The Red never met in the same place twice. If they did physically meet, it was also through a messenger or a third party. This time would be no different. The organization was not entirely a criminal element, and had come completely out of nowhere. Controlled by a man obviously strong in both power and stature, The Red recruited hundreds of assassins and hit-men across the globe, giving them missions that no one would do without a large amount of money pushing them forward. Experienced assassins for The Red lived comfortably but had their share of bad stories. You knew this coming in today, and whether money or personal revenge lead you here, you were ready to kill for the enigmatic organization.

The organization had hands throughout the United States, infiltrating all forms of government. The very idea of them was hard to believe, and it wasn't a secret that many denied their existence. The leader of the group was skilled in masking much of The Reds image. Contractors for The Red were contacted and usually sent to a nearby Hotel for their mission. Missions could vary from being from the direct chain of command, to a contract on someone. You have been looking forward to this meeting all week, arriving at the Sunset Lodge and Hotel located in Los Angeles, California. A lovely city full of bloodthirsty people, you make sure to take in the sights as you arrive.

You were told to bring all equipment to the hotel but be discrete. The Red would takeover from there. Sure enough, as soon as you pull up to the Hotel, bellhops take much of your bags and direct you to the nearest conference room. Once there, you are seated with three others. You are all different, ranging from both your gender, ages and even ethnicity. Still, your eyes all say the same thing. All four of you have taken lives, and are ready to do so again.

The uncomfortable silence is broken when a man enters the conference room, flanked by two others. Dressed in a black suit tailored specifically for him, the man smiles as he moves towards the tables you are seated in. Black, slicked back hair and a devilish grin, the man claps his hands as he reaches you all. "I am so glad all of you could make it today. I have a mission, should you all choose to accept. Its rather greenhorn, but will determine whether or not The Red can rely on you."

The two men on the side bring forth 2 briefcases, and open them simultaneously. Cash stacked up on one another is a beautiful sight to see, and the leader stands in between both. "4 million dollars split between all four of you should the mission be successful. Good price to pay for this sort of job." His grin hid daggers as he spoke, and a chill runs down your spine. He cannot be trusted, that was for sure. The two suited bodyguards barely moved, and couldn't be seen behind their designer sunglasses. They watched the room like hawks, but other then that, barely registered the conversation.

"Your first contract is fairly simple and easy. Recently, a businessman of ours defaulted on many of his loans. He's been borrowing money from us for a long time, and the time has arrived for his loans to be paid in full." The man starts to pace around the room as he voice booms throughout, his grin never leaving his face. He loves the sound of his own voice, and it was no secret every word was dripping with poison. "Mr. Alfred Pennington is currently building some type of art gallery on the outskirts of Los Angeles. The man is afraid of us, and we discovered recently he hired his own security team to guard the construction site. We at The Red don't take kindly to this sort of behavior. You are to go to the site, kill his pittance of a team, and kill Pennington. His security team is made up of jumpy mercenaries and prior military. Are we clear?"

The decision is up to you now. The contract is lucrative, and honestly simple. Do you accept?

(Any information you need about the site, team, etc., just ask. Don't be afraid if you have questions.)

Sam was the first one to talk. "Clear as in 'Do we know the basics of what we need to do', then yes. But if you mean 'Are we done', then I would say no. You see, I have some questions I like to ask first. One, how can we be sure we get the money? Two, when is this art gallery going to be? And three, who am I dealing with? And I'm not talking about my target right now." He said, looking suspiciously at the others at the table. Sam did this job because The Red had not only impressed him, but also offered to finance his revenge. However, till now he didn't know for sure he could trust The Red or any of his new co-workers. If he was going to accept the offer, he wanted to know what he was dealing with. Also, as far as he could tell, he was the youngest. This meant he had to proof he was ready to take this job.

- The Night Before –

Goldberg. The fucking guy was always uneasy, but after receiving a strange letter from a strange person in his parking garage, the guy became a downright twitchy mess. He jittered incessantly, his eyes darting from window to window suspiciously, and his face dripped with nerve induced sweat. He was in the kind of state that most people with a thousand dollar coke habit couldn’t even reach.

“Goldberg, relax you on antsy prick.” Hock said simply, trying to calm the two-bit lawyer’s nerves, at least enough for him to finish explaining the situation.

“Relax? Re-lax?! You want me to Re-lax?” he retorted nervously at Hock, placing extra emphasis on his syllables in a taunting manner. He thought about blurting out an obscenity at Hock, but checked the idea when he remembered some of the stories the other fellas had shared about the intimidating enforcer. Goldberg felt his balls shrink as Hock, with a lit cigarette in his lips, glared at him through narrowed eyes. Goldberg had asked on more than one occasion for the hitman to forgo smoking in his office, but the old salt never listened.

“Right… relax.” He said more calmly, forcing himself heed Hock’s advice, not because he wanted to, but because he needed to. He had no desire to test the patience of the most notoriously ruthless killer in all of New Jersey. Taking a deep breath, he continued where he’d left off a moment earlier. “Okay, so like I said; I’m walking to my car, last night after I locked up the office, and this… this guy, some cholo in a Yankees cap, approaches me. I flipped… I mean, I flipped the fuck out, I thought for a moment that one of the Ansonetti’s enemies had found me… so, I panicked!” taking a break to reach for the bottle of Xanax on his desk, Goldberg retrieved one of the little courage pills, and popped it back into his mouth.

“…and?” Hock forced the issue, reaching over to drop some of his cigarette’s ashes onto Goldberg’s desk. The ashes fell onto the same black char-stained spot they always landed, only making the mark worse. Goldberg spotted the ashes on his desk, and felt his neck twitch with anxiety. In the past, he’d also asked Hock not to do what he was doing. Hock had simply replied that the char stain could easily be covered by an ashtray.

“…well, the Cholo reaches into his coat, and pulls out an envelope. That…” he says pointing at a simple unmarked white envelope sitting on the desk. “…that envelope, and says that it is for your eyes only, and that if I look in it, no one would ever find my body.” Clearly horrified by the threat, Goldberg brings a comforting hand to his face. Hock however, raises his eyebrow out of both amusement and curiosity. Taking one last puff of his cigarette, he stamps it out onto Goldberg’s desk, and grabs the envelope.

“What’re you doing?” asks Goldberg nervously, looking to Hock.

“What’s it look like I’m doing? I’m opening it.” Hock says simply.

“You’re opening it? What… what if it’s a bomb? Or… or what if it’s got like… anthrax, or something!” he says even more nervously, pushing away from his desk in terror at the possible implications. Shaking his head, Hock glares at Goldberg again, holding up the simple white envelope, hinting at its flimsiness. “Does it look like a bomb to you?” he asks mockingly.

Hock then retrieves the gold letter opener from Goldberg’s desk, and slips it under the exposed flap on one end. “What about anthrax?” he hears Goldberg ask softly, but Hock ignores him, cutting the envelope open, he then pulls out a single piece of paper. Unfolding it, he reads it in an instant, though given its abstract simplicity, it leaves much to the imagination. For what feels like a long moment after however, Hock looks the letter over, reading it a second, and a third time.

“Well?” Goldberg asks curiously, pulling his anti-anthrax pocket handkerchief from his face.

“Book me a flight to LA for tomorrow morning.” Hock commands, standing up from the chair opposite of Goldberg’s desk, reaching into his pocket to retrieve his zippo lighter. “Joey Accorso, the Don’s grand-nephew, he still runs a gun shop in Compton, get in contact with him, tell him to expect me tomorrow afternoon. I’m going to email you a list of what I need to pick up when I get there, you make sure he has it ready.” With that, Hock flips open his zippo, and sets light to the letter.

As it burns in his hand, Hock glances at Goldberg “Goldberg! Hey! You get all of that?”

Seeming to snap out of a slight trance, Goldberg nods frantically, and responds. "Flight to LA, call Joey Accorso, make sure your pickup is ready. Got it.”

“Good.” Hock says with finality, dropping the last burning piece of the letter onto the hardwood floor, before stomping it out with the heel of his shoe. He turns, and walks out of Goldberg’s office, headed for home to pack some essentials for his first meeting with a criminal organization that most people had believed to be nothing more than a rumor. Hock had known better all along, and now he’d been summoned to meet with them. Why he’d been summoned, and what for he wasn’t sure of, but he knew that this was an opportunity he couldn’t afford to pass up on.

- Earlier Today -

Goldberg’s reservation for Hock had come through just fine, and while Hock himself would have skimped for economy class tickets, Goldberg had sprung for business class. He assumed that Goldberg was probably too afraid to face the consequences, had Hock not approved, though he would have in this case. The intimidation factor that Hock had earned in his time was something he was happy to have, and maintain. It made things much easier. It was the reason why he let the younger Ansonettis spread rumors, and tales of him, even if they weren’t all necessarily true.

When he’d arrived at LAX, Hock had a car waiting for him, one of the local Ansonetti connections had no doubt been contacted in advance. Without so much as a look, he took the keys from the two young punks that’d been there, and drove off alone. Taking the 105E, Hock drove into the poverty stricken neighborhood just south of downtown Los Angeles, and about ten minutes later had arrived at Accorso’s Gun Shop. Joey, the shop’s owner, had been expecting Hock, and again without any conversation, handed off the very heavily packed black duffel bag that had been requested.

Returning to the black sedan, Hock removed the spare wheel from the trunk of the car, and discarded it. The compartment it rested in underneath of the bed of the trunk was the perfect place for Hock to stash the bag, so as to avoid raising any suspicions if an overzealous cop attempted to search the vehicle. On a once over, they most like wouldn’t have noticed the compartment.

Before replacing his luggage into the trunk atop the compartment, Hock made sure to retrieve his personal carry; a single Sig Sauer P226, chambered in .40 S&W. He inspected it carefully for a short moment, pulling the slide back until it locked. Content with it, he grabbed one of the magazines loaded with hydroshock hollowpoints, and slid it up into the grip until it clicked into position. He then let the slide loose, and hot-shotted a round into the chamber.

After holstering his weapon into his waist along with a few extra magazines, and a Carbide-Steel Tanto Knife. Hock then shoved the rest of the heavy duffel bag into the spare wheel well of the trunk, and covered it all up with his luggage. His contingency was set. After closing the trunk lid, Hock drove off toward the Sunset Lodge &Hotel.

- Now -

Hock sat calmly in one of the too comfortable black leather chairs, sipping at the aged scotch in his ice chilled glass. Occasionally he offered a glance to the others gathered in the appointed meeting room, trying to get some form of appraisal of them. They were a young Caucasian male, an older tan skinned woman, and an even older Asian woman. He hadn’t recognized any of them when he entered the room, the last to arrive for the meeting. He figured that they must have run in different parts of the world than him.

Reaching into his pocket for a smoke, he lit up and as he drew heavily onto the cancerous tobacco stick, he pondered over the possibility that all of this was a set up. That this had been concocted as an ambush, meant to draw him away from the relative safe haven of Newark. It would have been the only way his adversaries could have possibly done away with him. But Hock had been prepared for that. After all, it would have been silly for Goldberg to have had to call ahead for Accorso, if Hock’s request hadn’t been of the extraordinary kind.

It was.

Exhaling deeply, Hock made sure to keep a close eye on the time as it ticked on by, checking his wristwatch carefully. Almost as if on cue however, the silence of the room was abruptly broken as the host made his entrance, followed closely by a pair of suited goons. Hock looked over the main figure, taking note of his careful mannerisms, and the personally tailored suit he wore. He was someone important, but not overly so. If he’d have been the very head of state for this organization, he would have been accompanied by more than just two armed guards.

He watched as the man motioned for his goons to set their briefcases down onto the table that Hock, and the others were seated around. He listened carefully to the words used by their host, understanding that this was to be an audition of sorts. Of course it made sense that a criminal organization as secretive, and unknown as ‘The Red’ would take careful measures. They needed to weed out the rookies, and Hock appreciated that.

The pay was to be four million, split evenly between Hock, and the other three. They were to be his ‘partners’, for lack of a more befitting term. Cooperation didn’t necessarily sit that well with the older hitman, but the price was right, as was the clientele. He was increasingly interested in seeking out employers that were deeper into the criminal underworld, than the Ansonetti Family was. Atop of that, Hock figured that it was only a matter of time that things went south in a big way with his current employers.

Their target was to be some businessman that had defaulted on loans. Hock smirked at the feeling of coincidence; his earliest days were as a loan shark, and here he was twenty or so years later, back in the same line of work. Not necessarily the kind of work he was into much anymore, but he digressed. He made note of the fact that apparently, this ‘Pennington’, was fearful of ‘The Red’. His first mistake had obviously been taking loans he could ill-afford from such an intimidating source.

When their sharply dressed host finished, Hock took another drag of his Marlboro Red, and looked around at the others appraisingly. Of course had concerns, and questions about their operation, be he damned sure wasn’t going to be the first to offer them up. It was a position of power to hold your cards until the very end, and Hock had no intent of showing his first. A moment later, the youngest of the four made that mistake.

Hock listened to the kid, taking a sip of his scotch as he leant back a little more. He could tell, just alone by the fact that the kid wasn’t sure of who he was dealing with, meant he was definitely a little green. Still, he was smart enough to not just accept things as they were, so he knew at least that much. Figuring he’d like to get a better idea of his compatriots, Hock kept quiet for a moment longer.

Three weeks ago…

There was something about the late night Parisian atmosphere that Alanna found comforting. There was an aura about the city that gave a constant romantic feeling to it; she couldn’t put her finger on it, but to Alanna, the city just felt softer, quieter, more sensual than most other cities she had lived in. If she were to rank her favorite cities in the world, Paris was, without a doubt, a top five contender.

She took a sip of her coffee, simultaneously checking the time on her wrist watch; 11:49 PM. Surprisingly, the courtyard Alanna had found herself in was still fairly busy. Couples walked around and through the courtyard, and more than a handful of people sat on the benches littering the courtyard. Alanna took in a deep breath of the cool Parisian air; she wanted to smile, but Alanna knew she was being watched.

It hadn’t been hard to pick out her marks from the crowd. The blonde twenty meters out at ten o’clock seemed much more interested in her cell phone than the man eagerly trying to nibble at her face, and the Spaniard talking on the phone had crossed Alanna’s vision three times. Alanna had spent much of the night attempting to shake her pursuers, but to no avail. They were much more skilled than Alanna had expected; they had survived through a slow-speed car pursuit, several subway transfers, and a seven mile walk. Of course, Alanna could have easily shaken them, had she really felt pressed to; but there had been ample opportunities for them to have attempted to kill her, should that be their desire. Instead, everyone was alive and accounted for, so Alanna concluded that her pursuers wanted her for other reasons than to watch her demise.

So, here they were, in a dark Parisian courtyard, everyone waiting for someone else to make a move. Despite Alanna believing herself outnumbered four to one, she carried a level of confidence that was clearly unnerving her pursuers. The Spaniard increased his pace significantly on the fourth pass, and the blonde began to completely ignore her partner. Wait a second - that only accounted for three pursuers.

If that concerned Alanna, she made no motion to show it. She took another sip of her coffee, coolly eyeing the courtyard, keeping an eye out for the dark-skinned man in the beanie that she knew was the final member of her pursuers.

It was as she pulled the paper cup of coffee away from her lips that she felt the barrel pressed against the back of her head.

Now, Alanna smiled.

“You’re good. Who are you?” Her German was smooth and flawless.

There was no response for a moment. At first, Alanna thought that she had actually gotten the language guess wrong. She began to mentally reprimand herself for her perceived mistake before she heard the deep, resonant voice respond behind her.

“Who we are is unimportant. We’re just here to deliver a message.” The man’s German wasn’t nearly as perfect as Alanna’s, but it was clear enough to be understood.

“There are better ways to send a message. The gun isn’t helping. What if someone sees? Then you’ll never deliver your message.”

“Shut up. You ran us around Paris all night, bitch. We were told that this would be an easy job.”

“Who told you that? It wasn’t me.” Alanna paused to clear her throat, then decided it was time to switch gears. In fluent Italian, she asked, “So are we going to speak like civilized people or do I have to disarm you first?”

Alanna’s assailant caught the switch without missing a beat. “You aren’t going to disarm anyone tonight, bitch.” Alanna almost laughed. The man’s Italian was better than his German. “How did you know I speak Italian and German?”

“Well, you see-”

Several things happened simultaneously at this point. In one smooth motion, Alanna stepped forward and up from the bench she sat on, spinning around to her left with her left arm raised in order to make contact with the forearm of her assailant.

With her right hand, Alanna threw the cup of coffee into her assailant’s face. She carried the momentum of the throw into the man’s arm; the very same one she had just knocked a gun out of. She gripped it tightly and pulled her assailant over the bench.

After the gun was knocked loose from her assailant’s hand, it hit the ground loud enough to attract the attention of everyone else in the courtyard. That included the other three of Alanna’s pursuers, as well as three unfortunate souls that were in the wrong place in the wrong time. In their confusion, they dropped to the ground, as all they saw was three figures moving towards the fracas Alanna had caused with weapons drawn.

Finally, Alanna pulled her assailant to his feet, wrapping her right arm around his neck and drawing her Five-seveN with her left, using him as a human shield. She waved her gun around at the other three, warning them to back off.

They were frozen in this standoff for several seconds, before the blonde raised her hands and slowly holstered her weapon. Her colleagues did not follow suit, but she began to step forward.

She spoke in English, “Alanna Jaeyeon Lee-Jameson? My name is Jamie. We’re here to deliver a proposal for you.”

--

Eighteen hours ago…

“It’s a shame it had to end this way, love.”

“I know. But we both knew that this was the only way it could have ended.”

A sigh, distorted by the sound of blood being caught in the poor woman’s throat. Alanna placed a hand on Jamie’s chest remorsefully.

“Of course it was. You being a third rate criminal, me being one of the most lethal killers in the world. There was no other alternative, love. No strings attached, remember?” Alanna’s words were meant to be consoling, but Jamie was clearly insulted. The look on her face said it all.

Unfortunately for Jamie, the noise that came out of her mouth next was not a clear representation of the insult she felt. Instead, the only pain that was expressed was that of Alanna driving her knife into Jamie’s stomach and twisting it, as Jamie screamed her final scream.

“Things don’t always go our way, love. The bird must leave the nest eventually.” Alanna gave Jamie a kiss on her forehead. She stood, grabbing her black duffel bag and maneuvering her way to the door of the Parisian hotel room. Alanna gave one last glance to the four bodies she left behind in the hotel room and shut the door behind her.

--

Six days ago…

Alanna woke up to the sound of birds chirping through the open window, light peering in through the window onto the headrest. She fumbled around, momentarily forgetting where she was.

Alanna began to take in her surroundings. Expensive hotel room in Paris, expensive bed, pretty blonde sleeping next to- ah, yes. That happened. Alanna smiled.

Not to say that she was disappointed by the events the previous night. Or the night before. Or, honestly, every night for the past fourteen days. Jamie and her colleagues may have had weapons aimed at Alanna just two weeks ago, but the only thing Jamie had aimed at Alanna since was the sight of her spread legs.

Alanna thought back to how this had all gotten started. After the incident in the courtyard, Jamie and her colleagues had brought her back to this very room to deliver the proposal they were tasked with.

It had turned out that they were simply a third party, hired by the mysterious organization known only as The Red to track Alanna down and send her to sunny Los Angeles, California. The Red had provided no terms; only the demand that Alanna arrive to be briefed. So instead, Alanna created her own terms with Jamie and her boys.

Alanna had learned that night that Jamie’s group was only getting paid upon Alanna’s delivery to Los Angeles. She gave this proposal: if Jamie were to sleep with Alanna for the next three weeks up until their departure for Los Angeles, Alanna would go to the meeting, no strings attached. Jamie accepted in a heartbeat; the two women had been eyeing each other eagerly that entire night.

And so, here they were. Alanna rolled over in the bed, her body pressing up against Jamie’s. Her hands wandered to unspeakable places, and Alanna whispered in the blonde’s ear, “Come now, love, it’s time to wake up. The bird must leave the nest, eventually.”

--

Present

As the Red agent finished his briefing, Alanna removed her trench coat, letting it rest on the seat, revealing the simple black tank top she wore beneath it. She adjusted her position slightly, allowing her body language to reflect the confidence she intended to portray.

Alanna wasn’t surprised when the spitfire Dutch kid began to rattle off questions faster than a FAMAS’ rate of fire. His first question was naive and immature; to openly question the payment from an organization like the Red was asking for trouble. His second question was plain stupid; a quick internet search on a smartphone probably could get that information for him. As for the final question, that was something that Alanna knew she could answer for him.

“Well, love, that last one is an easy one.” Alanna stood from her seat, keeping her hands in plain sight. No point arousing too much suspicion, here. She walked over to the young man’s seat, leaning over the backrest of the seat and coming close to his ear. “That man, over there,” Alanna pointed at Hock, “is Calvin Hock. He used to work with the Italian mob; gave some of my friends some trouble back when I was CIA. Perhaps one of the most lethal hitmen around, Hock is a real legend. I’m surprised you don’t know him, love.”

Alanna rotated slightly, turning to face Ivy. “That pretty lady there is Ivy Solomon. Some call her Inanna. I know some contacts that still do. Perhaps one of the best snipers to ever grace this wonderful earth. You should be honored to be in such company.”

Finally, Alanna moved around the kid’s chair, sitting herself down on the table in front of him. “And I, love, am Alanna Lee-Jameson. Ex-CIA, but I still have one of the most widespread information networks around. Knowledge is a weapon, love. Perhaps the most lethal one.” Alanna smiled, and returned to her seat. The show was over.

“Interestingly enough, I don’t know anything about you. An ironic twist of fate, isn’t it? Of all the unknowns in the room, you seem to be the biggest.”

Sam got a sly smile one his face. He was sitting at a table with people who had not only different specialities, but also had something in common: They were experienced killers. He however, apart from the 'experienced' part, was just the same. "Oh, I know why I am a mystery to you." He said, while without anyone noticing pulled a coin out of his pocket. He made it roll over the floor and made it hit something made of metal behind the bodyguards of The Red. It made some noice, and as soon as everyone was distracted, He got out of his chair. Nobody noticed him as he moved without a sound to the other side of the room. There, he leaned against the wall, and said to get everyone's attention again: "That's because I'm a ghost." He whaited for all the heads to turn his way again. "But you can just call me Sam. Professional crowd blender, hand to hand combat specialist and the man with a plan. And about knowledge being the most lethal weapon, it's just a key to the real most lethal weapon: the element of surprise." Sam was just showing of a little now, but he did had to proof himself if he wanted to get respected by the others. "So... about my two other questions..."

Ivy watched the show of events before her unfold in silence, appraising them with a trained eye. She had arrived in Los Angeles close to a week ago and true to her career as a sniper, had been observing the hotel for the past four days, watching its comings and goings. Lying flat on her belly for endless hours at a time was no new experience to Ivy. Though this rather swanky part of the American metropolis did have its advantages over a cave in the Iraqi desert with the scorching sun beating down on her, that was for sure.

At present however, the young woman was sitting in a conference room with a handful of strangers - all of them dangerous. Though she wasn't perched on some rooftop, lining these individuals up with her rifle, ready to put a bullet through their heads, Ivy was still preforming exactly the same strategic observations she would have been doing were she in that position. Snipers were taught to read a crowd of people. Their actions, their voices, their facial expressions, everything they did had significance. Ivy's job wasn't always to just pull a trigger. Indeed, there was a lot to be said for how much reconnaissance information came from a single sniper camped out for weeks in some godforsaken crevice observing the behaviour of potential targets.

The clearest observation was that the three other individual in the conference room were also trained killers. Ivy was unsure of their identities, which meant they had never graced the scope or sight of her rifle. She listened as the Asian woman offered up their identities. She had heard snippets of the man named Hock from his dealing with the Italian mob, but Ivy knew far more on the other woman in the room. In the intelligence industry, of which Ivy had been MI6, Lee-Jameson was a legend. Ivy had felt a trickle of dread when she had revealed herself to be ex-CIA, but that faded immediately when she informed them of who she was.

That only left the young man to reveal who he was - which he preceded to do with quite the dramatic flair. Ivy raised an eyebrow slightly, mildly amused by the theatrics of the youngster. He couldn't have been in this game too long, she realised, not with that level of cockiness. Lee-Jameson could ooze confidence all she wanted, she had the credentials and resources to back it up - and not to mention the fearsome reputation. And like her, Hock had opted to keep silent during the proceedings.

The clogs inside Ivy's mind were turning. The job was simple enough. Simple enough that it in fact certainly didn't merit all four of them. So why bring them altogether on this job? Sure, this was their audition, Ivy knew that much, but what else? Was this their audition as individuals or was the infamous Red organisation testing their ability to work as a team? Putting a crack-team of agents together was no easy feat. A team had to be together in unison in everything single thing it did, or it would all fall apart at the seams. More importantly though, there had to be a strong chain of command. While this was mostly a non-issue in the military and intelligence services, criminal syndicates and their ilk had terrible problems with it. Looking around the room, Ivy would say the obvious leader was Lee-Jameson, though she hadn't ruled out Hock. The kid was too green and she doubted the others would tolerate taking orders from him. Herself, well she was used to taking orders, so why upset the apple cart? Yes, Ivy mused, best see how things play out...

Hock’s own personal movements were always of the careful sort; not one to draw unnecessary attention himself, nor give anything away. His eyes moved from the kid to the Asian woman as she slipped off her trench coat, baring more of her body in an attempt to appeal to the more base instincts of a man. Hock wasn’t so easily fooled, having spent far too many years dealing with would-be female assassins, and femme fatales to fall for something so trivial.

He listened carefully to her as she spoke, taking note of the clear confidence in her tone as she did. While the kid might not have exuded experience, she did. She was even careful enough to keep her hands in plain sight at all times, no doubt having learned that very important lesson some time ago in her past. When surrounded by a room of dangerous people, no doubt armed, you made sure to keep your motions in check, lest you end up a fitting doppelganger to that of Swiss cheese. It was a mistake that was made by rookies, and rookies alone.

As she pointed to Hock, he narrowed his eyes out of a feeling self-annoyance. She’d known enough about him to be able to point him out, even though they’d only been in the same room for a few minutes. While Hock had enjoyed his reputation as a cunning, ruthless, and horrifyingly intimidating hitman, he hadn’t necessarily wanted to be known in the circles that involved this woman. That of the CIA, and Governmental circles at least. He’d been careless, and had let far too many people live to tell tales.

He’d remedy that mistake.

Still, as she explained a little more about him to the kid, he did take note that some of her details weren’t all right on point. Hock had worked for the Italian Mob in the past, but to put it the way she had, that part of his life was over. In truth, Hock was still employed by the Ansonetti Family; though, perhaps she was also aware of the souring relationship between Hock, and the younger Ansonettis. In reality, it was only a matter of time before they had a falling out of sorts.

Hock polished off the last of his aged scotch, and set the glass back down onto the conference table carefully. He followed the Asian woman’s gaze as she went to the other woman, identifying her as an ‘Ivy Solomon’. While she’d apparently been aware of her, Hock wasn’t. It wasn’t so much that Hock was oblivious to the criminal world outside of Newark, but rather he preferred to remain willfully ignorant. It lessened the likelihood that he would draw the unwanted attention of other hitmen, and assassins.

As he spotted the sly smile appear on the kid’s face, he found himself amused by the Asian woman’s manipulation. She was good; at least, good enough to appeal to the wanton attention of a wet behind the ear punk. She introduced herself as ‘Alanna Lee-Jameson’, an ex-CIA operative. As she revealed her past a little, it dawned on Hock why she was so aware of him, and the others. It had been her job to.

When she’d finished with her little show, she turned around to re-take her seat, no doubt hoping to have left an impression. For Hock, she impressed upon him her impressive knowledge. She was relatively well informed. For the kid, maybe she’d impressed something else; something more base, and maybe what she’d really been going for. For the other woman, he wasn’t sure. She’d kept mostly quiet, like he had.

Then of course, the kid, decided he’d wanted to take up the encore for Alanna, and demonstrate his own skill set. Hock could imagine the kid practicing his little speech in the mirror each morning, just before setting down for a breakfast of cheerios and orange juice. He made use of some impressive sleight of hand skills, producing a coin from his pocket, then rolled it carefully across the floor, until it slapped with a clatter against a far wall.

Hock couldn’t but help a grin at the move, though he hadn’t fallen for it. After all, you don’t get to be as old as Hock was, in his profession, reacting so blindly to a simple misdirect. Sure, maybe on some simple hired goons, or to his buddies at the comic book store, that was a hell of a little trick. But to Hock, it was just another example of the Kid’s inexperience.

However, that didn’t mean that Hock didn’t find the Kid’s deft of handedness, and surprisingly careful movements impressive. Quite the contrary in fact. As he dropped the smoldering butt of his cigarette into his whiskey class, Hock’s grin turned to a full smirk. No, the kid had potential, at least enough to warrant a modicum of respect from the old hitman. And on top of that, he had the balls to try something as silly as the misdirect, among a room full of experienced killers.

Now relatively certain that he hadn’t been brought into a simple ambush, intended to draw him away from Newark, Hock remembered his contingency. He watched carefully as the three others looked around, and carefully, with no overly sudden movements, he reached into his pocket, and produced a simple cellular flip phone. As he flipped it open, he sent a quick numerical text only to what was seemingly a random number.

Then without much of a warning he snaps the cellular phone in half at the hinge, and sets it down onto the table next to his whiskey class. He leant back again, looking to their host, waiting to hear an answer to the questions already presented, still not necessarily ready to offer up any of his own yet; though he had plenty of them.