Cullen glanced protectively over his brother's shoulder, at his inquisitive sister. Seeing that she wasn't in any immediate harm, he tuned back in to Keiran's latest rant. 
	
	"I'm telling you, we need to send a message to these fuckers, and fast. The longer we wait, the more we lose."

	"Of course." Cullen responded plainly.

	"If it weren't for Fallon, we could be setting something up right now, and have those bastards running by tomorrow."

	"I know. I know. Don't worry Keir', this has been going on for a while now, and nothing horrible's come of it. As soon as we put our foot down, the greaseballs will be out with their tails between their legs. They're not lookin' for a fight." Cullen reassured his older brother.

	"Not asking for a fight? They're on our fuckin' turf!"

	"Yes, yes, and they're picking our pockets, not spitting in our faces. A quick kick in the arse, to let 'em know they've been caught, and we'll have our territory back."

	"Don't you think we should retaliate?" Desmond chimed in.

	This set Keiran off on another rant, about how the Cassidy's could get revenge. Anything from breaking some windows, to stealing a shipment of booze, to shaking down some shop owners under their protection. The possibilities were nearly endless. Humming and hawing along, keeping Keiran's attention, Cullen glanced over his brother's shoulder again. His sister was still there at the bar, and it looked like some sleaze was calling her over. He didn't look Italian, and wasn't dressed like a gang member, so Cullen shrugged it off... for now. He hopped back into the discussion.

	"Now hold on boys. We don't want to start a fucking war here. We're cleaning up peanuts here, that's it, alright?"
	
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[b]Meanwhile, across town...[/b]
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	James McFinnegan was cruising down the street in his small truck, boxes of booze rattling in the back. Cursing quietly to himself, he mumbled off the address he was trying to find. 

	One of the boys went missing that day, and the shipment he was supposed to deliver got left behind at the docks. So instead of being at home with a glass of scotch and a cigar, short-tempered Jimmy found himself tumbling away through the heart of town, now completely lost, with a stack of illegal booze. 

	Where the hell was this warehouse?

	He looked down at the label he ripped off the box, and read over it again. Then he glanced at the street sign. It didn't help that all the streets here were named.

	"What the fuck's wrong with leavin' them numbered! How's a guy supposed to find his way out'a this shit neighbourhood!" he grumbled to himself. 

	Resigned to spending the night searching for this place, Jimmy slouched back in his chair and let out a sigh. To make matters far worse, Jimmy was met with the lights of a police car in his rear-view mirror. In a panicked sweat, he pulled over.