[b]- The Night Before –[/b]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re opening it? What… what if it’s a bomb? Or… or what if it’s got like… anthrax, or something!” he says even more nervously, pushing away from his desk in terror at the possible implications. Shaking his head, Hock glares at Goldberg again, holding up the simple white envelope, hinting at its flimsiness. “Does it look like a bomb to you?” he asks mockingly.
 
Hock then retrieves the gold letter opener from Goldberg’s desk, and slips it under the exposed flap on one end. “What about anthrax?” he hears Goldberg ask softly, but Hock ignores him, cutting the envelope open, he then pulls out a single piece of paper. Unfolding it, he reads it in an instant, though given its abstract simplicity, it leaves much to the imagination. For what feels like a long moment after however, Hock looks the letter over, reading it a second, and a third time.

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

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

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

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

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

[b]- Earlier Today -[/b]

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

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

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

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

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

[b]- Now -[/b]

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

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

It was.

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

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

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

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

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

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