[IC] The Continental

[Korbanjaro]

The business card was simple enough - A white, crisp card with The Continental seal imprinted, and just the simplest of statements printed innocuously along the bottom edge.

No business may be conducted on Continental premises.

Aiden Mallory chuckled as he tossed the card aside, before pouring himself a Rusty Nail on the rocks. Heavy Scotch, only a splash of Drambuie. As he lowered the half-full tumbler from his lips, he let the burn settle into his throat with an appreciative smirk.

The night was quiet in New York.

Mallory looked out over his balcony at the bustling movement below, but knew that he was far too far above it all, his grey eyes scanning over the star-spatted skyline with a regal regard.

It'd been only seven years since he was last here, and even now, he could feel the old game calling him back again. It was the start of something grand, he knew, and he wasn't about to let this new opportunity slip through his fingers without him gripping it for all it was worth.

The Continental, he mused. My Continental.

He was well aware of the stories that had been told about him. About his corruption, about his expulsion. Many within the business even thought that he had actually been killed outright, to never be seen again.

His growing influence in Philly had certainly quelched that idea.

He sipped his Nail again. The burn seemed a little less real, but no less potent.

It had taken six years to piece together what he wanted to accomplish. To lay the plans, and design the strategy. The bait was in play, and now all he needed to do was set the traps and wait for things to lock in place.

They have no idea what's coming. Mallory smirked to himself, lifting the glass to his lips again, this time draining the glass entirely before planting it onto the railing, ice rattling within.

Mallory's organization was ready to go, and up to now, mostly out of sight. For most in the business, he was still but a ghost, a wraith used to tell scary stories and to set an example. This was the way that The Management had chosen to put these events into their history.

But history,, thought Mallory, stepping away from the balcony. Is doomed to be repeated.

His phone chirped softly, and he tapped it open.

"Go," he said simply.

"Stage One is in play," said the voice on the line. Mallory smirked at the pseudo-efficiency of the name.

"Good. Back off, and let's see where that takes us." He ended the call.

Twelve marks for twelve mercs. That had been the first call. He'd placed a $200,000 bounty on each of the second-in-commands of every major family in New York City. High enough to cause significant alarm. But not quite a bullet to the brain.

At least, not yet.

Instead, he wanted the kings to the table. Honor of kings still in command of their kingdoms was much more malleable than those of mere princes.

That kind of money, though, was sure to draw in quite the incentive. Surely, the ensuing influx of "conversation" would garner some attention.

Mallory certainly hoped so. He poured himself another, but this time, just Scotch.

The night was quiet in New York.

It certainly was. He drained the glass with one gulp.

[Vilhelm]

James laid back on the top of a semi truck lazily, staring at the brilliant stars so high above. The breeze brought on by the truck's motion felt excellent, and for now, he decided he could savor it. After all, there was at least another block before he reached his target's home... So saying, he slipped in his headphones, setting his phone to loop a few of his favorite songs- Mostly jazz... Or classic rock.

Some five minutes later, a small sixth sense in the back of his mind suggested he was close to his target- And with that thought in mind, he quite simply rolled off of the edge of the truck. What with city traffic, they were hardly moving more than five or six miles an hour, making the landing a smooth and easy roll onto the sidewalk for him. Didn't even lose his headphones~. Just ahead, he saw the building he was after- A large apartment tower, owned and operated by one of the many crime families of New York. The Second in Command of this particular family lived right up at the top, of course.... Which, James thought, was going to make this -excessively- enjoyable. There was no need for subtlety this day- Anybody who worked for the hotel, worked for the family. They would be hostile, and he would have no qualms with... Putting them down.

So saying, he drew a long knife from his boot with his right hand, and unholstered a silenced pistol from under his jacket with his left, holding the two unobtrusively at thigh level and strolling casually into the tower, flashing a smile to the doorman... And promptly spearing him through the side of the neck with his knife, cutting off his vocal cords before ripping forward to sever both jugulars and his esophagus in one stroke. The man behind the main desk found a trio of bullets in his chest and head before he had any kind of time to react- Not the best grouping, perhaps, but it was definitely enough to kill. That was two down. Now for the -rest- of the building.

The following half hour was a blur in James' mind- A blur of climbing, killing, slipping in and out of cover, and generally having an absolute blast. By the time he reached the top floor, he had his fair share of wounds to show for it- A bloody graze through suit and skin on his left shoulder, a shallow stab wound- And slash wound- on his hip, neither having cut deep enough to reach bone, though the muscle certainly brought on pain. None of this, however, compared to the two dozen or so dead bodies he left in his wake on the way up. Now all that remained was his actual target. He stood before the door and cracked his neck with a soft sigh- Before hammering his heel into the door, just above the handle. It crashed open with a ear-splitting crack, sending a few small chunks of wood soaring across the penthouse room behind it. James was quick to follow those chunks, darting inside and discarding his pistol, instead drawing a second longknife, both held easily backhand as he slid to a halt in the not-so-covering cover of a wall.

"Helllooooooo Mister Teddy. My name is James Wight. You killed my father. Prepare to die."

A gunshot rang out, and plaster went flying just beside James' head, followed by a voice.
"What the fuck are you talking about you freak!?"

James' grin widened, and he whipped around from behind the wall, sending one of the knives soaring across the open space between himself and the outline of another man. It whipped end over end once, twice... The buried itself in the man's shoulder, right in that wonderful soft spot wherein laid the clavicle artery. Sure, he'd been aiming for the -neck-. But this worked too. Gave him time to have fun with it. The man- Apparently called Teddy- dropped to his knees with a groan of pain- And made the mistake of wrenching the knife free, only speeding up the brief time it would take for him to bleed out now.
"That was just a reference to an old movie. The Princess Bride. An old favorite of mine, really. I'm -actually- here because I'm getting paid... Well, a lot of money to make sure you stop breathing innnnn... Three... Two.... And one!"
The cheery tone behind his words were what made it rather disturbing as the knife he still held whipped around and opened Teddy's neck from ear to ear. He collapsed, and was quick to cease breathing, the look of stunned pain still trapped on his features as James went about collecting his things, phone held up to his ear by a shoulder.
"Hello? Yes, I'd like to make some dinner reservations for.... A moment, let me remember."
He paused briefly before nodding.
"Twenty seven. Yes, twenty seven, at the Tamrella Apartment Tower. Payment will be waiting on the table in the penthouse apartment at the top floor."

Once that was confirmed, he hung up with a nod- Stealing a pair of fingers from Teddy's corpse and making his way out.

[TheMadAsshatter]

Somewhere in a building in Upper Manhattan, there was a man with a large briefcase making his way to the 23rd floor. Kevin stood alone in the elevator, holding the case with one hand and adjusting his tie, done in a very crisp Eldredge knot, with the other. The floor number in the elevator slowly ticked up; 12, 13, 14. Kevin had done his research before taking this job and knew that this would be the best way to do it. As much as he enjoyed close quarters, his mark was heavily guarded; so much so that he would have actually found it difficult to not be spotted.

18, 19, 20. The elevator stopped and Kevin stepped out, looking to his left, then his right. He didn't expect anybody to be here, but it never hurt to check before proceeding. He turned to the left, heading towards a stairwell that led to the next few floors. The elevator wouldn't service them since they were under renovation, which was exactly why Kevin chose this building to set up in. The 23rd floor specifically had several windows missing; something that would prove advantageous to him in the next few minutes.

He entered the stairwell, picking up his pace to a brisk climb up the stairs. Once he reached the door to the 23rd floor, he drew his pistol, a compact CZ-75 with suppressor, just in case some of his mark's henchmen were here. It was possible the mark had covered all his bases, but something told Kevin he wouldn't need to get down and dirty in here. He eased the door open slightly and scanned the area. No movement. He rounded the door quickly, prepared to find someone with a gun already trained on him. Thankfully, there was none. After another quick glance around, Kevin was all but certain he was alone.

He put his pistol away and headed to the East end of the building. His mark would be roughly a block away in a very upscale apartment building. Distance wouldn't be a problem for Kevin, however. He found a good spot to set up, putting the briefcase on the ground and opening it, revealing a disassembled HK SL8, along with several other tools. He started by taking a pair of magnetic sensors and going back to the door to mount them. If the door opened, he would know it. He went back to the case and got to work assembling the rifle. It took him roughly five minutes to get the rifle completely assembled, rounding it off with a scope, suppressor, and tripod.

Once he adjusted the tripod and scope properly, he looked through the scope towards his target. He wouldn't have to worry about being caught as long as it was a clean kill. A target that was this high profile, he knew that bringing attention to his death would only reveal the vast syndicate that he was a part of. Kevin looked over the building, waiting for his target. He knew it would be a few moments before he showed up. Kevin didn't mind.

After roughly ten minutes, Kevin saw his target enter the apartment. He flicked the safety off on his rifle, lining up his sights on the man in the apartment, waiting for a good opportunity to take the shot. The mark moved from the living room to the bedroom, taking off his suit and replacing it with a fine silk robe. Figures. He went back into the living room to make himself a drink and watch TV; football from the looks of it. This was probably the best chance he would get. Kevin began to squeeze the trigger, then began keeping track of his respiratory pause. The mark took a sip from his glass, not knowing it would be his last. The trigger broke, sending the armor-piercing bullet through the air, across the 150 meters, through the window, and into the base of the target's skull. Good kill.

Kevin collected the shell casing that ejected from the rifle before beginning to break it back down. He went somewhat faster in disassembling the rifle than putting it back together, getting the rifle taken apart and back in the case in roughly three minutes. He carried the case back to the door, taking the sensors off and storing them in the case along with everything else before closing the case, straightening his tie once more, and heading back to the ground floor. His employers would hear from him soon enough.

[Peik]

''And that would be... one hundred and forty five dollars, sir.''

Rough, scab covered fingers slowly flicked through a bunch of banknotes tucked neatly inside a faux leather wallet and made a stack out of them. Slowly, the man handed over the stack to the cashier girl, named Alice, who was amazed at the amount of TV dinners the man had bought. ''Hundred and forty five. Here.'' She reluctantly took the money from the man's hand and put the banknotes into the cash register. Alice looked around as the man took his time placing the boxes neatly inside the then-empty duffel bag he had brought. The shop was essentially empty, with only she and the man inside - all thanks to the fact that the man had come in just before her end of shift and bought nearly all of the Amy's they had. The man's presence creeped her out - with a face full of dents, scary eyes and one ear, the man was just too foreboding to be comfortable around. Soon enough, the fat, one-eared man walked out of the shop, with a duffel bag full of Mac and Cheese, into the rainy night, and Alice gave a sigh of relief. She hated 24/7.

Merely a few seconds later, she got off-put by the grating sound of skidding tires, followed by a loud thump. And then a fat figure crashed through the glass panes into the shop, spreading shards of glass everywhere. Alice ducked under the counter and the fat figure bounced off it, landing a few feet away from her position, with his duffel bag landing right in front of Alice. It was the man who had just left shop. As she opened her mouth, the man made a hush gesture with his right hand. ''The bag,'' the man slowly muttered, while swatting off shards of glass off his face, which had turned into a bloodied pulp. She complied, and slid the bag towards him. Only then did she realize that she and the man weren't the only ones in the shop - somebody was shouting. It wasn't English. Russian? Ukrainian? She couldn't make it out, she was far too scared. She slid further under the counter and watched the fat man on the ground open the front compartment of the duffel bag, and pull out something. A gun? ''God, no.''

''Lazarevic! Lazarevic you fuck, you kill my brother, you don't get away with it!'' She could hear footsteps, people running around the place. The fat man, holding his gut with one hand, managed to ready himself. Barely, Alice could make out a shard of glass stuck in his stomach, covered with blood. ''Lazarevic! Lazare-'' The man's words were cut short as the injured fat man moved out of his spot with incredible speed, and a gunshot momentarily deafened Alice. She pushed her back against the counter as more gunshots followed, along with a loud burst that made her lie on the floor for safety. Two more gunshots echoed inside the store and, like a period, put an end to the carnage. A few seconds later, Alice dared to raise her head slightly above her cover, and found her vision obstructed by a man whose brain matter was leaking off his ear (rather, what remained of it) onto the counter. She yelped and threw herself back, next to the fat man's duffel bag. And at that point, she received his attention. The man, obviously still battered thanks to the fact he was smashed into a glass pane and a counter after colliding with a car, suddenly found himself invigorated and swiftly made his way by the counter. He pushed the man whose brains were leaking out of his ear onto the ground and leaned over the counter towards Alice. His eyes, open wide, caught Alice's and kept following them. After a moment of silence and tension, he spoke.

''Did the food spill?''

Alice raised her head. ''What?''

''In the bag. The food.''

Alice did not expect a duffel bag full of mac and cheese to keep its contents stable after going through what this particular one just did, but to her surprise, the packets were still holding onto their contents, however battered.

''H-here they are, sir.'' She slowly handed over the duffel bag. The man pulled it from her hand, and after a momentary glance into it, shook his head in approval. ''Are the cameras working?''

She made a gesture of denial. ''For intimidation.''

''Good. They shot each other. Okay?''

''Okay.''

The man pulled out his wallet once again, and slowly flicked through the banknotes again. He built up a rather large stack, and then pulled another stack from inside his jacket. ''Two thousand and five hundred. Here.'' He put the money on the counter. ''They shot each other.'' He looked out as he heard sirens in the distance.

Alice nodded weakly and took the money on the counter. Soon enough, the fat, wounded man left as sirens rang closer and closer, and Alice gave a sigh of relief.

She hated 24/7.

-

Later that day, while watching King of the Hill episodes online and waiting for the microwave to finish cooking his Mac and Cheese, the fat Serbian received a phone call. Slowly moving over to the phone so that he wouldn't strain the wound on his belly, he picked it up and waited for the caller to speak.

''Lazar?''

''Yup?''

''It's me, Abraham. Was it you who caused the ruckus at the shop shootout, few hours back? Cops are buzzing. Think it's a mafia job.''

''Why?''

''You shot Mikhail Buranovich. He's the cousin of Zakhar Buranovich, head of East Winds.''

''Didn't know.''

''You're in trouble, at home. This shit you did, it's pretty high up - and sloppy, honestly. You've left traces everywhere. You need to get to someplace safe. That, and, get your pay.''

''He had a hit?''

''Yes. I think it's time I introduce you to the Continental.''

There was a pause.

''The what?''

[DJAtomika]

click

"Hello?"

"..."

"Ja."

"..."

"Nein."

"..."

"Natürlich nicht, Herr Kovan."

"..."

"Ja? Sie übertragen mir, wer?"

"..."

"Ja. Verstanden."

"..."

"Hello? Mister Trager? Yes, yes, I understand zhe instructions of our arrangement. Yes, yes, of course. Are zhe flight plans already paid for? In full? Excellent. Danke, Mister Trager. And what are zhe arrangements for me when I land? Mmm. Do not worry about gear, I know someone zhere that has another stock of equipment for me. A place to stay is not needed eizher, I will find my own- verzeihen? You want me to stay at zhe Continental? Hmm. Of course, Mister Trager. But remember, I may be contracted to you, but I have zhe resources to protect myself if zhings should go sour. If the deal does go south, I will put my own plans into motion and we will most likely never see each other again. Yes. Do not worry. I have never failed. Guten tag."

Alexander withdrew his hand from his target's throat and reached for his phone, being absolutely careful not to drop it as he transferred the small plastic thing from between his cheek and shoulder to his hand and then his pocket. Once done, his hand went back to the knife embedded in it, withdrew it cleanly, wiped it on the man's shirt and stowed it away as the corpse crumpled to the ground in a heap. Just another night in Berlin. Another day, another contract, another kill. Plain and simple. He'd be paid richly in coins for this hit, not that it mattered. He already had enough to retire. But still he kept going, and he did not know why. Was it the patience and determination for perfection in each kill that drove him? Or was it the sheer positivity of the work? Maybe it was the simple fact that he knew no other craft. His knives and numbers went side by side just like yin and yang. Bread and butter. He couldn't live without them. This was his calling, a grim calling card to a place very few men dared tread. With a practiced ease, he knelt and wiped the stiletto clean on his mark's jacket (an expensive thing from H&M), handle and all, and stowed the knife in the sheath he had on the inside of his coat, where the rest of his arsenal lay resting, sleeping off their kills. Each of his knives had a history of marks, each one had an appetite of blood that could only be sated in turn by killing more. He knew this; his knives were just as alive as he was, and he knew each and every one inside and out. From the violent, sadist spring-loaded stilettoes and switchblades, to the artistic and deadly grace of the butterfly knives he held the most dear, to the rugged serrations and hooks of combat knives, each blade was a story that only he knew by heart.

Enough procrastinating. Alex had another job. Tasked by an old acquaintance turned boss, he was to fly to New York City and stay in the famed Continental. There, of course, he'd receive further instructions from his employer on his motivations upon returning to the Big Apple. He was to be expected, of course, and a room had already been prepared beforehand. Payment was up front, of course, and although preparations had been made he was expected to pay his own rooming fees and dinner services during his stay.

Alexander knew Charlie. Knew him well enough.

Whatever the work was, Alexander looked forward to it the same way a man looks forward to his next day of work.

With an expectant sort of cheer.