not know what happened to me and he can get money and shelter with them. Talk to Ivan, he never went but he knows more details. Call this number and speak with the leader. Speak with him first, not the Baxters, they may have a loyalty to Sergei and tip him off."

He gave her the number, mixing it words as he spoke a nonsense rhyme just in case someone could pick out the number words which were not slang. Stasia repeated it in her mind, storing it for later. It stung a bit that she had been kept out of that deal and he saw her expression.

“I did not tell you because it was not a big thing yet, besides I was not going to take my sister with a bunch of whores to sell to bikers, if they had disrespected you in front of me, it would have been cause for a fight and ruined our deal.”

Stasia smiled slightly, her brother was smart and always looking out for her, it was her chance to pay him back for his lifetime of vigilance. She had to keep his gang together, to keep pushing the boundaries, making them more wealthy and powerful. To catch the snitch who had put him in prison and make his death miserable.

She related the information about the meeting with the Irish and he nodded. "Our Georgian and his negotiations, it is not a bad deal though I wish he would have left us room to maneuver in that particular market, especially with the flower beds in bloom."

She agreed with him, his obscure reference to the poppy fields in Afghanistan being open for business now that the Taliban was routed and scattered, the farmers would deal with anyone who would buy and several Red Mafias had made large purchases of opium for a cheap price. It had to be sold quickly before the Americans there got wind of it and burned the fields, so it was ripe for the plucking.

"I was thinking the same thing but it is what it is, he is the boss," she stated. "For now it works for us, we will get pills regularly now if the micks can hold up there end of the deal."

Nikolai tapped his fingers, “By the way, I’ve met an old associate in here, he once was the best supplier of weapons among all the Brotherhoods. I am working with him, as well as we can from here, to get a better supply for you and the men. Good shit, I promise you that. Enough to start and finish a fucking war, for he is still connected.”

He nodded and smiled, with chuckle when he caught a guard eyeing him suspiciously. The guard glared at them, hating their undecipherable language, "You got one minute, Alexandrov."

Nikolai gave the guard a bemused look and turned back, speaking into the phone again, "Keep me informed on your hunt, Stasia, I want to know when you trap our fox. I have the paper you sent me so write often, Sister. If you visit the city of the west, remember to watch out for the Chechens, they will be ready to test your authority and they are ruthless."

"Time's up," the guard said and started towards her brother.

Gripping the phone he looked hard at her, "Remember, you lead my Brotherhood now, do not let me down. If anyone disrespects you or challenges your position, you cut their fucking throats."

Stasia looked back at him and smiled, "You have my word."

Nikolai hung up the phone and looked at the guard with a mixture of amusement and disdain and said in heavily accented English. "I'm done now."