[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/Jqhg9Zb.png[/img][/center] [b]Manhattan[/b] When he didn’t get any answer the second time he knocked, Parker kicked the door in. Two swift kicks to the place around the knob snapped the cheap lock in half. He came in gun first through the tiny studio apartment. It took him all of thirty seconds to clear the place of any human life. He slid the piece back in its shoulder holster and did a quick inventory of the surroundings. Bare walls and cracked wallpaper greeted him. A scuffed hardwood floor was obscured by stacks of garbage and filth. The place stunk to high heaven and Parker had to hold his nose as he went into the little bathroom nook. From the window he looked out across the city. New York's lights were ablaze in the early dusk. Movement below caught his eye and he looked down. A fat man in a ill-fitting suit was running down the fire escape for dear life. Parker yanked the window opened and gave chase, racing down the rickety, rusty stairs after him. The fat man was off the stairs and running down the alley by the time Parker got to the bottom of them. He leapt the five feet down to the pavement and pulled his gun from its holster. The fat man was at least ten yards away when Parker drew a bead on him with the gun's iron sight. The piece jerked just once and the fat man crumpled to the ground. He kept the gun on the body as he walked up to it. Parker kicked the fat man over and made sure he was dead. A neat little hole in the back of the guy’s neck wasn't nearly as neat when it exited just under his left eye and took out what little brains he had with it. A quick search revealed a wallet, a cellphone, and a half brick of heroin tucked in the man's suit jacket. The wallet had a driver's license made out to one Henry Carter with matching debit and credit cards. Parker pocketed the wallet and dope into his own jacket and held on to the phone as he walked out the alley towards his car. The rental was parked down the block from the flophouse he'd just went in to. This part of town was filled with rundown apartments and no-tell motels so he knew he'd be able to leave the area at his own pace before anyone found the body. He drove to a parking lot three blocks away and let the engine idle while he inspected Henry Carter's phone. The man didn't make many phone calls -- but who did in the age of texting? -- and most of the calls were either from contacts listed a HOME or SARAH. The texts revealed Sarah to be Carter's wife or girlfriend or something. Parker didn't remember seeing a wedding ring on Carter's pudgy hand. Most of the text were mundane stuff from Sarah and friends, but one number jumped out at Parker. M -- number 914-202-6005 -- never called Carter nor did Carter ever call him. But they texted. Every two weeks, M would text Carter the word 'Package' and Two weeks later, Carter would text '$' The last such text was a package one from M a week ago. Parker pocketed the phone and started the car. He pulled out into the street with a few ideas on how to proceed next. He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other on the gun Graves had given him five days ago. The piece felt good in his big mitts. He liked the weight and feel of it. It wasn't fancy but it got the job done. Parker could visualize putting the barrel right in Mal Resnick's face and pulling the trigger until it clicked. The job that led to here was supposed to be a pretty straightforward one. The small town of Susanville, California had two banks that were merging. In the middle of the night, all the cash from one bank would cross town in an armored car with a police escort and deposit it into the other one. Parker and two other guys -- Mal and Joe Wilson -- ambushed the car at the halfway point with an honest to god rocket launcher that Joe Wilson had somehow gotten his hands on. The front end of the armored car went up like a roman candle when the rocket hit. The blast was pure shock and awe, a good enough cover for Parker, Mal, and Joe to overtake the cop escort and the guards and crack open the back of the armored car. Fire trucks were hauling ass to the scene as Parker and company fled into the night in a SUV loaded with three quarters of a million dollars in cash. Joe Wilson drove them north to Cedarville, an even smaller town that was spitting distance to the Nevada state line. The plan was to lay low in a small house there, split up the take three ways, and go their separate ways after a few days of hiding out. Parker made sure the house was stocked with water and sandwich supplies. Mal, apparently, had other ideas. The last night of their hideout, Mal stabbed Joe Wilson to death in his sleep and came for Parker. Lucky for Parker, or unlucky for Mal, Parker was a light sleeper and struck out when he saw Mal at the foot of his bed with a knife. Parker's gun was close by, but Mal's was in his other hand and he drew down, hitting Parker twice in the torso. The gunshots drew the cops, who got there in time to save Parker from bleeding to death but not in time to intercept Mal or the cash as he drove off into the night. Parker woke up two days later handcuffed to a hospital bed. Cops from Susanville, California State Police, and even feds sweated him about what had happened in that little house. Parker didn't say a word and they couldn't prove he robbed the armored cars. So instead he got charged with Joe Wilson's murder while he healed from gunshot wounds. Parker was still awaiting trial for murder when he was magically released by someone. Graves, whoever the hell he was, had serious pull. He wasted no time getting to New York after the file on Mal put him in the city. A few quick cons and paper hangings in California got enough cash in his pocket to get across the country and into a cheap motel in Jersey. From there he staged his hunt for Mal. The dossier put Mal in Manhattan, working as a wholesaler of Big H. The bastard had taken Parker and Joe Wilson's shares of the loot and paid off some big debts to the Outfit, what was left he used to set up shop as a supplier. Carter, the man Parker had just killed, was one of the people Mal supplied. Parker pulled into a parking spot on the Upper West Side and dialed M's number. "What the f--" "Mal," Parker said in his most panicked voice. "I-I-I-It's me!" "We don't talk on the fucking phone, you--" "We need to meet! Something's gone wrong, it's all gone wrong. I don't know what to do!" "Chill the hell out," Mal said with some force behind his voice. "And stop talking over the phone about this, okay?" "What do I do?" "Meet me at this address --" he fired off a location in Brooklyn. "Got that?" "Okay. I'll be there in an hour!" --- [b]Center City, WA[/b] Tracy's charger cruised slowly through the posh suburbs. Hunter's Creek was just a scant thirty blocks away from downtown Center City, but it may as well have been on another planet. There was no trace of the old junkies on the corner, doing the dope fiend lean as they shot up and fried what little brains they had left. No sign of the hookers who walked the streets, selling their bodies to feed themselves and their children. No dilapidated buildings with its copper piping and electrical wiring ripped out by money hungry fiends looking for a quick payday. He felt uneasy surrounded by these big lawns and big houses shining in the early morning light. Tracy was just white trash from the city, something that would never change. The people out here were tantamount to American royalty with their fleets of cars, jets, and boats. His destination, the Flynn mansion, loomed on the hill above it all. Guys like Tracy and his boss Hyde were called criminals for no other reason than the types of crime they committed. Hyde peddled drugs, the guys who owned the houses out here peddled Democracy to any third world country with finite natural resources to exploit. They robbed pension plans and left retiring employees penniless. Society condemned guys like Tracy, saying they were the problem with America, all while the people out here overthrew governments to pay fifty cents on the dollar for exports. The only difference between Hyde's empire and the empires of business were that those criminal enterprises were deemed too big to fail by the government. Tracy ended up stopped on the edge of the big manor by an armed guard. His car idled outside a big iron gate while the man gave him the stinkeye and double checked Tracy's identification. Tracy had to hand over his gun before parking his car and being led into the big house by another guard. He wasn't too impressed by the large courtyard and expansive corridors. The place was small by House of Windsor standards. The guard showed Tracy into an office somewhere on the third floor and left him alone. He walked up to a wall that looked like a shrine to the home's owner. Three different photos of Thomas Flynn shaking hands with the last three US Presidents, one of him in New York ringing the stock exchange bell, a cover of a financial magazine with a younger looking Flynn on the cover. Photos of family accompanied the ones of achievement, but Flynn was always in the middle of whatever was going on. That didn't surprise Tracy. A man like that had to be center of attention in everything he did. For guys like Thomas Flynn, if you weren't first you might as well have been last. "Are you the man Mr. Hyde sent?" Tracy turned and saw Thomas Flynn enter the room. He was just a few inches shorter than Tracy, but lean and trim in a bathrobe and pajama pants, slippers covering his feet. If not for his white hair, Tracy would assume the man was closer to his age than the sixty some odd years he was supposed to be. He strode forward and shook Tracy's hand. "Thank you so much for coming, Mr..." "Tracy, just Tracy." "Right," Flynn said with a nod. "Have a seat, Tracy." Flynn took a seat behind the large mahogany office desk while Tracy took a chair from across the desk. He watched Flynn as he settled into the chair and leaned forward, both palms flat on the desk. He had a stern look on his face that read too stern. It seemed more like a put on than anything. "They said they would call again at noon to confirm I have the five million dollars they're asking for. Details for the hand off will follow." "Will you be able to get the money that fast?" Tracy asked. "I know that a lot of rich people don't have that kind of cash on standby." "I have enough bonds and stocks I can liquidate quickly once trading opens up on the Asian markets. I'll have to be quick about it since it's Friday and there won't be a chance to do it for the weekend." "Hyde wants me to also look into who may have kidnapped your daughter. Mr. Flynn, can you think of anyone who might want to do this?" "Take your pick," Flynn said with a wave of an arm. "You don't get where I am in life without pissing people off. Rival capitalist, politicians, labor unions, even my own employees. Name a person or a group of people, and chances are I have stepped on their backs to get ahead. You don't make an omelet without breaking eggs." "Right," said Tracy. "Anything recently?" "Not at the moment, no. At least nothing obvious." "Did you daughter live here? Would it be possible to look into her room?" "As you wish," Flynn said with a nod. "I'll have a guard escort you." Linda Flynn's room screamed trust fund brat. Expensive furniture in the big room with an ornate four-poster bed in the center. A walk-in closet held a wardrobe that cost as much as many people's homes. What Tracy thought was another closet turned out to be a whole room just to house Linda's jewelry. The guard shadowed Tracy while he searched the room. He found drugs in the dresser, a little bit of pot with a fair amount of coke and X. The CDs in her room were all electro club crap. Tracy pegged her as a club kid. All the rich kids with nothing to do but sponge off mommy and daddy hit the clubs hard. A pink laptop on a desk was password protected. Tracy tried the usual common passwords, 1234 ABCD, but couldn't crack it. He settled for the consolation prize beside the computer. A post-it note had a phone number scribbled on it with just a single letter above it: X. If Linda Flynn was indeed a party-hard club girl, she would need her X if she wanted to party right. Tracy pocketed the number and headed out the room with his guard in tow. ---- [b]Crazy Horse Indian Casino South Dakota[/b] "Fuck you, Redman!" Dash Bad Horse resisted the urge to pound the drunk's face into the casino bar. Instead, he popped his knuckles and flexed his muscles, showing off his Tribal Police uniform as a warning to the man. "It's time for you to go, pal." Dash grabbed the drunk by the scruff of his neck with one hand and started pushing him through the casino with the other. A few of the gamblers on the playing floor stopped to gawk at the big Indian manhandling the little white man with the big mouth. Outside, Dash tossed the drunk across the parking lot. He banged against the pavement and slid up against a parked car. Dash brushed his hands off and looked down at the dazed drunk. "You're banned, white boy. I see you in here again and I'll beat the piss out of you along with half my tribe. Custer's Last Stand, motherfucker." He turned away from the prostrate man and headed back towards the casino. The bright neon lights of the place lit up the prairie night for miles. he went back inside and back to work. The crowd tonight wasn't too bad, a few dozen gamblers out on the floor and giving their money to the Tribe. Most of the people at the Crazy Horse went for slots over cards and dice. "Bad Horse report to management," the PA system announced. "Bad Horse report to management.' Lincoln Red Crow the head of the Lakota Tribe, looked down his large Roman nose at his Dash. It was a bit amazing to Dash that Red Crow was as old as he was. His hair was still pitch black, but a shock of gray ran through the middle. His body was still muscular, but it was at the point where muscle started to become fat. He had a slight double chin that was becoming more prominent as the years passed. "Bad Horse, have a seat." Dash complied and sat down in one of the plush chairs facing Red Crows's desk. The older man pulled a cigar from the box on his desk and offered Dash one. He politely declined as his Red Crow lit up. "I know you're busy, but I needed to talk to you about something before I go home." "What's up?" Red Crow blew smoke rings above his head. "I need you to get two guys from the PD for me. The meanest ones, just for show." "What's going on?" "We're having a sit-down meeting in Minneapolis with some people, Asians and various businessmen. Also your buddies from the Horde." The Horde. Trailer trash on bikes. Dash had a scar above his left eyebrow because of a pair of brass knuckles from one of those rednecks. That attack had put the Tribe on the precipice of war with the biker gang six months ago, but Red Crow managed to negotiate a truce with their president. Now the Horde stayed away from Rez, and the Tribe stayed on their land. "What's the play?" "Negotiations" was all Red Crow said. "Anything else you feel the need to clue me in on?" "No," Red Crow said as he blew smoke rings towards Dash. "Just do as your chief says, Dash. As head of the Tribal Police Force--" "Nominal," replied Dash. "It's an honorary title." "I'm the reason you're on the TPF," said Red Crow. "Never forget that. You, Shunka, and a few others are gonna take a drive tomorrow morning. So get some rest."