| From: | "Paul J. Adam" <shadowtk@********.DEMON.CO.UK> |
|---|---|
| Subject: | Re: Mob War |
| Date: | Sun, 11 May 1997 23:18:04 +0100 |
>>>>>[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>
