[color=9e0039][i][b]Somewhere in Outer Vegas[/b][/i][/color]

The Chairmen were antsy. 

Lucy watched with bated breath from her hidden position on the hillside as the two groups below exchanged niceties. On one side was a heavily armed group of Chairmen goons, wearing their usual tan suits. On the other was the caravan group they were making a deal with. Several large crates full of weapons and body armor were stacked neatly behind the caravaner's brahmin: they were arms dealers looking to make a quick load of caps in Vegas by profiting off the recent conflicts. 

Despite their always-present smug self-assurance, it was clear the Chairmen were out of their element. The leader of this little war-party kept fidgeting with his suit jacket and playing with a decorative lighter in his hand, flipping it back and forth like some kind of stress relief toy. The rest of the Chairmen shifted uneasily side-to-side, and kept a white-knuckle grip on their 9mm submachine guns.  

It wasn't hard to see why. The boys from The Tops rarely left the strip anymore, and when they did it was almost always because they were forced to. The Omerta-White Gloves alliance was starting to choke them out, business was suffering, and they were woefully outgunned. They had to find some way of turning the tables, and seeking out third party arms dealers was about the only option they had at this point to compete with the Omerta’s substantial armory. Conflict was coming, it was inevitable, and they knew that they couldn’t fight to win as things were now.

Lucy intended to make sure it stayed that way. 

A deal seemed to be reached, the Chairmen leader shook the hand of the caravan master and some of the Chairmen moved to pick up the crates. They were laughing, joking with each other and with members of the caravan. They were starting to relax: starting to drop their guards as they came to believe that, now, there was no reason to fear. 

The caravan master, still laughing, moved off to the side of the road, yelling something loudly about ‘needing to take a leak’. The rest of his group backed up or subtly slipped themselves behind cover. The Chairmen didn’t seem to notice, they were too busy opening the crates and inspecting all the new shiny toys they’d just purchased. 

The caravan master suddenly dove into the ditch. That was the signal. Lucy stood up from her hiding spot, as did the small army of Omerta made-men she had with her. 

“This is for my mother you bastards!” She shouted, and immediately began unloading the full clip of her 12mm submachine gun. The rest of the Omertas followed suit, unleashing a hail of lead on the Chairmen below. The poor saps barely had time to register what was happening. Some tried to run, others tried to fire back, but most found themselves turned into well-dressed swiss cheese. 

In less than a minute it was over, and once the smoke cleared Lucy casually strode down the hill towards the highway. She gave one of the dead Chairmen a firm kick with her high-heeled boot and then spit on the ground. 

“Shit you guys don’t mess around,” The Caravan master said as he slunk up next to Lucy after crawling out of the ditch he’d been taking cover in. 

“Double the pay as agreed,” Lucy replied as she turned to him with one hand on her hip, and the other holding up her gun, “But we were never here. These Chairmen were hit by raiders, understand? You mention the word Omerta to anyone, and we’ll make sure you wind up with a few extra holes yourself. Got it?”

“You won’t have anything to worry about from us,” The Caravaner replied as he held up his hands, “We’re out of here…heading back to Cali.”

Lucy nodded in approval, then turned to her men, “Let’s go boys. Take the guns, leave the bodies..”