| From: | shadowtk@*********.com (Paul J. Adam) |
|---|---|
| Subject: | Low Clouds and a Falling Barometer |
| Date: | Tue Oct 9 17:45:01 2001 |
>>>>>[Sir, the tapes are in pretty good shape, all things considered.
We're recovering and analysing them in good order, concentrating on
extracting what we can get right away: there's more data in there, but
there's some corruption and some file-format problems. I think
Since you didn't give us anything more specific, we're starting on
chronological order and just pulling out what we can... there may be
more coming out later.
This stuff is from last year, I think, right after Descabiere had to cut
and run out of Seattle.
+++++begin video
The plane drones through the sky, pure white clouds below. Minnie looks
around. Bob and Herve are there, as is the assassin, Cypher, and the
mercenary, Jazz. The others? Well, in the chaos leaving the mansion,
they had all split up - most of them, she knows from messages skipping
through the ether, have made it.
An empty seat opposite her reminds her of the others...especially...
Michael. The quiet swordsman was...had been one...of Minnie's
favourites. He was one of the first non-mafioso to join her when she'd
taken over from her late husband, and had been steadfastly loyal to her.
And now he was dead. But the worst thing was, that the one thing she
could guarantee, was that he would be by no means the last. Minnie
sighs, feeling her mortality very strongly indeed.
+++++pause
+++++resume
"Come on, where the frag is he? La Dona said he'd be here at midday."
Bob Laconi is sweating. It's a lot hotter here than at home, and the
fact that the skeletal mercenary with him doesn't seem to be feeling the
120 degree heat at all is not making things easier.
"Be.....patient..... He has always... been reliable."
"Well, that's the ship - the 'Plausible Deniability', Rodriguez
Shipping, London - all the passengers have disembarked, and he's simply
not fragging here....."
"Not where?" Lynch says, right by Bob. Like Cypher, he doesn't seem to
notice the heat despite wearing faded jeans and a much-abused G-1 flying
jacket.
"How did you..." Laconi looks at the ship, its single gangplank, at the
empty docks, at the Marine Colonel who's just appeared from nowhere by
his side. "Let me guess, trade secret?"
"Trade secret." Lynch grins.
Bob Laconi picks himself up, totally speechless. He turns to Cypher, but
the skeletal assassin seems completely unimpressed.
+++++video stream lost due to file corruption
+++++data repair activity 13% complete
+++++data repair activity 34% complete
+++++data repair activity 54% complete
+++++data repair activity 78% complete
+++++data repair activity completed
+++++resuming video, 125.4Mp lost during repair
+++++save lost video to temporary file? [Y]
+++++data saved
+++++play recovered video segment
It's a scorching hot day. The atmosphere is close and humid, but the
patrons don't care, reduced to two virtually unconscious regulars at
either end of the bar. The bartender sighs, lits another cigarette and
goes back to perusing the want ads.
The door bangs open, exploding a puff of dust and paint chips from the
wall where it hits. The figure coming through the door has to turn
sideways to enter, and the barman squints as the sunlight pierces the
interior darkness. Once inside, the hulking figure reaches a hand over
his shoulder to stop the door from closing on the person following. She
is a quarter his size, but carries herself as if she were several feet
taller. She's dark haired and quite striking, and the bartender,
unaccustomed to any sort of women, save those actively working, in his
bar, pulls himself up to his full height, and plasters his most
ingratiating smile on his face.
"Yes?" he smarms, nervously noting that the troll has vanished into the
shadows in the bar somewhere, despite it not actually being *that* dark.
"Guns. I need some. " says the woman, removing her sunglasses to stare
unnervingly straight at him.
He giggles, then clamps it down, as her eyes narrow perceptibly.
"Guns? Sorry, I dunno what you mean?"
"Edward Bertorelli, aka Eddie, aka Greasy Eddie, aka slimebag who used
to work for my husband, the late lamented Eric Descabiere."
The man's eyes almost pop out of his head as his powers of comprehension
finally triumph, and he blurts out "Minn....erm, Mrs Descabiere?
Wow....Hey, yeah, I heard Don Eric was dead...capped by the Feds, yeah?
So, what's you doing in town, then, Mrs D?"
He leers down at the woman - in his eyes, the wife of a dead mobster has
few, if no rights, upon the decease of her husband. The eyes looking
back into his, though, are far from acquiescent.
"That's *Dona* Minnie, to you, Eddie. Haven't you heard? I took over
Eric's business, and it's going far better with me in charge than it
ever did with that prick runnning it as a private whore and liquor
provider. These days, it's a business. Now, guns. Tell me where they are
in this town.
Eddie's expression goes flat, and he resumes polishing his glass.
"Sorry, *Minnie* - dunno..Ulp!" His expression widens and the dropped
glass smashes beneath his feet as they leave they floor, impelled by the
huge hand that has just grasped the back of his apron.
"Sorry, I could've sworn you said 'No' to me, Eddie?" enquires Minnie.
"You don't say 'no' to a Dona, now, do you?" Her voice hardens "Once in
the family, _always_ in the family, Eddie. Now, tell me what I want to
know."
He barely manages to squeak out a response. "OK, OK....lemme go...I
can't brea......" The large troll drops him to the floor, then hauls him
back up five feet - on face level with Minnie Descabiere.
"I'm listening....."
Edward 'Greasy Eddie' Bertorelli starts talking.
+++++end video
There's more, sir. There's a lot more. We're working on it.]<<<<<
-- SSgt T R Porter <22:41:39/10-09-62>
Data Extraction & Recovery
Cyberspace Special Forces
