Byrd Man

Precipice of War - The Big Leagues of NRP (Only generous tippers need apply)

I'll see what I can do.

Absolute Comics: Rebirth

I'm sorry @Lord Wraith I've been trying but Cap and Hulk... they just ain't coming.

I think I'll have to call quits on them :'(

If easier, I can delete my posts if anyone else wants to take them on.

@Sep

Please remove the second wife comment from your signature.... and... go, go before I change my mind.

Absolute Comics: Rebirth

Center City, WA
2:15 AM

Tracy sat perfectly still in his chair while Sebastian Hyde fumed. Tracy's shirt and pants were spattered with blood, his ears still rang from the shootout. He'd just left the Flynn home where he'd called Hyde and came straight away to his office. The old man drummed his fingers on the desk and stared at Tracy over his glasses.

"You let the whole situation get out of control, Tracy."

Tracy shrugged. "Flynn acted on his own accord. He made it clear he was going to move forward, regardless if I helped or not."

Hyde sighed and lifted his glasses up to rub his eyes. In the reprieve from conversation, Tracy thought about what went down at the soccer field. Two Russians were gunned down by Flynn's men, while all three of them were killed and Flynn was gutshot. A private doctor was back at the big mansion fixing him up. He was certain Flynn was going to make it. His daughter Linda was shaken up, but not hurt. The same for little Anton Belyakov. Tracy shielded him during the worst of the shooting. Anton's father was unhurt in the shooting. The last he saw of the two Belyakov's, they were driving away from the shootout with the lone Russian who made it out alive.

"It's a mess," said Tracy. "But both kids were returned safely. The only ones killed in the whole thing were Flynn and Belyakov's gorillas."

"The money?"

Tracy laid a stack of banded bills on the desk. Five twenty thousand dollar stacks. Hyde's eyes twinkled from behind his glasses.

"That's one hundred grand, Flynn's worth of my service."

Hyde took two of the stacks and tucked them in a drawer in his desk.

"The rest if for you. I give you the lion's share because you've got one last job to do."

Tracy raised an eyebrow while Hyde leaned back in his chair and lit a cigar. The old man took his sweet time inhaling the first puff. Tracy wanted to come across the table and shove that cigar down his throat.

"Belyakov and his ilk can't be allowed to live. They perpetrated an unsanctioned kidnapping in my town. Anybody goes behind my back, the cost is death. The rest of the shit stains in this city need to remember that. Send a message, Tracy."

Tracy took the remaining sixty thousand and stood. He walked out the office without another word.

---

Konstantin Belyakov died two weeks later. He and an associate of his sat parked at a red light when an unknown person on a motorcycle rode up and gunned them down with a submachine gun. This was the final act in a two-week bloodbath where Belyakov's organization was picked apart by unknown assassins. A firebombing in his deli killed six known Russian organized crime members. Three more were gunned down over the course of a night, while one man was strangled in a back alley near a strip club. Another was found after jumping off a roof. Several sources claimed he was pushed by a tall, blonde man with scars on his neck.

When Center City Police found Belyakov's body, they also found a message. Written on the hood of the car in the Russian's own blood were the words: DEATH TO KIDNAPPERS. The handful of Russian Organized Crime members in town quickly and quietly left Center City, returning to their West Coast hub of Los Angeles. The message sent to them had been read loud and clear: Center City was off limits. This was and would always be Sebastian Hyde's town.

---

Miami
11:23 AM

The Colonel watched Medici swim laps in the Olympic sized pool. The old man had been very clear that he wanted the Colonel at his mansion at precisely eleven that morning. The Colonel had shown up ten minutes before that, waiting in the car before knocking on the door at the stroke of eleven. The servant who answered the door led him to the pool where Augustus Medici was just slipping into the pool.

That had been over twenty minutes ago, and Medici had made it very clear that he would not discuss business until after he was through with his laps. The message to the Colonel was very clear: he was hired help and would be treated as such. Never mind that it was the Colonel and his men who kept Medici and the rest of the Trust safe. Like all people who had been born into extreme privilege, the Trust took their safety for granted. It gave the Colonel a small bit of satisfaction that he was here to discuss a threat to that safety.

“Parker,” he had said once Medici was out of the pool and drying off. “He’s stepped out of the shadows and back into the light.”

“Are you sure?” Medici asked with a frown.

The Colonel pulled an envelope from his sports coat and opened it up before passing it to Medici. It was stills of security camera footage from banks, the seal of the Massachusetts State Police stamped on the corners of the pictures. In each shot, the rough face of Parker could be seen clearly. Even though the other men wore masks, Parker went without and even seemed to be mugging for the camera.

“That’s Parker,” the old man said as he passed the photos back to the Colonel. “He’s a bank robber now. How exciting.”

“A bank robber with a specialty. He’s only hitting banks connected to the Vasco Family. The file that the state police have on him said that it’s very likely that he burned the cash from the heists. He’s not robbing from hunger. He’s trying to make a statement.”

Medici furrowed his brow. “What’s Javier say about that?”

“A long string of expletives involving Parker and chopping his balls off.”

The old man chuckled. “Sounds about right.”

“I’ve got Roque in New England,” said the Colonel. “He’s running down Parker’s trail with the help of the cops and the Vasco Family’s own security people. The standing kill on sight order is still good for Parker and all of the Minutemen.”

“No,” said Medici. He looked down and rubbed the side of his damp chin before looking back up. “Take him alive. I want to know what he knows. And why exactly he’s come out of retirement.”

“I’ll relay those orders to Roque.”

“No.” Medici placed a hand, still wrinkled from the water of the pool, on the Colonel’s shoulder. He was dripping water on a twelve hundred dollar jacket and didn’t give a shit. And why would he? Twelve hundred dollars might as well have been twelve cents to a guy like him.

“I want you to lead the hunt, Colonel. Like I said, we want Parker brought in alive. That requires precision and temperance, two things Roque doesn’t have in abundance. You’re a scalpel, he’s a sledgehammer. I can have my private jet ready to fly you out to Logan within the hour. What do you say?”

The Colonel forced himself to smile. “Let me pack my bag.”

---

Chicago
3:23 AM

Quarry cracked his knuckles and settled back into the seat of his car. Six hours into the stakeout and he began to settle in for a long haul. The house he was sitting on was a dump, a scorched husk of a building that someone torched years ago. It was the perfect place for squatters and people trying to lay low. Joe Sampson had led him here. Sampson, a mid-level drug dealer with the Chicago Outfit, had engaged Quarry for his services. A quartet of stick-up boys had been harassing Sampson’s men for almost a month, bootjacking drugs and cash and becoming a serious thorn in his side. It took Sampson a hot minute to figure out there was an inside man.

The inside man, Little Roy Lewis, was using the robberies to fund his own drug habit. When Joe found out, he’d called up Quarry and agreed to pay him to close out four accounts. A lot of guys who hired Quarry talked like that. They used vague words like ‘closing an account’ or ‘settling a debt.’ Quarry imagined it was because they didn’t want to use the word kill. It made it real if they said it, and guys like Sampson and all the others thought of themselves as being above it. And, Quarry figured, they kind of were. After all, they were hiring him weren’t they? He’d gotten on Little Roy’s trail that night and followed him across the Southside until he disappeared into the building. That had been a little after nine. And so he waited.

He waited until nearly forty thirty in the morning before he made his move. KGB time, they called it. The old Soviet secret police always committed their arrests and assassinations between four and five in the morning. It was the sweet spot where night was beginning to fade away, but morning was still not quite there yet. Even most night owls were soundly asleep by four AM.

Quarry slipped on a pair of surgical gloves and carried a Beretta with a suppressor attached to the end under his coat. He looped around the back of the building and came through a broken window, slow and quietly. Quarry pulled the gun out along with a flashlight covered in tape, emitting only a pin-sized light to use as a guide. He held his nose when he passed by three buckets that had been used as latrine. It took him ten minutes to find their stash tucked away in a baseboard near the fireplace. It was all inside a gym bag. At least two pounds of heroin wrapped in cellophane. Recovery was very rarely part of his job, but Sampson was willing to pay for it. Alongside the stash, Quarry found nearly twenty thousand in tens, twenties, and hundred dollar bills, and four machine pistols. Quarry tucked the money, dope, and guns into the satchel and slung it over his shoulder.

He slowly glided up the rickety stairs like a ghost. Muscle memory kicked in when he reached the landing where the crew was sleeping. Check the corners, clear the rooms, plan your escape, kill as soon as you have eyes on the target. Flashbacks went through his mind, killing a Bosnian national in the 90's with a sniper rifle, garroting an Al-Qaeda cutout in Iraq. Quarry didn’t believe in the stereotype of born killers, but he was a killer now thanks to Uncle Sam. Like a chunk of coal, the government had applied pressure and polished him up to turn him into a sparkly diamond of murderous potential.

The four guys were passed out on piss-stained mattresses. He kept the flashlight beam low and aimed. Recoil shot up his elbow as he fired off four quick shots. The rounds hissed through the room, four bullets exploding the four men's heads. He fired off four more to each man's heart to be sure he was dead before calmly walking out into the early morning air. Quarry tucked the gun into his coat and climbed into the car. He drove six blocks away before burying the gun in a trashcan, and six more blocks before he dumped his gloves in another trashcan.

Precipice of War - The Big Leagues of NRP (Only generous tippers need apply)

Los Angeles

Hollywood
4:01 PM

“Roll playback. And… action!”

[Scene Music]

Champ Dennis faked blowing on his trumpet while the Edwards Sisters watched in awe. He and the three girls were dressed in the khaki uniforms of US servicemen, the sisters in skirts instead of pants. The set they were on looked like an army mess hall, the sisters sitting on the empty counter and snapping along with the playback. When it came time, the sisters mouthed the words they'd already recorded in a sound studio.

"He was a famous trumpet man from out Chicago way/He had a boogie style that no one else could play. He was the top man at his craft, but then his number came up and he was gone with the draft. He's in the army now. He's blowin' reveille/He's the boogie woogie bugle boy of company B!"

They all slid off the counter and started a dance number with Dennis. The three girls surrounded him and traded off singing duties while Dennis blew his horn in accompaniment.

"He was the boogie woogie bugle boy of Company B/ And when he plays boogie woogie bugle he was busy as a bee
And when he plays he makes the company jump eight to the bar/He's the boogie woogie bugle boy of Company B!"

From behind the camera and crew, Elliot Shaw watched the musical number with bored detachment. The movie, Private Champ, was loosely based on Dennis' time in the Army during the war. In truth, Champ Dennis served hundreds of miles behind the lines preforming for US troops and never had to go through basic training. The bit about the tough drill sergeant who learned to have fun through Champ's music was bullshit. The same way the Edwards Sisters were neither named Edwards or sisters.

Elizabeth Edwards was actually Esther Segal, a Jew whose dad was some big lawyer back east. Midge Edwards was Maria Rodriguez, product of a Mex dad and a white mother. And young Cathy Edwards was Caitlin O'Keefe, a Mick so Irish she pissed Guinness, all had decent pipes and close enough features to pass for sisters so the studio lumped them together aad gave them new names. Like Dennis' war service, the Edwards Sisters were created for mass consumption.

Elliot finished his cigarette and stubbed it out on the floor as the scene began to wrap up. Champ finished his long trumpet solo as the girls climbed on top of the counter to pretend to sing the rest of the song in harmony. Champ dropped to his knees below them and faked belting out the last bit of the song.

"He puts the boys to sleep with boogie every night/And wakes them up the same way in the early bright
They clap their hands and stamp their feet/Because they know how he plays when someone gives him a beat
He really breaks it up when he plays reveille/He's boogie woogie bugle boy of Company B!"

"And.... cut!"

The crew applauded politely. Champ Dennis wiped sweat from his brow and bowed while Elliot walked towards the director.

"How many takes did you do?" he asked the little man.

"We got four takes," said George Alexander. "I wouldn't mind a fifth."

"Four is good enough," Elliot said, resting a hand on George's shoulder. "More than enough coverage to edit something good. I need to get Midge out of here."

George looked crestfallen but nodded. Ten minutes later, Elliot and Midge Edwards were in his car heading west to Malibu. She'd changed out of her costume, now wearing a pair of slacks and a blouse. Elliot could see the beginnings of a bulge sticking up from the blouse.

"Geez," he said to her. "How far along are you?"

"Six weeks. Gimme a cigarette."

He passed her his pack and lighter. She took a healthy drag off her smoke before expelling a column of smoke out the cracked window.

"The costume people were taking my clothes out, so it won't show up on film. I know that's why you're asking, Shaw."

"Know who the daddy is, Midge?"

"I got it narrowed down to about a half dozen," she said with a grin. "Gonna call me a roundheels, Shaw?"

"Don't think I will," said Elliot. "If you were a fellow, they'd call you a Casanova or a Don Juan. But because you're a skirt, roundheels is the operative word. I don't think that's fair."

Midge finished her smoke and flicked it out the window. They spoke very little after that. Instead, they listened to the big band music on the radio. An hour later, Elliot pulled up to the big iron gates with the letter MBC on both sides of the gates. Elliot rolled down the window of his car and hit the callbox beside the driver's window. After saying who he was, the gates opened and he drove through.

It looked like a beachside mansion because it was a beachside mansion. The doctor who ran the place had bought the home and turned it into the Malibu Beach Clinic. It was the best medical treatment money could buy. Dope cures, psychotherapy, plastic surgery, abortions. You named it, the good doctor preformed them for a price. Every studio Hollywood studio had a running account with the man that kept at least two beds open and waiting for their starlets. He was waiting for Elliot and Midge at the front steps of the mansion.

"Mr. Shaw," Dr. Charles Van der Merwe said politely, his Afrikaans accent still present after decades in America. "And who do we have today?"

"One, sec, Doc."

Elliot took Midge by the elbow and walked her away out of earshot from the doctor.

"Last chance," he said softly to her. "Midge -- Maria -- you can keep the baby, but you'd have to get hitched. Studio has a list of men they'd like you to marry."

Midge looked up at Elliot. She had pale blue eyes, a gift from her European ancestors. In them, Elliot saw no fear or doubt or hesitation.

"I want the scrape, Shaw," he said with a smirk. "The last thing I need is a kid I don't want and a husband I don't love. I'd rather get it over with and have my freedom."

Elliot nodded and they walked back to the doctor. He was tall, a good three inches above Elliot who was 6'2, with lanky limbs and fingers that were long and slender. There were many rumors about the man's mysterious past in Africa. Human experiments on the natives, lobotomies for Rhodesian enemies of state, eugenics initiatives the good doctor had started in the name of preserving the white race. It was all conjecture as far as Elliot knew. But still, he was sure to hide the truth about Midge's half-Mexican lineage as he checked her in for the abortion.

After Midge was given over to Van der Merwe and his staff, he headed back to Hollywood. He stopped thinking about Midge and instead starting thinking about the dynamite in his jacket pocket. Thanks to Agnes, the list of phone numbers he found at Claire Beauchamp's bungalow had been searched and each number had been given a name and address. The further down the list you got, the worse it was. Each and every name was some kind of mover and shaker in LA in general, and Hollywood in particular. Lawyers, producers, actors, and even a director. All of them were now affiliated with a dead girl with radical beliefs. It was the making of a shitstorm, but a shitstorm he could control.

He would look into the list and the names on them tonight after his meeting with the cops. After playing phone tag, he and Detective Thomas had finally managed to arrange a meeting at a diner downtown. He'd give up Claire Beauchamp's life story, maybe leak the angle about her schtupping negroes, something to give the cops that would steer the cops away from the subversive shit and the list.

Elliot checked his watch and started to head for downtown.

---

77th Street Station
6:21 PM

Jefferson Thomas could smell blood. He'd been smelling it since yesterday night. None of the blood had been his. It'd belonged to the men of South Central LA. He and Hoty led a dragnet through South Central, rounding up all sex offenders who lived within three miles of the Voodoo. Anybody who resisted -- and what colored man would willingly go with the LAPD anywhere? -- had been roughed up by Hoyt and patrolmen until they were tossed into a paddywagon. They were then taken to 77th Street Station and forced to give an alibi for the night Claire Beauchamp had been killed. Those that did have an alibi had it "tested" by Hoyt's rubber hose and phone book while Jeff actually went out and made sure it was real. Those that had no alibi, so far it was six, had been worked over with the hose and phone book to get them to confess. So far, none of the six had confessed and were in holding cells for the next seventy-two hours.

Jeff came out the side of the station and on to the sidewalk, hoping the fresh air would clear his nose of that blood smell. In between the beatings, he'd actually made progress on the Wendall Brock murder. His criminal history was redacted, but his work history raised some interesting questions.

"Detective Thomas."

He turned at the mention of his name. A short, heavyset man in an LAPD uniform stood on the sidewalk. Jeff saw braid on his cap and captains bars on his collar. The man stepped forward and smiled politely.

"You're a hard man to get hold of, Detective. Captain Arnold Prescott."

Jeff felt his stomach drop. He put on a fake smile and extended a hand.

"Captain, I apologize."

Prescott looked down at his outstretched and stared at it before looking back up. Jeff retracted his hand and stuck it in his pockets. His face flushed in embarrassment. He should have known better than to do that. While the guys at 77th Street would shake his hand, it had taken them a while to work up to it.

"We've had a redball here at 77th Street Station," he said sheepishly. "You know how that is."

"Indeed," Prescott said with a nod. "Come with me, Detective. I'd like you to meet someone."

Prescott led the way and Jeff followed behind. A man was waiting for them in the parking lot, leaning against a black Ford Florentine, a fed car. He was tall with receding black hair and thick, black framed glasses that made his eyes look enormous. He sized Jeff up like a piece of meat as they got closer to the car.

"Detective, this is Special Agent in Charge Nate Parker. He's with the FCB."

"Pinkerton Division," Parker said, flashing a badge with the Pinkerton Eye on it.

Jeff could feel his stomach doing somersaults. Prescott and the Red Squad interested in him was bad enough. But now a Pinkerton, no LA's head Pinkerton, wanted him for something.

"Detective," Parker said with a smirk. "You are something of a curiosity. I knew LAPD had a few policemen of color, but I didn't expect they had any detectives."

"Does that surprise you, Agent Parker?"

"A bit," Parker nodded. "Your kind aren't really known for their deductive skills."

Jeff let loose with his smile. The same smile he used every time his brother officers made jokes about negroes in front of him. He put a little minstrel show in his voice when he spoke.

"Well, sir, I like to think I ain't your average nigga."

That made both Parker and Prescott laugh. They were both short and with very little humor.

"We just want to know your interest in Wendall Brock," said Prescott. "You requested his arrest report."

Something began to form in the back of Jeff's mind. The Red Squad and Pinkertons were interested in Brock, a man with a redacted criminal history, a man who was shot in a back alley. A man with radical literature in his home. Whatever he was thinking, it was unfocused and without form. But it was the start of something.

"He was murdered a week and a half ago," Jeff said with a shrug. "I got the case."

"But that investigation was suspended, wasn't it?" Prescott asked. "Lack of leads."

"It's South Central." Parker squared his glasses. "Brock was a degenerate with dangerous beliefs. Some jigaboo with a gun did the world a favor, Detective. Leave it at that."

"Detective Thomas is a good boy," Prescott said with just a touch of condescension in his voice. "He knows when someone, especially someone with rank and influence in the LAPD, asks to drop an investigation, then you drop that investigation."

"Yes, suh," Jeff said with a hardy nod.

"Thank you for your understanding, Detective," said Parker. "Now, don't you have a starlet murder to solve?"

"You're right about that, suh."

Jeff left the two men in the parking lot and walked back to the station on shaky legs. He could feel the two men watching him every step of the way.

Precipice of War - The Big Leagues of NRP (Only generous tippers need apply)

He said in a PM three days ago that he's still in the game.

Precipice of War - The Big Leagues of NRP (Only generous tippers need apply)

Yeah

Precipice of War - The Big Leagues of NRP (Only generous tippers need apply)

He got voided.

Absolute Comics: Rebirth

Center City, WA

Tracy Lawless' Charger raced down the street towards the Phillips Park. Plenty of families were out and about in the noon hour. Inside his car he had two of Flynn's security guards, wearing plainclothes and masks. Tracy didn't wear one. He wanted them to know who he was. He jumped the curb and rode on the sidewalk. People scattered and ran for cover as Tray skidded on the grass beside a swing set.

He and the men jumped out of the car and headed towards the swing set. Two men by the swings were reaching for something in their jackets, but were stopped when the two guards smacked them across the face with nightsticks. They kept beating the bodyguards while Tracy scooped a young boy up off the swings and pushed the woman beside the boy down into the dirt.

"Tell Belyakov now we have something he wants," he said coldly. "If Linda Flynn dies, we kill his son."

The woman screamed bloody murder as Tracy shoved the confused kid into the backseat. She called for help when Tracy and the other men climbed into the car and sped off with the boy in the backseat calling for his mother in Russian.

---

Brockton, MA
3:34 PM
Parker jumped across the bank's counter, one hand planted on the marble surface and the other clutching a submachine gun. He landed behind the teller's desk with a thump and looked at the three terrified employees.

"The vault," he said without any inflection in his voice. "Now."

He marched the three of them to the vault that sat off to the left of their desks. Behind him, Stiess kept a gun trained on the three unlucky people who had been in the bank when he and Parker came through the door. Outside, their driver Mitchell sat in an idling Altima with Connecticut plates.

Parker walked into the vault behind the tellers, reaching into the back of his pants and pulling out large nylon sacks with drawstrings on top.

"Put all the bills bigger than a twenty in those sacks."

Three minutes later, Parker was running out the bank with Stiess by his side. He slowed down long enough to look up at the camera bolted over the door. Stiess wore a ski mask, but Parker had opted not to. Just like when they had robbed the bank in Weymouth.... and the one in Randolph... and the one in Fall River. The three man stick up crew was on its third state now. They'd torn through Connecticut, Rhode Island, and now Mass.

Harbor Inlet Savings and Loans were the banks they targeted. Not too many of them around, but more than enough to make the people behind Harbor Inlet hurt. With the help of Graves, Parker knew that Harbor Inlet's owners were a subsidiary of a banking conglomerate, they themselves part and parcel of a larger company, and behind that company were The Vasco Family. The people responsible for coming after him.

"Drive," Parker said once they were in the backseat of the Altima. It peeled off down the road and headed north through the streets of Brockton. Stiess started counting the haul while Parker pulled a crinkled piece of paper from his pocket and looked it over.

"Hyde Park," he said. "On the outskirts of Boston, right in the city limits. That's where the next one is."

----

Center City, WA

Tracy Lawless pulled up a chair and watched the little boy eating a sandwich. Six-year-old Anton Belyakov didn't make eye contact as he chewed on his bologna and cheese. Anton's father was Konstantin Belyakov, boss of Center City's Russian organized crime. Kidnapping the boy was borderline suicide and Tracy knew it. But Thomas Flynn wanted to kidnap Anton and Thomas Flynn always got whatever he wanted. It was going to happen whether or not Tracy took part in it, so it felt better that he be in on the job to prevent someone getting killed.

"You'll be home soon," he told the boy. "I know you're very scared, but you're also very brave. You're a big boy, Anton. Your father would be proud of you."

He stood and patted Anton on the head before leaving the room. Two of Flynn's heavies stood outside the room as guards while Tracy went upstairs to Flynn's study. The old man was rocking in the chair behind his big desk with a wide grin on his face.

"They're an hour late with the call," Flynn said jovially. "The cocksuckers are freaking out."

Tracy kept his thoughts to himself and sat down across the desk from Flynn.

"These criminals think they know about hustling," said Flynn. "Tracy, you're talking to the ultimate hustler. They can intimidate idiots, but these sons of bitches wouldn't last a day in the boardroom. The sharks I swim with will cut your goddamn throat."

Flynn's rant was stopped short by a ringing phone. His grin grew wider as he hit the speakerphone to let Tracy listen in.

"Hello?"

"You son of bitch," said a voice with a thick Russian accent. "You kidnap my son?!"

"I kidnap your son," Flynn said in a mocking fake Russian accent. "This is America, Boris. You fuck a man over, you best prepared to get fucked."

Tracy leaned forward and tried to get some control on the situation. The voice on the phone that he assumed was Belyakov cursed in Russian. Tracy spoke loudly over the cursing to try and calm the man down.

"We propose an even exchange," he said into the speaker. "Your son will be returned whenever Mr. Flynn's daughter is returned safe and sound."

"Not an even exchange," Flynn said over Tracy. "I deserve something for my suffering, you Commie. I want my daughter safely returned and a million dollars!"

"What?! I do not have--"

"I don't give a fuck, Boris," Flynn said with glee. "I get my daughter and a million dollars or I'll have my friend here strangle your son to death. I'll be sure to leave the speakerphone on so you can listen in. What do you say?"

Belyakov fired off rapid Russian to someone, either Tracy and Flynn or an unknown party wherever he was. Flynn looked across the desk at Tracy with a big smile and raised eyebrow as they heard Belyakov talking softly to someone.

"Fine," he finally said. "I will have your million dollars and daughter."

"That's what I want to hear," said Flynn. "Meet us at midnight tonight at the Harbor Front. Have the money and my daughter there. If you're late, your son dies."

Flynn hung up and whooped in victory while Tracy sat back down and started to question why exactly Hyde sent him into this situation. The last thing Thomas Flynn needed was help. If anything, the Russians needed him more than Thomas Flynn ever had.

----

11:52 PM

Tracy stood out in the chilly night air and smoked a cigarette. Center City's harbor area was one of the few safe parts of the city. Tourists flocked to the water during daylight hours and filled the piers with activity. Tonight, it was nearly deserted. Tracy counted himself as just one of four people on the expansive pier that jutted out into the Pacific Ocean. The other three people on the boardwalk were all Belyakov's men. The Russian crime lord's men started filtering into the area a half hour earlier. He made them all thanks to their Slavic looking faces, thick beards, and tracksuits. Tracy got there two hours earlier and watched the comings and goings ever since. His military training taught him the value of patience. When it came to work like this, be it assassinations or covert meetings, patience is what separated the pros from the amateurs. A serious operator would stake out the place sometimes twelve hours in advance. Tracy once spent two days in a wadi in Iraq, watching a road until a specific vehicle showed up at a certain time. When they showed up, Tracy killed the driver and the four passengers in the car with a sniper rifle before quietly disappearing into the desert.

He finished his cigarette and tossed it to the ground, stomping it out. Thomas Flynn and his group of armed thugs were two blocks away, waiting Tracy's confirmation that the coast was clear before moving into the area. The fact that Belyakov's men hadn't showed up until a half hour before the meet spoke volumes to Tracy. The chances of a wrinkle happening in the hostage exchange was very slim. If a double-cross did take place, Belyakov's men would have beaten Tracy here... or so he imagined. Tracy pulled his flip phone out and texted the number Flynn gave him to contact when he was ready.

Right at midnight, the black SUV carrying Flynn, his men, and Anton Belyakov rolled down the street and parked by the harbor entrance. Tracy stayed where he was and watched the party of five climb out of the car. Flynn walked by himself with two guards flanking him while one carried Anton. The boy seemed spooked and unsure of what was going on. Tracy felt for the kid. Hopefully this would all be over.

Tracy went still when he saw one of the men he marked as Belyakov approach Flynn's party. Words were exchanged between the man and Flynn that lasted for nearly twenty seconds. Tracy read the displeasure in Flynn's face at once. The party started stalking back to the SUV. Tracy gave them a long leash before walking towards his car. The Russians were sending them somewhere else. That made sense to Tracy. Flynn's choice of the harbor would upset a lot of criminals because of its openness meant plenty of room for a double cross or police interference. Belyakov was trying to get the upper hand by moving the venue on them.

He followed the SUV distantly in his Charger, never losing sight of the car's taillights. His phone rang just as he followed the big car onto the freeway.

"These cocksuckers are fucking with us," Flynn said loudly into his phone. "They moved the meet to Rucka Park!"

"I'm right behind you," Tracy said. "I'll be there when you do the exchange."

"You better be."

The phone went click and Tracy tossed it into the passenger seat as he accelerated to catch up the SUV.

Tracy led the procession to the middle of the empty soccer field. Flynn, Anton, and the goons walked close behind him. At midfield was another small group of people. The faces Tracy recognized well, Konstantin Belyakov and his goons with Linda Flynn. Her tight club outfit with torn in spots and she was barefoot. The thick mascara from the night before was all runny and made her eyes look like the rings around a raccoon's eyes. Konstantin Belyakov carried a thick briefcase in one hand.

"Boris I presume," Flynn said once the two parties had met.

"Here is money," Belyakov snarled, holding up the briefcase. One of his men pushed Linda Flynn forward. "Here is whore daughter. Now, give me son."

One of Flynn's guards walked Linda over to the other side of the meeting while Tracy took the briefcase. He began to start Anton back over towards his father when Flynn held out a hand.

"Not yet," he said with a finger wave. "I want to count the money."

He took the case from Tracy and opened it up. Tracy saw the nervous look on Belaykov's face and knew trouble was coming. The Russian mob was successful, but not successful enough to round up a million dollars in cold, hard cash in under twelve hours. Flynn laid the case down and started to sort through the money. Tracy saw about half a million dollars on top... followed by shredded newspaper below.

"You liars," Flynn said as he looked up. "You lying motherfuckers!"

"I could not get that much money in so little time," Belyakov shouted back.

"But you expect me to get five million dollars in the same about of time?!"

Tracy pushed Anton Belyakov behind his back as both sides started to reach for their weapons.

"You bit off more than you could chew, Boris! Somebody kill this motherfucker!"

Tracy pushed little Anton down and fell on top of him as the shooting started.

---

Hyde Park
Boston, MA
3:14 AM

Parker lit a match and chucked it into the Altima. The flames hit the gas soaked seats and ignited the rest of the vehicle's interior. He walked away from the burning car, leaving behind almost all of his share of the robbery spree. Steiss and Mitchell hit the bricks after they split the take three ways. Parker stayed behind to get rid of the car.

Four hundred thousand dollars. That's what was going up in flames behind him. Save for twenty grand for expenses and folding money, Parker made sure to burn it all so the cops and the people who pulled their strings knew that all the theft and violence of the last two days was not about money.

He wanted the Vasco Family to know it was personal. He wanted them to hurt.

Absolute Comics: Rebirth

Interlude:
The Out

Here's how it goes:

You are a citizen of a free nation. Having lived your adult life in a land of guaranteed civil liberties, you commit a crime of violence. Whereupon you are arrested -- "jacked up" in the parlance of the street-- and you find yourself here; in an interrogation room complete with four brick walls, three chairs, and one metal table.

Have a seat, please.

There you sit by yourself for almost an hour until a police detective, a man who is clearly not your friend, comes in with a smile and offers you a cigarette. The detective also brings with him a notepad, a pen, and a digital voice recorder. After you take the aforementioned smoke, he launches into a non-stop monologue that goes back and forth, back and forth, but comes to rest... in a very familiar place.

"You have the right to remain silent."

And you do. You're a criminal. Criminals always have the right to remain silent. You've seen Law & Order, right? Your Fifth Amendment rights prevent you from self-incrimination. If it was good enough for all those greedy CEOs and juicing athletes who testified in front of Congress, who the fuck are you to argue? Let's get some perspective, shall we? A police detective -- a man paid by the government to put you in prison -- is explaining to your dumbass that you have the right to shut up before you say anything stupid. Think about that for a moment. Talking to a detective during an interview is only going to hurt you, he tells you. Yo! Wake the fuck up, and shut the fuck up.

Also think about your right to an attorney.

The man with the too-bright smile that is betrayed by a pair of tired eyes tells you that you have the right to talk to an attorney anytime. Be it before questioning, after questioning, or during any questioning sessions. The man who wants to arrest you for violating the peace of the great city of New York is telling you that you can talked to a person who is a trained professional in legal matters, someone who has read the relevant code... or, he's at least gotten his hands on some Cliff Notes. Either way, he is sure as hell more up on his shit than you are. Let's face it, pal; You just shot a man in the head behind 112th Street Bar. You are many things, but a legal genius you ain't. You're going to need the help of an expert. Take whatever help you can get.

After his long speech informing you of your rights, the detective says that he wants you to be adequately informed of these rights. Right now, there is nothing he wants more than to help you out in this very confusing and stressful time in your life. He also wants you to know, and you can take it from him because he's been doing this for awhile, your right to an attorney isn't all that it's cracked up to be.

He says that once you call for that lawyer, there isn't a thing in the world he can do to help you. Nope, once that bell is rung it can't be unrung and your good friends here at the 18th Precinct won't be able to lend you a hand. The next authority figure to get their hands on your case will be a no nonsense prosecutor from the District Attorney's office.

And God help you if a three-piece suit wearing bloodsucker like that gets a whiff of your case. You'll be halfway to the Attica on a ten to life bid before you can even fucking blink. You ever been to Attica? They say Ryker's is the roughest prison in the state, but my money is on Attica. They'd eat you alive in a place like that.

Your best bet is to speak up. Speak up now.

With that little tidbit, the detective leaves the room and lets you think on it. Suddenly you realize how small this room, how without windows its a lot like a prison cell. That gets to you as you finish off your smoke and wish you had another. The detective returns minutes later, this detective who is not your friend, and smiles at you as he sits down at the table across from you with two cups of coffee.

"I got the coffee right? Two sugars, no cream?"

"Yeah, the coffee's fine, man." You say with a nervous twitch. "But, uhh...what happens if I want a lawyer?"

"We'll get you a lawyer!" The detective springs up from his seat and heads towards the door. "No problem, we got a line of lawyers waiting outside."

A few feet away from the door, he spins on his heels and looks back at you with his hands clasped together.

"But! Maybe you should think first." He walks back towards the table and leans over it. He's crowding you, but not in a threatening way. Kind of like how your mom or dad would get in close when you were a kid. There's a warmness there. This man, this man who has warned you that talking to him is a bad fucking idea, genuinely cares about your well being.

"Like I said, once that lawyer is called we can't do anything to help you. This will be your only time to speak, remember that. So... he came at you, didn't he? It was self-defense."

You look down into the coffee and then back at his face. Swallowing hard, you answer.

"Uh-huh." You say cautiously.

"Wait one minute." The detective says as he slides you a piece of paper that seemingly appears out of thin air.

"Might want to read that first."

The form reads "I do not wish for an attorney right now, and I am willing to answer questions without an attorney present, and I do all this voluntarily on my part."

You sign the paper, initial it to be sure.

The detective looks at you, his eyes dripping with innocence, and says:

"He came at you didn't he?"

"Yeah. He... uh, he came at me," you whisper.

That's it. You're done.

If the detective wasn't too busy taking down your statement and writing an arrest warrant, he'd tell you as much. He'd say something about your ignorance and the fact that you just admitted to killing another human being. He'd also mention that, in all his years of working murders, he's still amazed that his bit even works.

Stop and think. When you came through those doors what did it say on the glass? That's right, Homicide. Who lives in a Homicide Unit? Homicide Detectives, so far so good. And what does a Homicide detective do for a living?

You got it.

You took a human being's life tonight. So, when you opened your mouth, what the fuck were you thinking?

Bar none, the homicide detective is the best salesman on the face of the earth. He sells life sentences in prison to a customer base who has no need or want for them. And he's damn good at it too. Through lies, half-truths, and cajoling he gets the truth -- or enough of it to build a murder case -- from you. And it's all entirely legal. His weapon isn't violence anymore. Now it's his prey's own goddamn stupidity that he has weaponized.

There is a thing in interrogations known as The Out. Every suspect who opens their mouth in an interrogation pictures The Out. The right series of answers, the right amount of charm, the right bit of an alibi that will allow them to stroll out of the interrogation room and head home unscathed.

It is a lie, as blatant as any lie that detectives can use in their interrogations. Once you are in this room, there is no amount of words that can lead to your freedom. Only silence. Only asking for a lawyer can get you out of this room. You go to a jail cell, yes, but you do not willingly sign your life away in search of The Out. The truth is that The Out is digging your own grave. The Out always leads in.

You better get used to these small, cramped spaces, son. You're gonna be calling them home for at least the next thirty years.

---

NYPD 90th Precinct
Brooklyn

"He's in the holding cell."

I didn't need sight to know how the cops at the Nine-Zero looked at me. I could almost feel the chill in the desk sergeant's voice. Cops don't like me. To be honest, most lawyers and judges don't like me either. The media, on the other hand, love me. And that makes cops and lawyers hate me even more.

"What do you want with him, Murdock?" The desk sergeant asked. "He don't look like your type of client."

"I do pro bono work from time to time. Now, are you going to continue to violate my client's constitutional rights, or am I going to have to file a civil rights lawsuit?"

Five minutes later, I was inside an interrogation room with sixteen year old Yussel Goren. He'd been given standard issue prison outfit, his blood stained clothes taken in as evidence. Even with them gone, I could still smell the faint traces of blood. The kid must had been covered in it. All I really knew was that he'd been charged with murder, and he had confessed to said murder.

Rule 1 when I have clients: Never, ever talk to the cops. Ask for a lawyer, but say nothing else.

"Who did you confess to killing?" I asked.

"Neta," he said softly.

"Your girlfriend?"

"No... a girl from school."

I paused to pull out a digital recorder. The cops had their interrogation with Yussel on record, but I liked to record my talks with clients to compare notes. If the kid was confessing, though, I doubt I'd need a copy of his interrogation.

"Did you kill her, Mr. Goren?"

"Yes."

His heartbeat spiked through the roof. And that made me pause. I'm used to clients protesting innocence while they lied through their teeth. As much as our criminal justice system errs, more often than not they arrest the right people. But, this? This is something new.

"How did you kill her, Yussel?"

Hesitation on his part. He shrugged his shoulders, the shackles on his wrist clattering together. His heart rate went through the roof before he even spoke.

"Stabbed her. A lot of times."

People lie. That's the one of the few things that cops and lawyers can agree on. People always lie. Yussel Goren is lying. He's lying about committing a murder he's innocent of.

Why?

Absolute Comics: Rebirth

Coming back as DD.