[hr][hr][center][h1][b][i][color=orangered]Caesar Gonzalez[/color][/i][/b][/h1]
[img]http://media.giphy.com/media/wbomIbUs5Bc2I/giphy.gif[/img][hr][b]Location:[/b] Apartment 2D (Alicia's), Street
[b]Interacting With:[/b] The London Office 
[hr][hr][/center]

	The media was finally backing off. If not fully backing off, then at least keeping a respectful distance away from the scene, thanks to the tactics and raw intimidation factor of the trio from Machete Security Solutions. All the same, this place reeked of decay. Not the sure and obvious urban decay, brought about by structurally neglected neighborhoods, nor even the more obvious smell of the dead; this was a pervasive feeling of moral decay, a type of hedonism that afflicts the lower classes and habitually unfulfilled. This place was permeated with it. 

	The overly dramatic public displays of the locals, if left by itself, could be overlooked. This was California, after all. The Great Cereal Bowl of North America - If you weren't a fruit or a nut, you were probably a flake. There was a certain amount of false front and transparent ulterior motivation to be expected. Crime? That happened everywhere. If people were completely safe all the time, his company wouldn't make any money at all. No, the potential for aggressive activity wasn't the issue. It was the horrifying Talk Show mentality with which casual passersby treated the scene of someone's death. The heartless arrogant entitlement of the media. The blazé behavior of local law enforcement, perhaps. Or maybe that the two or three decent people he'd noticed were trampled over by the sea of mediocrity that washed over this place, leaving a film of fetid disappointment and unneeded histrionics. The fact that the public merely accepted this sickened Caesar. 

	This crowded stretch of asphalt and structures had all of the earmarks of urban jungle. A place where predators stalked among the unwary. He didn't like it. But it was where he was, he and what remained of his family. Whatever [i]this[/i] was, Caesar was a part of it now. So was Lorna, and so was his baby girl, Alicia. May as well do something about it. 

	Caesar's phone had taken many images of the scene, weapon, body. Things that could be reviewed later. The forensic tech had her own observations. Perhaps in lieu of more practical payment, he could have his people read in to the investigation. Hell, he was a cop, once upon a time. Federal Judicial Police, though his area of expertise in that time lay in Narcotics, Organized Crime, and Small Unit Tactics. These were all interesting introspective observations and bonafide certifiable maybes, but they did little to address his initial concern. His people were here, and it was a questionable setting. The old man would feel a little more confident if he had another body he could trust looking after the Familia Gonzalez. Someone that would allow them to work in pairs. Someone capable of defending himself and whomever he was with. Someone who could perform the heavy lifting and scare the bejeezus out of just about anyone if he weren't around. A person far removed from the scene, with nothing personal at stake and zero friends to coddle. 

	He knew of such a person. But it was a gamble summoning him. 

	Caesar, still recording, punched up the contact information to his company's central office, back in Chattanooga. The other end picked up after hardly a single ring. Without waiting for salutation, he began. [color=orangered]"Gonzalez, Senior. Get me the Director of the London Office."[/color]

	A few scant rings later, a professional but fatigued voice answered, [b]"Sir?"[/b]

	[color=orangered]"Special Project - Justice, California. Grey op, investigation and bodyguard duties. Send me the big guy. I want The Stone. Tomorrow if possible. Tell him to pack light, we're not going to war yet. Just need someone for my girls."[/color]

	This might not have been the best idea he'd ever acted on. But it would certainly make things interesting. Game on, Justice. Game on.