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Message no. 1
From: Brion David Wauters bdw8@****.ucc.nau.edu
Subject: Mob War
Date: Tue, 06 Apr 1999 11:59:25 -0700 (MST)
>>>>>[The police reports wrong? Nah, never happen. And if you believe
that, I got some prime florida real-estate to sell you.]<<<<<
-- Irish <11:58:40/04-06-60>
Message no. 2
From: Mach mach@****.caltech.edu
Subject: Mob War
Date: Tue, 6 Apr 1999 16:01:02 -0700
>>>>>[Yeah...yeah...yeah, Irish. No use belaboring the point.

But that there's something going on, and that it seems to be big isn't
really in dispute.

Now, the more important question becomes: Is anybody hiring?

This board's been a bit dead lately. Not that that is necessarily a bad
thing, but somehow I sincerely doubt that peace is breaking out in the
shadowy corners of Seattle.]<<<<<
-- NewzJunkie <15:58:40/04-06-60 PDT>
Message no. 3
From: Paul J. Adam Shadowtk@********.demon.co.uk
Subject: Mob War
Date: Fri, 9 Apr 1999 22:48:10 +0100
>>>>>[Well, NJ, Bartolo's hiring but I hear his credit rating's not too
good. The Fort Lewis Mob seem content to handle it in-house for now,
which bodes ill for Bartolo.]<<<<<
-- Bungle <22:47:42/04-09-60>
Message no. 4
From: Paul J. Adam Shadowtk@********.demon.co.uk
Subject: Mob War
Date: Thu, 22 Apr 1999 00:58:49 +0100
*****PRIVATE: Easy
>>>>>[As requested, Boss. Was it worth taking time out of training for?

+++++begin video
Easy slides gracefully from her Westwind: raising her L7 assault weapon.
Unusually, she's wearing the tabby grey camouflage fatigues of Rusanov's
Rebels, not her accustomed clothing.

The bulky, compensated muzzle of the assault weapon follows her eyes as
she surveys the street: the bodies, the burning vehicles, the bullet-
riddled building. Strips of thin plastic flutter in the slight breeze,
amidst the metallic glitter of empty cases.

"This is not safe." Mani suggests: like Easy, he's wearing combat gear.
"Or even wise."

"I know." Easy replies, still scanning for threats. "But we need
information. We won't be training as Federal stormtroopers forever."

"As you will." Mani turns, sharply, aiming his AK-97 at the faint sound
of running feet: Easy darts for cover, putting a wall between her and
the noise and watching Mani's back.

"Lone Star! Take it easy!" a voice cries. Easy waits a few seconds: when
gun-toting killers fail to swarm out of the abandoned houses, she turns
to face the cops.


"You're Star?" she asks, disbelief obvious in her voice.

There are two policemen, both dressed sort-of-smart in sports jackets
and slacks: casual salarymen uptown, slumming uptowners in the Barrens,
and the loose, comfortable sports coats reveal only the presence of a
sidearm, not the detail of a Ruger Thunderbolt that screams 'cop!"

One of them, hands raised, says "Look, I'm going to reach into my jacket
and show you my ID. I've got a weapon here too. Look?" He pulls back the
lapel, revealing a bulky pistol behind his hip, before bringing out his
badge from an inside jacket pocket. Easy advances, cautiously, and takes
it: checking the seals, and that the face matches the owner (Detective
Sergeant Louis Chen)

"Fort Lewis. You're out of your jurisdiction." she says wryly, returning
the policeman's ID: something about the way she and Mani both relax
seems to reassure them, and the cops draw their sidearms and turn to
cover the street too, the group forming an automatic square of wary eyes
and half-raised weapons.

"Yeah, well, we trust Puyallup cops about as much as you do. Sort of
hoped we'd see you or someone like you here." Chen replies. "Any
thoughts?"


The Elven samurai surveys the scene. "Some of Luigi's boys had gone to
the mattresses in that house." She stirs scattered plastic strips,
discarded links, empty cases, with the toe of one boot where they lie in
the gutter.

"Looks like a van hit it with a medium MG, a couple of LAWs -
Panzerfaust-Vs, maybe. This plastic crap's what flies out of the back of
a PF-V to cancel the recoil, there's a lot of them on the market for
some reason. Some hitters on foot, they mopped up." She points to the
cluster of corpses in the street: four or five men shot down in a tight
group.

"Those guys broke out of the house, firing back. The van's gun and the
cutoff groups slaughtered them. I think Luigi lost just about everyone."
A round of ammunition cooks off inside the burning house, making
everyone whirl and raise their weapons for a moment.

Chen studies bloodstains - still wet - in the street. "Two hostiles
wounded. One badly, drag marks."

"Yeah. Clean sweep, really, for what they dished out." Easy shrugs.
"Good work."

"What's your stake?" Chen asks.

"Don't have one." Easy replies. "Luigi owes me three big favours
already, I'm not going to make it four. I've got other problems to deal
with."

"And if he loses?" the other cop asks.

"Then I explain the reasons why they want to leave us alone to the
winner, as forcefully as necessary." The Elf shrugs. "Life goes on,
guys. Luigi's first favour he owes me, is that I left him alive after he
ruined my farmland."

Chen clicks the Thunderbolt's safety into place. "Fraggit, nobody's
gonna kill us here now. We missed the party. Look, Easy, your cops might
be a cesspit but in Fort Worth we at least pretend to care about
'protect and serve'-"

"I don't plan to pull any splatterjobs in your jurisdiction. As long as
your mobsters leave me alone, that stays true." Easy shrugs as Chen
holsters his sidearm. "Too much else to do."

"Like what?" Chen asks.

"Can't say." Easy grins suddenly.

"Oh, come on..."

"You really want to know? I was ten feet from Thunda when Lynch blew his
head off. Haze Breathstealer put two rounds in my chest on the night he
was killed. You don't want to know what I do. Trust me."

"You're kidding." Chen's jaw is almost in the dusty street.

"Sure I am. Or maybe I'm not." Easy shrugs. "Believe it, don't believe
it, see if I give a damn."

The policeman stares for a second, his mind working fast... then he
shrugs. "Can I spell it out?"

"Sure. Less room for fuckups that way."

"We'll play jurisdiction every inch until you make your problems hit
Fort Lewis PD. Puyallup's cops are a bad joke, okay, no problem, but you
don't leak into our turf. And we'll help you. Like, we're here and we're
talking, right?"

"Right. We keep your people as safe as we can. If my cops want to be Mob
enforcers, that's their problem." Easy nods. "You guys... don't exactly
have a sterling rep, but then who am I to complain? You _do_ at least
pretend to investigate crimes in your turf. I'll do all I can not to
give you material to investigate. Deal?"

"Deal." Chen nods, as more ammunition cooks off inside the burning
house: a moment later, the roof collapses and the flames leap skywards
with a joyful roar.
+++++end video]<<<<<
-- Vincenzo <00:58:41/04-22-60>
Message no. 5
From: Brion David Wauters bdw8@****.ucc.nau.edu
Subject: Mob War
Date: Tue, 06 Apr 1999 11:59:25 -0700 (MST)
>>>>>[The police reports wrong? Nah, never happen. And if you believe
that, I got some prime florida real-estate to sell you.]<<<<<
-- Irish <11:58:40/04-06-60>
Message no. 6
From: Mach mach@****.caltech.edu
Subject: Mob War
Date: Tue, 6 Apr 1999 16:01:02 -0700
>>>>>[Yeah...yeah...yeah, Irish. No use belaboring the point.

But that there's something going on, and that it seems to be big isn't
really in dispute.

Now, the more important question becomes: Is anybody hiring?

This board's been a bit dead lately. Not that that is necessarily a bad
thing, but somehow I sincerely doubt that peace is breaking out in the
shadowy corners of Seattle.]<<<<<
-- NewzJunkie <15:58:40/04-06-60 PDT>
Message no. 7
From: Paul J. Adam Shadowtk@********.demon.co.uk
Subject: Mob War
Date: Fri, 9 Apr 1999 22:48:10 +0100
>>>>>[Well, NJ, Bartolo's hiring but I hear his credit rating's not too
good. The Fort Lewis Mob seem content to handle it in-house for now,
which bodes ill for Bartolo.]<<<<<
-- Bungle <22:47:42/04-09-60>
Message no. 8
From: Paul J. Adam Shadowtk@********.demon.co.uk
Subject: Mob War
Date: Thu, 22 Apr 1999 00:58:49 +0100
*****PRIVATE: Easy
>>>>>[As requested, Boss. Was it worth taking time out of training for?

+++++begin video
Easy slides gracefully from her Westwind: raising her L7 assault weapon.
Unusually, she's wearing the tabby grey camouflage fatigues of Rusanov's
Rebels, not her accustomed clothing.

The bulky, compensated muzzle of the assault weapon follows her eyes as
she surveys the street: the bodies, the burning vehicles, the bullet-
riddled building. Strips of thin plastic flutter in the slight breeze,
amidst the metallic glitter of empty cases.

"This is not safe." Mani suggests: like Easy, he's wearing combat gear.
"Or even wise."

"I know." Easy replies, still scanning for threats. "But we need
information. We won't be training as Federal stormtroopers forever."

"As you will." Mani turns, sharply, aiming his AK-97 at the faint sound
of running feet: Easy darts for cover, putting a wall between her and
the noise and watching Mani's back.

"Lone Star! Take it easy!" a voice cries. Easy waits a few seconds: when
gun-toting killers fail to swarm out of the abandoned houses, she turns
to face the cops.


"You're Star?" she asks, disbelief obvious in her voice.

There are two policemen, both dressed sort-of-smart in sports jackets
and slacks: casual salarymen uptown, slumming uptowners in the Barrens,
and the loose, comfortable sports coats reveal only the presence of a
sidearm, not the detail of a Ruger Thunderbolt that screams 'cop!"

One of them, hands raised, says "Look, I'm going to reach into my jacket
and show you my ID. I've got a weapon here too. Look?" He pulls back the
lapel, revealing a bulky pistol behind his hip, before bringing out his
badge from an inside jacket pocket. Easy advances, cautiously, and takes
it: checking the seals, and that the face matches the owner (Detective
Sergeant Louis Chen)

"Fort Lewis. You're out of your jurisdiction." she says wryly, returning
the policeman's ID: something about the way she and Mani both relax
seems to reassure them, and the cops draw their sidearms and turn to
cover the street too, the group forming an automatic square of wary eyes
and half-raised weapons.

"Yeah, well, we trust Puyallup cops about as much as you do. Sort of
hoped we'd see you or someone like you here." Chen replies. "Any
thoughts?"


The Elven samurai surveys the scene. "Some of Luigi's boys had gone to
the mattresses in that house." She stirs scattered plastic strips,
discarded links, empty cases, with the toe of one boot where they lie in
the gutter.

"Looks like a van hit it with a medium MG, a couple of LAWs -
Panzerfaust-Vs, maybe. This plastic crap's what flies out of the back of
a PF-V to cancel the recoil, there's a lot of them on the market for
some reason. Some hitters on foot, they mopped up." She points to the
cluster of corpses in the street: four or five men shot down in a tight
group.

"Those guys broke out of the house, firing back. The van's gun and the
cutoff groups slaughtered them. I think Luigi lost just about everyone."
A round of ammunition cooks off inside the burning house, making
everyone whirl and raise their weapons for a moment.

Chen studies bloodstains - still wet - in the street. "Two hostiles
wounded. One badly, drag marks."

"Yeah. Clean sweep, really, for what they dished out." Easy shrugs.
"Good work."

"What's your stake?" Chen asks.

"Don't have one." Easy replies. "Luigi owes me three big favours
already, I'm not going to make it four. I've got other problems to deal
with."

"And if he loses?" the other cop asks.

"Then I explain the reasons why they want to leave us alone to the
winner, as forcefully as necessary." The Elf shrugs. "Life goes on,
guys. Luigi's first favour he owes me, is that I left him alive after he
ruined my farmland."

Chen clicks the Thunderbolt's safety into place. "Fraggit, nobody's
gonna kill us here now. We missed the party. Look, Easy, your cops might
be a cesspit but in Fort Worth we at least pretend to care about
'protect and serve'-"

"I don't plan to pull any splatterjobs in your jurisdiction. As long as
your mobsters leave me alone, that stays true." Easy shrugs as Chen
holsters his sidearm. "Too much else to do."

"Like what?" Chen asks.

"Can't say." Easy grins suddenly.

"Oh, come on..."

"You really want to know? I was ten feet from Thunda when Lynch blew his
head off. Haze Breathstealer put two rounds in my chest on the night he
was killed. You don't want to know what I do. Trust me."

"You're kidding." Chen's jaw is almost in the dusty street.

"Sure I am. Or maybe I'm not." Easy shrugs. "Believe it, don't believe
it, see if I give a damn."

The policeman stares for a second, his mind working fast... then he
shrugs. "Can I spell it out?"

"Sure. Less room for fuckups that way."

"We'll play jurisdiction every inch until you make your problems hit
Fort Lewis PD. Puyallup's cops are a bad joke, okay, no problem, but you
don't leak into our turf. And we'll help you. Like, we're here and we're
talking, right?"

"Right. We keep your people as safe as we can. If my cops want to be Mob
enforcers, that's their problem." Easy nods. "You guys... don't exactly
have a sterling rep, but then who am I to complain? You _do_ at least
pretend to investigate crimes in your turf. I'll do all I can not to
give you material to investigate. Deal?"

"Deal." Chen nods, as more ammunition cooks off inside the burning
house: a moment later, the roof collapses and the flames leap skywards
with a joyful roar.
+++++end video]<<<<<
-- Vincenzo <00:58:41/04-22-60>
Message no. 9
From: Paul J. Adam Shadowtk@********.demon.co.uk
Subject: Mob War
Date: Sun, 13 Jun 1999 17:01:47 +0100
*****PRIVATE: Don Descabiere
>>>>>[Something weird just happened.

A rigger from Puyallup - Chris Davidson, who runs the chop shop out in
Hell's Kitchen - turned up and dumped four corpses on the lawn. Said she
didn't know what the hell she'd done to piss us off, but next time to _talk_
to her rather than sending gun-happy hoods around.

Thing is, two of them _were_ ours. Sammy Chin and Lou Siebe. They
weren't pretty, either, Davidson obviously has that place pretty well
defended.

I don't know the other two. And I don't know why two of our young guys
were hassling her, with a few others I don't recognise. And she was in a
fairly foul mood, so I didn't want to play Twenty Questions with a shotgun-
toting rigger. Weird.

If someone was trying to set us up, they didn't push Davidson hard
enough. Can't think what else it would be...


On a lighter note, we're steadily mopping up Bartolo's turf. There's a few
diehards trying to hold out, but no sign of Luigi at all. I think we got him.

It's eating more manpower than I'd like to cover our operations from the
hit-and-run attacks, but it's an inconvenience rather than a disaster.
Tarislar territory, they'll take a while to realise that "the breeders" are
back in charge.


Speaking of that sort of thing, still no reaction from Easyville. I thought
she'd be weighing in to back up Luigi, or take over once he was gone, but
it looks like the dandy-eaters don't stick together too good. What the hell,
you said leave her alone, we're leaving her alone.

She turned up at the Eight a day or so ago. Working the floor, back to
usual, no word about where she'd been the last couple of months and that
big raghead was glowering at everyone same as usual. She looked pretty
chewed on, guess she'd had problems of her own, but she was hiding it
well. (And before you ask, yeah, I checked, nothing Bartolo's remnants
have pulled matches her style, don't think that was where she was)

All told, we're doing pretty good. How's Cannes?]<<<<<
-- Ian Burrell <16:56:43/06-13-60>

*****PRIVATE: Ian Burrell
>>>>>[Cannes is very French. Foreign food, expensive hotels, but the girls
on the beach are easy on the eye.

Put more people on hunting the hit squads. Catch a couple and make
messy examples of them, show everyone what happens to people who frag
with us. If we don't stamp on it, they'll gnaw away at our profits forever.

Still, looks like you're doing okay. I might stay out a few days
longer.]<<<<<
-- Don Descabiere <17:01:45/06-13-60>
Message no. 10
From: Paul J. Adam Shadowtk@********.demon.co.uk
Subject: Mob War
Date: Mon, 14 Jun 1999 20:16:30 +0100
*****PRIVATE: Don Descabiere
>>>>>[Now you've got more bandwidth, I thought you'd want to see the
raw video of Davidson dropping by. See if there's anything going on that
we missed...

+++++begin video
"Ian? Company at the gate."

"Flash it up." Whoever's eyecam this view belongs to, studies the trideo: a
battered GAZ Nomad is parked outside the closed iron gates. The driver -
blonde, female - gives the camera the finger. "Any ID?"

"Registered to a Christine Davidson, from... Hell's Kitchen? Drek!" Not
many vehicles from there are licenced and registered.

"I know her. Let her in." 'Ian' says. He leaves the austere office, picking up
an Ingram from his desk drawer as he goes. His office seems to be near
the side door, and he walks briskly around to where the driveway sweeps
up to the impressive house.

By the time he gets there, the well-used Nomad has already stopped, its
driver standing by the tailgate. A short, muscular blonde woman, wearing
jeans and a cutoff denim jacket, holding an old SPAS-12 across her
shoulder. She glares at 'Ian', though the shotgun stays pointed skywards.

"Harley! Didn't expect to see you here!" Ian says with false cheerfulness.

"I betcha didn't." Harley growls, dropping the pickup's tailgate and jerking
back the tarpaulin. Four corpses lie underneath: young, smartly dressed,
all dead of gunshot wounds. Ian visibly jumps back.

"Holy Mary mother of God, Chris! What're you doing bringing... hey, I
know him!" The surprise sounds genuine.

"Yeah, I know you do, the SOB and his buddies turn up at the garage, tell
my guys to get me there ASAP or they'll start killing people and torch the
place. So, I turn up and take care of 'em."

"Just these four?"

"Yeah. How many did you send out, then?"

Lou theatrically safes the Ingram, unloads it and shoves it in a coat
pocket. "Chris, I swear to God we had nothing to do with this. We had a
beef with you, God knows why we would, we'd say so. The Don's got plenty
of problems already, he doesn't need to torque off every go-gang that
uses your place."

"Yeah, well, that doesn't really answer why these guys are raising hell
round my place. I woulda asked them but the opportunity didn't arise."
Harley shrugs. "You want the stiffs or should I dump'em?"

"We'll take care of it. Come on in, you look like you need some coffee."

"Long as it's not that synthetic shit." Harley allows.
+++++end video

Her version checks out, as far as I can tell. Two of our junior torpedoes
turned up waving guns and demanded that they get Harley in there and
that she surrender to them. A couple of gangers argued and got shot,
none fatally. I already send a sawbones to help patch them up, call it a
goodwill gesture.

Dumb. Whyever they wanted her, storming into the Barrens with no
backup is not bright. Taking on a rigger at her own garage, in the middle
of her own security - security that's good enough to keep that place
secure even in Hell's Kitchen - is incredibly stupid. Whatever those guys
thought they were going to get for this, must have been really lucrative.

About the only thing I came up with, asking around, was that apparently
the ringleader of the four - Tomas Santos, a young gun from Lane's crew -
had the bright idea that Harley was on the team who heisted the Mistral
Hotel in Vegas, and figured to get the enormous rewards being offered
for any of that crew.

Which is, again, really stupid, because (a) I don't see jack to connect her
with it, (b) if she were on that team and she pulled down a score that
size, why's she still living in Hell's Kitchen in a garage-cum-fortress that's
open house to the local go-gangers? I mean, you saw the Nomad she uses
for cargo work, is that the truck of a multimillionaire?

Anyway... you're right, we'd better placate her and make nice for a while.
We're still dangerously overstretched after the kicking Bartolo's boys gave
us, we could do without any new enemies for a while.]<<<<<
-- Ian Burrell <20:15:43/06-14-60>

*****PRIVATE: Ian Burrell
>>>>>[The Vegas hit... interesting. Very interesting.

You did right telling me this. I'll be in touch.]<<<<<
-- Don Descabiere <20:16:43/06-14-60>
Message no. 11
From: Paul J. Adam Shadowtk@********.demon.co.uk
Subject: Mob War
Date: Sun, 13 Jun 1999 17:01:47 +0100
*****PRIVATE: Don Descabiere
>>>>>[Something weird just happened.

A rigger from Puyallup - Chris Davidson, who runs the chop shop out in
Hell's Kitchen - turned up and dumped four corpses on the lawn. Said she
didn't know what the hell she'd done to piss us off, but next time to _talk_
to her rather than sending gun-happy hoods around.

Thing is, two of them _were_ ours. Sammy Chin and Lou Siebe. They
weren't pretty, either, Davidson obviously has that place pretty well
defended.

I don't know the other two. And I don't know why two of our young guys
were hassling her, with a few others I don't recognise. And she was in a
fairly foul mood, so I didn't want to play Twenty Questions with a shotgun-
toting rigger. Weird.

If someone was trying to set us up, they didn't push Davidson hard
enough. Can't think what else it would be...


On a lighter note, we're steadily mopping up Bartolo's turf. There's a few
diehards trying to hold out, but no sign of Luigi at all. I think we got him.

It's eating more manpower than I'd like to cover our operations from the
hit-and-run attacks, but it's an inconvenience rather than a disaster.
Tarislar territory, they'll take a while to realise that "the breeders" are
back in charge.


Speaking of that sort of thing, still no reaction from Easyville. I thought
she'd be weighing in to back up Luigi, or take over once he was gone, but
it looks like the dandy-eaters don't stick together too good. What the hell,
you said leave her alone, we're leaving her alone.

She turned up at the Eight a day or so ago. Working the floor, back to
usual, no word about where she'd been the last couple of months and that
big raghead was glowering at everyone same as usual. She looked pretty
chewed on, guess she'd had problems of her own, but she was hiding it
well. (And before you ask, yeah, I checked, nothing Bartolo's remnants
have pulled matches her style, don't think that was where she was)

All told, we're doing pretty good. How's Cannes?]<<<<<
-- Ian Burrell <16:56:43/06-13-60>

*****PRIVATE: Ian Burrell
>>>>>[Cannes is very French. Foreign food, expensive hotels, but the girls
on the beach are easy on the eye.

Put more people on hunting the hit squads. Catch a couple and make
messy examples of them, show everyone what happens to people who frag
with us. If we don't stamp on it, they'll gnaw away at our profits forever.

Still, looks like you're doing okay. I might stay out a few days
longer.]<<<<<
-- Don Descabiere <17:01:45/06-13-60>
Message no. 12
From: Paul J. Adam Shadowtk@********.demon.co.uk
Subject: Mob War
Date: Mon, 14 Jun 1999 20:16:30 +0100
*****PRIVATE: Don Descabiere
>>>>>[Now you've got more bandwidth, I thought you'd want to see the
raw video of Davidson dropping by. See if there's anything going on that
we missed...

+++++begin video
"Ian? Company at the gate."

"Flash it up." Whoever's eyecam this view belongs to, studies the trideo: a
battered GAZ Nomad is parked outside the closed iron gates. The driver -
blonde, female - gives the camera the finger. "Any ID?"

"Registered to a Christine Davidson, from... Hell's Kitchen? Drek!" Not
many vehicles from there are licenced and registered.

"I know her. Let her in." 'Ian' says. He leaves the austere office, picking up
an Ingram from his desk drawer as he goes. His office seems to be near
the side door, and he walks briskly around to where the driveway sweeps
up to the impressive house.

By the time he gets there, the well-used Nomad has already stopped, its
driver standing by the tailgate. A short, muscular blonde woman, wearing
jeans and a cutoff denim jacket, holding an old SPAS-12 across her
shoulder. She glares at 'Ian', though the shotgun stays pointed skywards.

"Harley! Didn't expect to see you here!" Ian says with false cheerfulness.

"I betcha didn't." Harley growls, dropping the pickup's tailgate and jerking
back the tarpaulin. Four corpses lie underneath: young, smartly dressed,
all dead of gunshot wounds. Ian visibly jumps back.

"Holy Mary mother of God, Chris! What're you doing bringing... hey, I
know him!" The surprise sounds genuine.

"Yeah, I know you do, the SOB and his buddies turn up at the garage, tell
my guys to get me there ASAP or they'll start killing people and torch the
place. So, I turn up and take care of 'em."

"Just these four?"

"Yeah. How many did you send out, then?"

Lou theatrically safes the Ingram, unloads it and shoves it in a coat
pocket. "Chris, I swear to God we had nothing to do with this. We had a
beef with you, God knows why we would, we'd say so. The Don's got plenty
of problems already, he doesn't need to torque off every go-gang that
uses your place."

"Yeah, well, that doesn't really answer why these guys are raising hell
round my place. I woulda asked them but the opportunity didn't arise."
Harley shrugs. "You want the stiffs or should I dump'em?"

"We'll take care of it. Come on in, you look like you need some coffee."

"Long as it's not that synthetic shit." Harley allows.
+++++end video

Her version checks out, as far as I can tell. Two of our junior torpedoes
turned up waving guns and demanded that they get Harley in there and
that she surrender to them. A couple of gangers argued and got shot,
none fatally. I already send a sawbones to help patch them up, call it a
goodwill gesture.

Dumb. Whyever they wanted her, storming into the Barrens with no
backup is not bright. Taking on a rigger at her own garage, in the middle
of her own security - security that's good enough to keep that place
secure even in Hell's Kitchen - is incredibly stupid. Whatever those guys
thought they were going to get for this, must have been really lucrative.

About the only thing I came up with, asking around, was that apparently
the ringleader of the four - Tomas Santos, a young gun from Lane's crew -
had the bright idea that Harley was on the team who heisted the Mistral
Hotel in Vegas, and figured to get the enormous rewards being offered
for any of that crew.

Which is, again, really stupid, because (a) I don't see jack to connect her
with it, (b) if she were on that team and she pulled down a score that
size, why's she still living in Hell's Kitchen in a garage-cum-fortress that's
open house to the local go-gangers? I mean, you saw the Nomad she uses
for cargo work, is that the truck of a multimillionaire?

Anyway... you're right, we'd better placate her and make nice for a while.
We're still dangerously overstretched after the kicking Bartolo's boys gave
us, we could do without any new enemies for a while.]<<<<<
-- Ian Burrell <20:15:43/06-14-60>

*****PRIVATE: Ian Burrell
>>>>>[The Vegas hit... interesting. Very interesting.

You did right telling me this. I'll be in touch.]<<<<<
-- Don Descabiere <20:16:43/06-14-60>
Message no. 13
From: Paul J. Adam Shadowtk@********.demon.co.uk
Subject: Mob War
Date: Tue, 9 Mar 1999 22:05:45 +0000
*****PRIVATE: Vincenzo
>>>>>[Lock things down a little... quietly. There are many reasons, and
this tape should make them clear.

+++++begin video
Easy drops into her chair, draws one of her Beretta automatics and
checks there's a round chambered, lays it on the table. "Ready, Mani?"

"Of course." The Sufi replies, calm as ever.

"Good." The Elven samurai lifts her booted feet onto the desk, showing
off legs that are indecently long (if too slim for the taste of many).
With the Sun this much of a memory, she's jettisoned her motorcycle
jeans for an alarmingly short skirt: fashion model, actress or hooker
would be the first three guesses.

Half a minute later, Luigi Bartolo walks into the office. The Mafioso
is, as usual, immaculate in a suit so sharp you could probably shave
with it, using the perfectly-glossed Gardini brogues as mirrors. He sees
the nine-millimetre automatic on the desk, though, and instantly raises
his hands.

+++++engage autotranslate: Sperethiel -> English
"Easy! Easy!" An instruction or an appeal? Either way he smiles. "I'm
not here for trouble." His Sperethiel, like the samurai's, is fluent if
strongly accented.

"Which is why you're still breathing. I see signs you're going to the
mattresses, Luigi. And you didn't ask me for help. That suggests either
I'm going to get hit by you, or you know I'm going to get hit, and
either way I'm less than happy."

"Hey, hey, hey, can I sit down?" Bartolo ostentatiously takes off his
jacket, revealing an excellent shirt with a shoulder holster over it.
His tailor does a superb job of cutting the suit to hide the Ingram
submachinegun that the Mafioso carries: Bartolo, for his part, makes the
way he keeps his hands far from the weapon look almost entirely natural.
"Look, Elizabeth, there's a question I never asked you, and I never
will. I'm your friend, I owe you, and I will never, ever ask you if you
were part of Mitchell's team in Vegas."

Easy's head snaps up.

"See? It wouldn't be right to ask a friend that question. Now, if
someone got identified as being responsible... they'd be in a world of
hurt. And it would spill over big-time. Hell, just having suspicions and
not passing them on, that could get a man _killed_. And not in a nice
way.

"Thing is, if I didn't know the area so well, I'd never even think I
shouldn't ask the question." Bartolo leans forward. "Mitchell took care
of a few problems for me. I figured him out quickly. Tough guy,
hardcore, a real .90 calibre. No way is he going to sit on his butt
working shit shadowjobs until one kills him. Now, word is the shooters
got out in a jammer's LAV, burning out East to the mountains and then
disappearing onto Route Pack Six. There aren't _that_ many jammers,
especially not ones who'd pull that kind of op and not talk later. Who
would Mitchell know? Harley. And where would he set it up? Here. Which
leads me to you. And as far as I'm going to think this through. You
wouldn't roll on a customer any more than I would, you're safe, but I
know you, you couldn't resist some payback on the Vegas scumbags."

"Of course, Luigi, if you can think of all this..." Easy says softly.

"Yeah. Any other uptown _consigliore_ can figure it out, on account they
know Tarislar so well, drink at the Easy Eight three times a night, get
their cars tuned at Harley's chop shop... gimme a break, Easy! If I
thought anyone else could work it out I'd have warned you and then moved
to collect on the bounty. In that order."

"I'm touched." Easy might even mean it.

"Yeah, well, this is Tarislar, I need you more than I need the breeders
uptown. More than a year now, I delivered everything I was asked for,
they're still humming and hawing about whether they can let an Elf have
territory. I got a nasty feeling I'll be a _capo_ forever if I let up
the pressure." Bartolo shrugs. "Look, that's my problem. Thing is, it's
also an opportunity."

"How so? Bear in mind I'm on standby for some spook stuff."

"Short job." Bartolo seems unfazed by the 'spook stuff' comment. "I need
a hit done, I'd like you to pull it. Franny Pescati."

Easy rocks back in her chair. "Boy oh boy, Luigi! You don't aim low, do
you? Going after the Bigio's local boy?"

"I figure I either try to roll over you, in which case I end up with
Rusanov's mercs and the Serenity legbreakers using me for a live-fire
exercise, or else I find another direction to expand in. And you know, I
don't feel like a war with the Georgian, and that means either chasing
squatters or fighting Pescati. So, fuck it. He's been pushing me for a
while, maybe that's why Dona Finnigan's held up on promoting me. I take
him, I can get a foothold in Fort Lewis. Just a small one. Can't ignore
that. They might kill me, but they can't ignore me any more."

"You want to be careful there, Luigi. The Butcher's gonna be _pissed_ if
you start taking his turf. And Rowena may not like you starting a war."

"Yeah. High risk. No pain, no gain, though, right? You kill Pescati for
me and it's my war after that. Deal?"

"How much are we talking?"

"Easy, I thought we were friends. Think of the favour I'd owe you."
Bartolo's voice has a slight, formal tone: a binding pledge was just
offered.

The Elven killer thinks a moment. "Okay. I think you have a deal."
+++++end video]<<<<<
-- Easy <22:05:32/03-09-60>
Message no. 14
From: Paul J. Adam Shadowtk@********.demon.co.uk
Subject: Mob War
Date: Mon, 22 Mar 1999 23:15:46 +0000
>>>>>[Hey, this is a change...

+++++begin news article
BUSINESSMAN SLAIN IN BRUTAL ASSASSINATION
_Bystanders Terrified As Bullets Fly_

A quiet Fort Lewis street was turned into a shooting gallery for a few
terrifying moments last night, as Francesco Pescati - owner of several
local bars and nightclubs - was brutally gunned down by an unidentified
assailant, riddled with deadly "meatgrinder" bullets as he left one of
his restaurants.

Lone Star speculations that the attack was a Mafia assassination were
rejected by colleagues of Mr Pescati, who insisted that the deceased was
a legitimate businessman: they believe his murder to have been a case of
mistaken identity.
+++++end news article

You gotta love it, don't you? Franny Pescati, one of the hardest-
charging mafiosos in Fort Lewis, and they're acting like he was just
some gentlemanly nightclub owner.

Word is, the shooter was firing from a good three hundred yards out, as
Franny and his boys walked to their car. One round to the chest, two to
the head. Probably a sniper rifle, but who can be sure? Not me, not
anyone except the coroner, and maybe not even him.

Could be anyone, too: Pescati had a squabble with the Yaks, he'd slapped
some Triads around, or it could really be a business argument rather
than a Mob hit.


What a masterpiece of ambiguity. Gotta love it.]<<<<<
-- Bungle <23:15:32/03-22-60>
Message no. 15
From: Paul J. Adam Shadowtk@********.demon.co.uk
Subject: Mob War
Date: Mon, 29 Mar 1999 23:54:45 +0100
>>>>>[Okay, so, who's letting off firecrackers?

+++++begin news item
GUN BATTLE RAGES AS CHILDREN SCREAM
Ritchie Park in Fort Lewis became a warzone as the Mob turf war between
Elven upstart Luigi Bartolo and local kingpin Paolo Descabiere escalated
into open warfare. An armoured automobile screamed through Ritchie Park,
past mothers and their children enjoying the warm Spring evening.

And suddenly its occupants recklessly sprayed automatic gunfire into the
park, carrying out a bloodthirsty drive-by shooting on a small group of
people who returned the fire with equal ruthlessness. Both the gunman
and the driver were killed by their would-be victims.

A bystander was seriously wounded in the attack, but has given Lone Star
vital evidence in identifying the failed killers and in tracing their
intended victims.

The steady escalation in violence has led to calls for tighter policing
of Fort Lewis' border with the lawless Elven enclave of Tarislar, from
which so much savagery emerges to plague its civilised neighbours. Chief
among those calling for a crackdown was William Robert McKie, who
reaffirmed his intention to run in the impending Mayoral race on a law-
and-order platform. "It's not a race issue, it's a crime issue." He
insisted. "I'm not unsympathetic to Puyallup's problems, but they're for
Puyallup or the Metroplex to solve. Fort Lewis's taxpayers deserve
better than this."
+++++end news item

Of course, no hint at all that Descabiere is inheritor to the late and
unlamented Franny Pescati, who of course was not Mafia at all, but who
cares about that? The Fort Lewis Gazette is probably peeved that
Descabiere has none of Franny's subtlety.

By all reports, Pescati knew how to keep the violence well buried, in
every sense. For all his faults, he'd never go for something as crude as
a drive-by shooting.

As to who the target was? Well, a little bird tells me that there were
two Elves, one of them looking very like Luigi Bartolo and the other one
tall, blonde, icily beautiful and the one who did all the killing.

Of course, what my little bird says is totally unlike the police report,
and we all know the Star are never wrong about anything, so I guess
that's what I get for listening to rumours, huh?]<<<<<
-- Bungle <23:52:35/03-29-60>
Message no. 16
From: Paul J. Adam Shadowtk@********.demon.co.uk
Subject: Mob War
Date: Tue, 9 Mar 1999 22:05:45 +0000
*****PRIVATE: Vincenzo
>>>>>[Lock things down a little... quietly. There are many reasons, and
this tape should make them clear.

+++++begin video
Easy drops into her chair, draws one of her Beretta automatics and
checks there's a round chambered, lays it on the table. "Ready, Mani?"

"Of course." The Sufi replies, calm as ever.

"Good." The Elven samurai lifts her booted feet onto the desk, showing
off legs that are indecently long (if too slim for the taste of many).
With the Sun this much of a memory, she's jettisoned her motorcycle
jeans for an alarmingly short skirt: fashion model, actress or hooker
would be the first three guesses.

Half a minute later, Luigi Bartolo walks into the office. The Mafioso
is, as usual, immaculate in a suit so sharp you could probably shave
with it, using the perfectly-glossed Gardini brogues as mirrors. He sees
the nine-millimetre automatic on the desk, though, and instantly raises
his hands.

+++++engage autotranslate: Sperethiel -> English
"Easy! Easy!" An instruction or an appeal? Either way he smiles. "I'm
not here for trouble." His Sperethiel, like the samurai's, is fluent if
strongly accented.

"Which is why you're still breathing. I see signs you're going to the
mattresses, Luigi. And you didn't ask me for help. That suggests either
I'm going to get hit by you, or you know I'm going to get hit, and
either way I'm less than happy."

"Hey, hey, hey, can I sit down?" Bartolo ostentatiously takes off his
jacket, revealing an excellent shirt with a shoulder holster over it.
His tailor does a superb job of cutting the suit to hide the Ingram
submachinegun that the Mafioso carries: Bartolo, for his part, makes the
way he keeps his hands far from the weapon look almost entirely natural.
"Look, Elizabeth, there's a question I never asked you, and I never
will. I'm your friend, I owe you, and I will never, ever ask you if you
were part of Mitchell's team in Vegas."

Easy's head snaps up.

"See? It wouldn't be right to ask a friend that question. Now, if
someone got identified as being responsible... they'd be in a world of
hurt. And it would spill over big-time. Hell, just having suspicions and
not passing them on, that could get a man _killed_. And not in a nice
way.

"Thing is, if I didn't know the area so well, I'd never even think I
shouldn't ask the question." Bartolo leans forward. "Mitchell took care
of a few problems for me. I figured him out quickly. Tough guy,
hardcore, a real .90 calibre. No way is he going to sit on his butt
working shit shadowjobs until one kills him. Now, word is the shooters
got out in a jammer's LAV, burning out East to the mountains and then
disappearing onto Route Pack Six. There aren't _that_ many jammers,
especially not ones who'd pull that kind of op and not talk later. Who
would Mitchell know? Harley. And where would he set it up? Here. Which
leads me to you. And as far as I'm going to think this through. You
wouldn't roll on a customer any more than I would, you're safe, but I
know you, you couldn't resist some payback on the Vegas scumbags."

"Of course, Luigi, if you can think of all this..." Easy says softly.

"Yeah. Any other uptown _consigliore_ can figure it out, on account they
know Tarislar so well, drink at the Easy Eight three times a night, get
their cars tuned at Harley's chop shop... gimme a break, Easy! If I
thought anyone else could work it out I'd have warned you and then moved
to collect on the bounty. In that order."

"I'm touched." Easy might even mean it.

"Yeah, well, this is Tarislar, I need you more than I need the breeders
uptown. More than a year now, I delivered everything I was asked for,
they're still humming and hawing about whether they can let an Elf have
territory. I got a nasty feeling I'll be a _capo_ forever if I let up
the pressure." Bartolo shrugs. "Look, that's my problem. Thing is, it's
also an opportunity."

"How so? Bear in mind I'm on standby for some spook stuff."

"Short job." Bartolo seems unfazed by the 'spook stuff' comment. "I need
a hit done, I'd like you to pull it. Franny Pescati."

Easy rocks back in her chair. "Boy oh boy, Luigi! You don't aim low, do
you? Going after the Bigio's local boy?"

"I figure I either try to roll over you, in which case I end up with
Rusanov's mercs and the Serenity legbreakers using me for a live-fire
exercise, or else I find another direction to expand in. And you know, I
don't feel like a war with the Georgian, and that means either chasing
squatters or fighting Pescati. So, fuck it. He's been pushing me for a
while, maybe that's why Dona Finnigan's held up on promoting me. I take
him, I can get a foothold in Fort Lewis. Just a small one. Can't ignore
that. They might kill me, but they can't ignore me any more."

"You want to be careful there, Luigi. The Butcher's gonna be _pissed_ if
you start taking his turf. And Rowena may not like you starting a war."

"Yeah. High risk. No pain, no gain, though, right? You kill Pescati for
me and it's my war after that. Deal?"

"How much are we talking?"

"Easy, I thought we were friends. Think of the favour I'd owe you."
Bartolo's voice has a slight, formal tone: a binding pledge was just
offered.

The Elven killer thinks a moment. "Okay. I think you have a deal."
+++++end video]<<<<<
-- Easy <22:05:32/03-09-60>
Message no. 17
From: Paul J. Adam Shadowtk@********.demon.co.uk
Subject: Mob War
Date: Mon, 22 Mar 1999 23:15:46 +0000
>>>>>[Hey, this is a change...

+++++begin news article
BUSINESSMAN SLAIN IN BRUTAL ASSASSINATION
_Bystanders Terrified As Bullets Fly_

A quiet Fort Lewis street was turned into a shooting gallery for a few
terrifying moments last night, as Francesco Pescati - owner of several
local bars and nightclubs - was brutally gunned down by an unidentified
assailant, riddled with deadly "meatgrinder" bullets as he left one of
his restaurants.

Lone Star speculations that the attack was a Mafia assassination were
rejected by colleagues of Mr Pescati, who insisted that the deceased was
a legitimate businessman: they believe his murder to have been a case of
mistaken identity.
+++++end news article

You gotta love it, don't you? Franny Pescati, one of the hardest-
charging mafiosos in Fort Lewis, and they're acting like he was just
some gentlemanly nightclub owner.

Word is, the shooter was firing from a good three hundred yards out, as
Franny and his boys walked to their car. One round to the chest, two to
the head. Probably a sniper rifle, but who can be sure? Not me, not
anyone except the coroner, and maybe not even him.

Could be anyone, too: Pescati had a squabble with the Yaks, he'd slapped
some Triads around, or it could really be a business argument rather
than a Mob hit.


What a masterpiece of ambiguity. Gotta love it.]<<<<<
-- Bungle <23:15:32/03-22-60>
Message no. 18
From: Paul J. Adam Shadowtk@********.demon.co.uk
Subject: Mob War
Date: Mon, 29 Mar 1999 23:54:45 +0100
>>>>>[Okay, so, who's letting off firecrackers?

+++++begin news item
GUN BATTLE RAGES AS CHILDREN SCREAM
Ritchie Park in Fort Lewis became a warzone as the Mob turf war between
Elven upstart Luigi Bartolo and local kingpin Paolo Descabiere escalated
into open warfare. An armoured automobile screamed through Ritchie Park,
past mothers and their children enjoying the warm Spring evening.

And suddenly its occupants recklessly sprayed automatic gunfire into the
park, carrying out a bloodthirsty drive-by shooting on a small group of
people who returned the fire with equal ruthlessness. Both the gunman
and the driver were killed by their would-be victims.

A bystander was seriously wounded in the attack, but has given Lone Star
vital evidence in identifying the failed killers and in tracing their
intended victims.

The steady escalation in violence has led to calls for tighter policing
of Fort Lewis' border with the lawless Elven enclave of Tarislar, from
which so much savagery emerges to plague its civilised neighbours. Chief
among those calling for a crackdown was William Robert McKie, who
reaffirmed his intention to run in the impending Mayoral race on a law-
and-order platform. "It's not a race issue, it's a crime issue." He
insisted. "I'm not unsympathetic to Puyallup's problems, but they're for
Puyallup or the Metroplex to solve. Fort Lewis's taxpayers deserve
better than this."
+++++end news item

Of course, no hint at all that Descabiere is inheritor to the late and
unlamented Franny Pescati, who of course was not Mafia at all, but who
cares about that? The Fort Lewis Gazette is probably peeved that
Descabiere has none of Franny's subtlety.

By all reports, Pescati knew how to keep the violence well buried, in
every sense. For all his faults, he'd never go for something as crude as
a drive-by shooting.

As to who the target was? Well, a little bird tells me that there were
two Elves, one of them looking very like Luigi Bartolo and the other one
tall, blonde, icily beautiful and the one who did all the killing.

Of course, what my little bird says is totally unlike the police report,
and we all know the Star are never wrong about anything, so I guess
that's what I get for listening to rumours, huh?]<<<<<
-- Bungle <23:52:35/03-29-60>
Message no. 19
From: "Paul J. Adam" <shadowtk@********.DEMON.CO.UK>
Subject: Mob War
Date: Thu, 8 May 1997 00:03:12 +0100
>>>>>[Messy stuff tonight.

+++++begin news item
SIX DEAD, TWO WOUNDED IN RESTAURANT MASSACRE
Patrons and staff faced death at the "Golden Madonna" in Auburn tonight,
as six diners were brutally slain by a mysterious metahuman gunman!
Riddling his targets with shotgun fire at point-blank range, the Ork
assassin also wounded the doorman and an off-duty police officer who
attempted to interrupt his murderous rampage! Nearly fifty shots were
fired during the savage attack, almost all by the maniacal gunman!

Lone Star Detective Julianne Hart suffered multiple gunshot wounds while
bravely attempting to apprehend this psychotic killer, and is described
as "stable" in hospital! The identities of the six dead have not yet
been released. Two were believed to be minors, young children brutally
gunned down at close range, by a metahuman psychopath who fired
repeatedly into their young bodies!

Lone Star refused comments on whether the attack was racially motivated!
They also refused to identify the victims by race, thus strongly
implying that all six were Human!
+++++end news item

Amazing how some journalists can't end sentences except in exclamation
marks! And I have it on excellent authority that the two "minors" were
joygirls, hardly what our hack would have us believe! In fact, word is
this is a Mob hit and the race issue is irrelevant! Why is our hapless
stringer working so hard to distract us from that! What is the Humanis
Policlub being set up for now?!

This, by the way, is the _right_ way to end a sentence. With a full
stop. No exclamation marks anywhere in this paragraph. Too many
exclamation marks are merely tiring.

Just for the record... None of the dead had any affilation to the Auburn
chapters of Humanis Policlub, nor are we aware of any of them having
involvement with other chapters of HP, nor do we believe this was a
racial hit. It smacks of organised crime, and the race of the assassin
and his targets is irrelevant.

Our best wishes to Detective Hart and our condolences to the families
and friends of the dead.]<<<<<
-- Grant <00:01:41/05-08-58>
Message no. 20
From: "Paul J. Adam" <shadowtk@********.DEMON.CO.UK>
Subject: Mob War
Date: Wed, 7 May 1997 23:43:35 +0100
>>>>>[Okay, this is what I saw. I'm posting it in the public interest,
since that way nobody can accuse me of holding out on them.

Anyone know more than what's here and feel like sharing, drop me a line.

+++++begin video
A quiet restaurant, a candlelit dinner, music just loud enough to mask
conversations at other tables, and an attractive woman sitting opposite
in a low-cut dress of dark-green silk that sets off her dark hair and
eyes.

"So, Marlowe, you want to talk, or are you going to sit there and drool
down my cleavage all night?"

"Drooling sounds good. In fact, I'd like to start with drooling and then
move on to-" A male voice, not a Seattle accent.

The woman shakes her head, looking amused. "Kryzdanovich, you are
nothing if not predictable. Keep that going and I'll arrest you for
harassment. Now, what have you got for me- and I speak only of the word
on the street here."

"I think we got a turf war brewing. Don't know with who, though."

The woman leans forward - Marlowe taking a brief opportunity to admire
the even better view of her decolletage thus provided. "Who, why, what
evidence?"

"Who, the Crimson Hawks. Why, they've got the money and the people and a
couple of nasty neighbours. Evidence, a lot of their people have dropped
out of sight in the last few days. Most of their heaviest hitters, their
armourer, their medics. They're going to the mattresses, and people on
the street are battening down for when this one blows up." Marlowe picks
up the bottle of wine, tops up both glasses.

"My morals get even tighter when I get drunk, Andrew, you won't get to
drool over anything that way." the policewoman says. "Give me more data,
before you give me more wine."

"Okay. Hiroshi's gunsmith isn't taking work. Three different enquiries,
three refusals. The guy can usually fit your job in, but right now he's
'unavailable'. Usually the Hawks can sell you a good near-new 227 or
Uzi, within a day and pretty cheap. They jacked their prices and you get
the weapon when they feel like it. Not usual for them."

Marlowe sips his wine. "Their other stuff... they seem to be backing off
the street. Don't do a lot of business there anyway, the Hawks mostly do
walk-in, the bars, shops... but they moved a couple of joytoys off the
street outside my office, set them up with an apartment and some
advertising. Like they were protecting their assets, getting them out of
immediate harm's way."

"Nothing concrete, then. But enough to convince you." The woman regards
Marlowe thoughtfully. "You're good at this. Davis said you were a useful
contact."

"Davis didn't tell me his replacement would be so pretty, Officer Hart."

"Any word on outside threats? Maybe they're going on the defensive. Clan
war?" Hart ignores the sally.

"Nope. No hint of any problems. No word on anyone planning to hurt them,
either. Just... hints."

Hart leans back. "Okay. Question is, what do we-"


A disturbance by the entrance turns into a crash of plates as the
doorman is flung aside, and a big, powerfully-built Ork runs in,
bringing an Enfield assault shotgun up from under his coat and opening
fire. Marlowe dives for the floor, Officer Hart already there and
rolling under the tablecloth: screams and shouts can vaguely be heard
over the shotgun's din. The Ork is firing long bursts, the noise
deafening in the small restaurant.

Marlowe and Hart lie under the table, hidden from the Ork by the floor-
length tablecloth. Hart is struggling with her skirt and you hear a seam
rip: Marlowe is twisting and wriggling, manages to get a hand inside his
jacket to draw his holstered Ultra-Power. Hart says, soft and sharp,
"Don't try it!", as she finally extracts a compact Walther from its
garter holster: quick-draws while lying under a table aren't very
practical. Hitting her wristphone, she softly says "Dispatch, this is
five-Romeo-forty-two, officer needs assistance at the Golden Madonna,
shots fired, wired attacker with an automatic weapon."

The fire pauses: a short burst, then another, then footsteps crunching
over broken tableware, and the door bangs. Marlowe and Hart are out from
under the table in seconds, running through the acrid cordite smoke -
Marlowe's foot skids on a spent twelve-gauge shell, of which dozens
litter the floor - following Hart as she reaches the main door, shouting
"Police! Halt-" before she twists back amidst a short burst of shotgun
fire, her arms slick with blood and face contorted with pain.

"Frag!" yells Marlowe, leaning out past her: the Ork is closing the door
of a Chrysler-Nissan 3220ZX as it picks up speed and the detective
raises his Ultra-Power in a classic Weaver stance, placing the red dot
of the Aimpoint on the accelerating car and firing with no visible
result. He gets off six aimed shots, before the 3220 takes a left and is
gone.

"You okay?" he asks the bleeding Hart.

"Hands. One of his shots got my hands. It hurts, Andy." She is shaking,
blood running down and dripping off her elbows. Sirens can be heard,
growing stronger. Marlowe fumbles out a medkit, gives Hart two
injections and she relaxes. "Better. Thanks." Her hads and forearms are
slick and red, half a dozen small round holes pulsing out blood with
every heartbeat.

The first Lone Star cruiser rounds the corner at speed, screeches to a
halt: one patrolman out right away, carrying a HK227 and looking for
targets. Marlowe turns, hands raised and empty.

"Shooter's gone, he's a big Ork in a long coat with a drum-fed Enfield.
Vehicle's a dark 3220, licence obscured, probably got some forty-cal
holes in the tailgate. This lady's a cop, she's hurt and needs a medic."
Marlowe advises the cop, who nods.

"Paramedics are right behind us. You?" The patrolman keeps the 227
ready, not quite aimed at Marlowe.

"Andrew Kryzdanovich. Private investigator." Marlowe shows his PI
licence and firearm permit. "I was meeting Julianne here. The Ork was
shooting for a group inside, area hit. Splatter job."

The patrolman inspects the ID, nods, raises the Lexan visor of his
helmet as another car pulls up followed by an ambulance. He moves into
the restaurant, as Marlowe helps Hart to her feet and guides her to the
paramedics: a quick exchange and a flash from his medkit tell them what
he's already administered to her.

"Okay, it must hurt like hell, but you're going to be fine. Looks like
maybe number-four shot. No exits. Officer Hart, can you flex your
fingers?" the paramedic asks, spraying Hart's forearms and hands with an
antiseptic cleaner that washes the blood away. The wounds look
relatively minor, but extremely painful, as the woman manages to half-
clench her fists.

"Good. Doesn't look like you lost any tendons. We'll get you to hospital
and you'll be fine, Officer Hart."

"Julianne." Marlowe clarifies. "Her name's Julianne."

The paramedic - a slim Orkish woman - nods. "Well, sir, Julianne should
be fine. She'll need surgery to get the shot out and maybe some bone
work if there are fractures, but she's in good shape."

"Outstanding. Shame we can't say the same for the people inside."

"Bad?" asks the paramedic.

"Same weapon, closer range, multiple hits."

"Messy. Well, I guess I got to make an effort." the paramedic says,
shrugging. As they walk back to the Golden Madonna - another medic
spraying foam bandages over Hart's wounds - Marlowe's foot hits
something that clatters. Picking up her dropped PB-120, he steps back
inside the small Chinese restaurant.

Standing where the gunman had been, the carnage is incredible. Six
people had been seated around the corner table: all now lie sprawled on
the carpeted floor amidst an incredible amount of blood. Their table is
overturned and riddled with fist-sized holes: the bodies are likewise
torn and ripped by point-blank buckshot hitting in solid clusters.

Two police officers are recording the scene, stepping back from the
corpses to let the paramedic pass. She goes through the motions with all
six, checking for a pulse, for respiration, for any sign of life, before
standing and stepping back.

"Nope. Call a coroner, nothing I can do for these guys. Anyone else need
me?"

"Doorman's hurt, broken leg." The Ork moves off to attend to him,
leaving Marlowe looking at the corpses.

Two look like joygirls: augmented figures, artificially desirable faces,
short skirts and halter tops. It seems they were killed late, one is a
pace from the table and shot in the side as though while running.

Two are bodyguards, torsos relatively intact where their armour saved
them; but one is missing most of her head and the other had been shot in
the throat and had a hand blown clean off. The hand lies nearby clenched
around an unfired Guardian automatic. By their wounds, they were shot
first.

The last pair look like the main targets. One is a blandly handsome man,
clad in a once-white linen suit, his chest a soaking mass of blood and
torn flesh. The other is a woman, her face mostly gone. Each of that
pair took more rounds than the other four put together, at least a dozen
each delivered at point-blank range.

"Someone wanted to make really sure of those two. Recognise any of
them?" asks a voice by his elbow.

"Don't know the guards or the woman. The guy's Antonio Vega, he's a capo
for the Luna family. Their military mind, losing him's gonna hurt. The
joygirl with the fishnets called herself Honeysuckle, real name was
Luanne Drobrows, age about sixteen, nice girl. Other chica worked the
streets round here, don't know her name, she worked out of Two-Tone's
stable." Marlowe replies, still studying the bodies.

"I oughta bust your ass for contaminating a crime scene, Marlowe." the
detective beside him says conversationally. "But you did help Officer
Hart out, even though I can't think why she'd be having dinner with
you."

"Yeah. This is hers, by the way, she dropped it when she got shot."
Marlowe unloads the PB-120 and hands it to the detective.

"I'll see she gets it back. You got an interest to declare here, Andy?"

Marlowe nods. "Yeah. I like Julianne. It pisses me off when pretty women
I like get hurt. Plus I knew Honeysuckle, she was a dumb kid but she
didn't deserve that. Always friendly, always polite, even offered me a
discount."

"What, you took her up? Don't answer, I don't wanna know. Stay out of
the way. Keep a low profile. Keep me informed. And maybe I'll keep you
out of jail." The detective nods at Marlowe, moves off: Marlowe turns
and leaves to begin the round of statements that will keep him busy for
the next few hours.
+++++end trideo]<<<<<
-- Marlowe <23:43:52/07-05-58>
Message no. 21
From: "Paul J. Adam" <shadowtk@********.DEMON.CO.UK>
Subject: Mob War
Date: Sun, 11 May 1997 01:27:54 +0100
*****PRIVATE: Sergeant Stuart Foster, Lone Star
>>>>>[Hi there, Stu.

Things are hotting up. First of all, two of Hiroshi's guys showed up at
the hospital this afternoon while I was bringing Julianne some books and
a bag of grapes. They were very polite and respectful and thanked her
for doing her job in trying to apprehend our Ork gunman. No requests, no
threats, no gifts, just a short and formal thank-you message.

They then took me aside and asked me nicely to ask around and find out
who hit Hiroshi's kobun. Again, polite and respectful. I hinted that I
was already tied to Lone Star in this case and they were cool about it.

As you doubtless know by now, the Jane Doe at the meet was one of the
Crimson Hawks' negotiators, one Sally Philips. Hiroshi doesn't take
kindly to losing his people. He's pretty traditional, and _giri_ goes
both ways for him.

Anyway, I talked to Two-Tone - Darlene's pimp, the hooker I didn't
recognise? - and he's scared. Scared of me, even, which ought to tell
you something. He got asked for a girl for the night for a business
meet, meaning she needed to know when to be deaf and blind, and she was
for a woman not a guy. Fits what little I knew about Philips.

The only useful thing he had for me was that, right after the hit, he
got an anonymous call asking him to recommend some useful muscle. He
tells me he passed on a guy called Slammer, a local ganger looking for
his big break: Slammer spent last night with one of Two-Tone's girls and
bragged a lot that he was "a happening d00d" and showed off some new
firepower which the chica didn't recognise.

I then spoke to the chica with my Ares catalogue and she recognised a
MP-5TX and said that was what Slammer was so proud of. As far as she
remembered, which isn't well because both of them spend the night wasted
on crackle, he's waiting "until the deal goes down" before he "dishes
out some serious hurt."

I need some funding. >>Encrypted<< should cover it, but I need to hire
help and buy information, to figure out what the hell's going on here.

This could get ugly fast.]<<<<<
-- Marlowe <01:24:31/05-11-58>

*****PRIVATE: Marlowe
>>>>>[Okay, I can get you the money. We're asking around too.

Be careful. You can't report if you're dead.]<<<<<
-- Sergeant Stuart Foster <01:27:53/05-11-58>
Organised Crime Division
Lone Star Security Services
Message no. 22
From: "Paul J. Adam" <shadowtk@********.DEMON.CO.UK>
Subject: Re: Mob War
Date: Sun, 11 May 1997 23:18:04 +0100
*****PRIVATE: Sergeant Stuart Foster, Lone Star
>>>>>[Stu, this is getting out of hand. Someone has taken a real dislike
to the Crimson Hawks.

You'll get the full story from my statement, but here's the vid.

And my informant is in technical violation of his parole conditions, so
sue me. He's a good guy who's going straight, working for me and packing
a piece. The piece could get him busted except he feels he needs it and
I don't disagree. Don't let that part leak, or you don't have a friendly
PI any more.

+++++begin video
Marlowe is wandering out of a coffee shop, pausing by a streetlamp to
peruse a row of stickers - "Call Janine on 555-3232 for EXTREME
PAIN/PLEASURE!" is one.

"All clear." a voice behind him says.

"Good." Marlowe spends some time fumbling in his coat. "No problems?"

"Nope. The buyer went in five minutes ago. Nobody else gone in or out of
that building in the last hour." the voice says confidently.

Marlowe comes out with a pocket secretary, starts dialling. "Anything
else?"

"Just the painting crew that went into the tenement next door."

Marlowe freezes. "Spider, that tenement gets demolished within the
month."

"Frag..." the voice says, as automatic gunfire suddenly echoes and rings
nearby.

"Get in there! I'll cover outside, you go inside!"

You get a vague impression of a burly black Ork running into the
graffiti-scrawled tenement, before Marlowe is sprinting around into a
side alley. The gunfire stops as if cut by a knife.

Above, a steel ladder has been laid across the gap between the
buildings: a heavy plastic sack flies across the gap, followed by
another: Marlowe is reaching for his Ultra-Power: but by the time he's
drawn it and turned on the scope, a manshape has rushed back across.

"Frag." the PI says, transferring the weapon to his left hand and
bringing out his pocket secretary, dialling 911.

"Good morning. You have reached the Lone Star emergency alert line. All
our operators are busy. Please hold until you can be connected to an
operator. Thank you." Canned electronic Mozart flows from the speaker
and Marlowe snaps the compact device shut, thrusting it into his pocket
with a less restrained curse than usual.

He moves back up the alleyway, seeing the painters' van: parked with its
engine running. Marlowe brings up the Browning, then lowers it,
muttering to himself about the limits of a PI licence -

Three men break from the building to the van, and Marlowe raises the
pistol. "Private investigator! Halt or-"

The trailing gunman raises his Ingram and sprays a burst at Marlowe,
missing high: Marlowe fires a fast double-tap in reply that throws the
shooter backwards, the submachinegun flying from his hands to skitter on
the asphalt.

The van's tires screech and bullets chew into the wall where Marlowe had
been a few instants before. When the fire finally ceases, he leans out,
to see only choking blue smoke where the van had been.

"Damn it all to hell..." Reaching for his pocket secretary, _Eine Kleine
Nachtmusik_ still strains from the small device: still waiting for an
operator.

The big Ork, Spider Mike, runs down the fire escape breathlessly.

"Marlowe, man, it's a fraggin' morgue up there. Five guys cutting a
deal, all dead. Empty briefcase got the holders for chips; empty case
and a couple of Bank of Nassau bearer bonds flying around for the cash.
Didn't recognise the stiffs. I gotta go, man, if the Star catch me
packing or near a crime scene..."

"You lose your parole. Run. You were never here." The Ork takes to his
heels. Marlowe walks towards the bleeding man, as the Mozart clicks off.
"Lone Star emergency line, can I help you?"
+++++end video

The dead guys upstairs were Crimson Hawks BTL dealers, and a local
dealer called Jazzie. The guy on the street doesn't seem to have any
particular ties, didn't even give his name where I could hear it. you'll
do better there.

Looks like maybe the Hawks went on the _defensive_, not the offensive.
But who's hitting them?]<<<<<
-- Marlowe <23:17:42/05-11-58>
Message no. 23
From: "Paul J. Adam" <shadowtk@********.DEMON.CO.UK>
Subject: Mob War
Date: Sun, 18 May 1997 17:37:37 +0100
*****PRIVATE: Sergeant Stuart Foster, Lone Star
>>>>>[Someone knocked over a corner store in Renton. Faked it as a
Humanis hit, but the moves look wrong for Renton Humanis. They'd be in
there with a dozen or so people, smashing the place and stealing stock:
breaking the people there and waving Big Guns is a lower priority. Draws
too much attention. Why is this relevant, you ask? Because the store
paid protection to the Crimson Hawks.

Still no word on who's chasing the Hawks.

I and my hired help went to talk to the wounded guy: which got us
precisely nowhere. He's a street punk from Redmond, hired for the Uzi he
was packing and five thousand nuyen. As his employers doubtless hoped,
all he knows is "some breeder gave me the gun, the money, the time and
the place".

What got my interest was bumping into Tony Luna on the way out.

+++++begin video

A hospital corridor: Marlowe is following the signs to the exit.

"So you're sure he was telling the truth, Herman?"

"He was telling the truth. And my name still isn't Herman." replies Ice.

"Yeah, yeah. So someone, we don't know who, hired our bozo there to
hurt... whafrag?"

A constellation of men in excellent suits are approaching: one of them
whispering to the central figure, who smiles condescendingly at Marlowe.

"So you are the one who asks questions?" the man asks, still smiling.
"For that I should give you a present. Do you ever see a Colombian
necktie? On you, it would look superb."

Marlowe leans forward. "Then give it to me. Now. Or get out of my face,
while you still have yours."

Luna stares at him for a long moment, then turns away with a
contemptuous laugh.


"What's a Colombian necktie?" asks Ice as he follows Marlowe out.

"Someone annoys you, so you cut his throat, then pull their tongue down
so it sticks out through the slit." replies Marlowe tersely. "I don't
think he likes me, Herman."

"Keep calling me Herman and I won't like you either."
+++++end video

The Lunas are pretty crazy anyway, maybe they just resent the
interference. Or maybe there's more to this than I'm seeing. Or maybe
someone picked the Lunas because they're crazy and easily blamed for all
this. Or maybe they blame the Hawks for losing their war chief.

I'll keep you posted.]<<<<<
-- Marlowe <17:37:54/05-18-58>
Message no. 24
From: "Paul J. Adam" <shadowtk@********.DEMON.CO.UK>
Subject: Mob War
Date: Sat, 31 May 1997 17:44:53 +0100
*****PRIVATE: Sergeant Stuart Foster, Lone Star
>>>>>[Okay, things are still hopping.

We kept an eye on Hiroshi Fujiko and saw precisely nada, except for a
couple of Hawks heavies also following her around. They exchanged polite
words with us, I mentioned your name and told them I was there to stop
anything bad happening to Hiroshi-sama, and they made two calls and then
said 'okay but stay out of our way'.

Herman and I left her to check on a crime scene: one of Auburn's
aldermen, and a good friend of the Hawks, got shot dead in one of their
pleasure palaces. "Some big crazy A-rab" killed the doorman, shot up
reception, killed another guard and then executed Alderman Neely. No
real word on who, they're not particularly well-known: no word on why,
but my money's on Tony Luna being behind it.

Not much news yet, but this could really hurt Hiroshi if it breaks: I
hear he's working overtime to keep the media from breaking any link
between him and Neely, or him and that brothel.

It's kind of weird. Either Hiroshi _can't_ go after Luna for some reason
not made clear, or he knows something we don't, because this is the
fourth hit on the Crimson Hawks without any retribution.]<<<<<
-- Marlowe <17:44:32/05/31-55>
Message no. 25
From: "Paul J. Adam" <shadowtk@********.DEMON.CO.UK>
Subject: Mob War?
Date: Fri, 24 Oct 1997 00:31:18 +0100
*****PRIVATE: Serenity Security
>>>>>[Figured you ought to see this.

+++++begin trideo
The security cameras, in the Easy Eight. The owner is walking the floor
of her club, greeting a few regulars, quietly talking to Vincenzo at the
bar. She's striking in her motorcycle jacket, a silk halter and an
alarmingly short black skirt: though you know she wears her skirt so
short so it doesn't interfere if she wants to kick someone's jawbone
through the back of his head, her legs are still beautiful.

Someone catches her eye and she walks into a quiet corner, whether by
accident or design by a camera.

"Yeah, Dwayne?"

Dwayne is Elven, and seems happier speaking Sperethiel than English:
considerately, a translation scrolls across the bottom of the picture.
"Bad news, boss. Bartolo is definitely tooling up, and he's scouting us
and the Paks."

"Damn. Smart move, but bad for us." Easy looks thoughtful. "Any
percentage in offing some of his scouts?"

"Gangers. Zipper Heads, mostly, and if we whack a few of them without
really obvious reason... Whoever's hiring them is staying back."

"Kill some Zipper Heads and we've got a driveby an hour until we kill
them all, or the walls give in. Yeah." Easy still looks meditative.
"What about Heihachi?"

"Quiet as a mouse."

"Good. Let me know if that changes. And the Georgian?"

"Can't get word. Which is maybe worst news of all." Dwayne fidgets
nervously.

"Yeah. Okay. Short answer, put the farm on alert and tip the mercs there
might be fireworks in the region. We can't start anything with Bartolo
until we get the Koreans off our backs." Easy finds a cigarette, lights
it. "Damn, I picked the wrong year to quit drinking. See if you can
persuade the Zippers to leave us alone. Watch the Chun Paks like hawks.
And if you get a line on one of Bartolo's snoops, I want to know that
fucking minute. Got it?"

"Sure." Dwayne nods. Easy moves past him, towards a wiry blonde Dwarf
who's pulling back the hood of a chemsuit as he enters: out of audio
range, she greets him as if he were a friend.
+++++end trideo

Potential trouble. Brace up.]<<<<<
-- Easy <00:31:36/10-24-58>

Further Reading

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