The New Alcatraz Maximum Security Holding Complex has been called many
things, over the time it had been operational.  But no one has ever
claimed it was an easy stay for those inmates "privileged" enough to
be sent there.

Those sent to serve their time in one of New Alcatraz's cells were
among the most dangerous men in the country.  The elite of the world
of criminal activity.  Hit men who had lost count of exactly how many
contracts they'd completed after the first hundred or so.  Serial
killers with a list of victims that included that cute little girl 
related to Senator Harris.  Syndicate leaders who made more in a month 
than the CEOs of some corporations made in a year, and were willing to
take a "hands on" approach to their work.

Practically every single inmate had been sentences to spend the rest
of their lives rotting in prison.  And the odds of *any* of New
Alcatraz's "guests" getting out early due to parole or a pardon were 
laughable.

As such, New Alcatraz had been designed to be escape-proof.  The best
materials and equipment to be found were used.  Checkpoint after
checkpoint existed, resulting in a situation where an inmate would
have no hope of getting anything through due to one guard slacking off
on any particular day.  Surveillance equipment built into virtually
every single part of the prison observed prisoners and guards alike.
Those hired to work at New Alcatraz, whatever their position, were
highly trained and (for their respective job description) paid a
rather impressive amount.  And every single inch of the complex was
underground, even the "exercise yards".   

For once, the old saying about piping in the sunlight was the truth,
the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

Even if an inmate somehow managed to escape to the surface, their
problems were by no means over.  As an extra deterrent to any attempts
to shorten a convict's sentence, and to provide quick assistance in
case of any major rioting among the inmates, a military base was
built over New Alcatraz.  And, leaving *that* aside, there was still
the purely geographic problems any would-be escapee would face.

New Alcatraz had been built under an island located miles from land.
The committee that had designed the prison had deliberately chosen
this particular piece of land because it was not near to any normal
routes for sea or air traffic.  This made it much easier for the
government to deal with any legal issues that arose from the fact that
any unauthorized air or sea traffic within the island's security
perimeter would result in criminal charges, should the violators
survive long enough to be charged.

Still, there were rumors that some of the inmates at New Alcatraz
*could* get "early parole" by doing the government a "favor."  There
were, after all, so many things that a government wasn't *supposed*
to do, but would profit from someone else committing the act in
question.

Of course, it was only a rumor.  There were also rumors of giant
mutant albino alligators living in the sewer systems of just about
every major city in the country.  But how many respectable citizens
believed that was true?

Citizens across the country went to bed each night, sleeping a bit
easier knowing that by the time any of fiends sent to New Alcatraz
were released, they'd be past the age of mandatory retirement.  



Derec Ngyen rang the doorbell for the fifth time while cursing
under his breath, as he tried to keep anything from slipping from
his grip.

He had told Joseph that this was just some idiot playing a prank.
"But oh no,"  he continued to gripe.  "Mister Asshole-Night-Manager
says that it could be a real order, so of course we're going to fill
it."

Derec snorted as he tried to angle himself so that he could ring the 
doorbell again, as he wondered how anyone would imagine an order like
this one could be real.  It had come in at ten past midnight and was
for a house in the fucking *Mews!*

Just as Derec rang the doorbell, someone finally answered the door.

Twisting his upper body around what he was carrying, Derec looked at
the guy who was doubtlessly going to tell him that there hadn't been
an order placed.

And then he looked up.

And then he looked up further.

"Izzat the Pizza Party special I ordered, along with the Super Sub?"

Derec just nodded, as he did his best not to loose control of his
bowels.

The bald black mountain just grinned as he took the pizza boxes, and
what they were supporting on top of them, with one hand.  Then, using
his other hand, placed some bills in one of Derec's hands.

"Keep the change."




 tHe bLacK pAcK 


 
  Day 4:  Supply, Demand, 
    and a Baseball Bat
 

 
  Created by MtB
  This part by The Apprentice
 



There were people who would swear that he couldn't be real.  Some
would claim that it had actually been a group of people that had
committed all the crimes he'd been found guilty of during his trial.
Or that Alexander T. Brashier had to be product of some sort of
genetic experiment, since mother nature couldn't create someone like
him.

Tall enough that he looked down on most professional basketball
players.  Strong enough to make most Olympic weightlifters look like
weaklings.  Fingers so nimble that he could have been a violinist or
a surgeon.  And a brain that still left hackers, crackers and computer
security experts in awe.

Still, there was more than one form intelligence could take.  And
Alexander knew that he wasn't so hot in the "interpersonal
intelligence" field.  That was, after all, why he had ended up in one
of New Alcatraz's private cells.

Not that Peters had survived long in the guvs care.  Demon didn't
care for snitches, unless he was the one that they were talking to.
And he *really* hadn't been happy about loosing someone as valuable as
Alexander because some son of a bitch decided to squeal rather then
doing some time.

Come to think of it, Alexander didn't care much for people who turned
others over to the guvs to save their own hides either, which was part
of the reason why he was sent to New Alcatraz.  If he'd agreed to some
of the deals that had been dangled in front of him before he was
convicted he could have avoided going to prison at all.

He'd been able to get a few perks because he'd helped the guvs and the
corps he'd hacked 'n cracked to close (some) of the holes he'd found
in their databases.  He'd gained a few more perks for helping them to
regain some of what he'd taken from some of those same databases.  But
there was no way that Alexander Tiberius Brashier was going to turn
rat.  Especially not on Demon.

Suzanna Brashier's baby boy liked his balls where they were, thank you
very much.

Still, those perks had meant that he wasn't *too* far behind the times
when it came to computers, and computer security due to the books and
magazines he had access to.  Between them and the challenge of
cracking New Alcatraz's systems with the outdated piece of shit
computer he had in his cell, he was pretty much on his game even
before he had gotten his first breath of fresh air in years.  The
results of his previous efforts with the system he'd bought with the
money the guvs had given them had put the finishing touches on that.

Which meant that it was now time to see which of his caches had
survived.  He didn't doubt for a second that the money, and other
things, he had stored away in various online accounts would be needed.
The guvs would gladly finance things until the team dealt with Remy
Forsythe.  Then they'd cut them off from the guvs little trust fund,
while gladly using those financial records to help take the team down.

There was no way in HELL that the guvs would let him run around loose,
given even some of the things he'd pulled over the years.  The idea
that the guvs would let Demon out, let alone give him *back* the
Maccivelli Ring...

Alexander just shook his head before taking another bite out of the
deluxe sub he was holding.  He wasn't the best person when it came to
"people smarts", but he could work that equation out easily enough.

No, the guvs would be on the team - after they took down Forsythe, of
course - like white on rice.  Even before you considered that they'd
been given a license to kill by the guvs, they were all far too
dangerous for the guvs to leave any of them running free after the job
was done.  Add the fact that they'd know too much, and Alexander
honestly doubted that the guvs intended to let them live after this
was over.

Gray's files outright stated that he would have been sent to New
Alcatraz if he hadn't managed that insanity plea.  He'd found it easy
enough - even for him - to read between the lines of Icy's files.
They had enough on her to probably put her away for the rest of her
life.  And Geraldine...  Well, she was related to Demon, married to
Gray, and done some (relatively minor, to date) things that hadn't
pleased the guvs herself.

And the only other person on their team that seemed to have figured
things out was Demon.  If he had thought that they'd be left alone
once Forsythe was six feet under, or even that they'd just be sent
back to New Alcatraz, he wouldn't have been so amused by Alexander's
little going away present.

Cray certainly seemed to believe in the guvs offer.  But, then again,
he was a lawyer, so he was also something of an actor.  And the fact
that Gray, Geraldine, and Icy had all decided to go out dancing a few
hours earlier certainly didn't encourage him to think that *they*
thought the guvs were going to go after them once they'd gotten the
job done.

Sighing, Alexander started to wipe his hands clean with paper towels.
Now that he'd finished his snack, it was time to check on the rest of
his caches.



Demon just watched events unfold before his eyes, and realized
that revenge was indeed sweet.  Or maybe that was just the freshly
made orange juice?

"Dearest, surely you aren't being serious."  Richmond Gray smiled
sweetly at his wife.  If he was lucky, he could convince Geraldine
that this was a silly idea.

"The man's right.  I ain't goin' ta do no dishes!"

Demon was a man whose life was based on controlling himself, as well
as others.  He was *not* going to laugh at the sight of a half-crazed
assassin and a man who considered a gattling gun a personal firearm
trying - and failing - to stare down his little sister.  Nor was he
going to bow his head and concentrate on eating, like Icy was doing,
in order to hide a smile.

But maybe a small little smirk or two wouldn't be entirely out of
order.

Back before he'd become known as the Demon, Garrick Foster had learnt
how to deal with his little sister.  He'd also learnt the signs that
told an observant person that she was seriously upset and not about to
back down.  The fact that she took after their mother, at least when
it came to her body language when she was pissed off, didn't hurt
either.

The way she had her fists on her hips, leaning forward slightly at the
waist was never that good a sign.  And when her left foot started to
rapidly tap in a three-two-three pattern, it meant that she was really
annoyed.  All that was missing was -

"Fine then, I guess you'll have to make your own meals when we cook."

Was the sweet, but ice-cold voice of reason.

"Say *WHAT!*"

"You heard me, Allie.  I got my bro to help me cook, so it's only fair
that you and my dear *husband* do the dishes and clean the kitchen
afterwards.  You two don't want to clean, fine.  It'll just mean we'll
have to do less cooking."

Under different circumstances, Demon might have been afraid for
Geraldine.  When Alexander's eyebrows started to twitch like that, and
he started to clench and unclench his fists, it wasn't generally a
good sign.  Still, between the mission, and the fact that both he and
Richmond Gray were also in the room, it was all he could do not to
laugh out loud at what sis had just said.

"Bro, are you okay?  You sound as if you're choking!"

"Don't worry, something must have just gone down the wrong tube.  I'm
fine sis."

Okay, maybe he needed to work on his self control, as well as getting
some extra exercise in.

"Are you serious about this, honey?"

Seeing a highly skilled assassin whine like a six year old being told
that he couldn't have any ice cream today wasn't the strangest thing
Demon had ever seen.  But it certainly helped to make up for those
little cooking jokes that had been made at his expense.

"Schnukems, I love you.  But one thing mom always used to say is that
she shouldn't have let dad think he didn't need to help cook or clean
just because she could.  You've got to learn how to carry your own
weight around the house."

"You know, she *does* have a point."  Icy finally decided to enter
into the battle zone, jumping in with both feet.  "I mean, you're
both eating the food they cook and Alexander, you have to admit that
you eat more than any of the rest of us.  Or any two of the rest of
us, for that matter.  It's only fair that you and Richmond help out
in the kitchen."

"I didn't know it meant that much to you, Geraldine.  I... I suppose I
could try to help out a bit."  Richmond Gray was a dangerous man.  But
he apparently wasn't immune to the dreaded puppy-dog eyed look.

"Ah, I'm proud of you honey."

Yes, Geraldine was *definitely* a weak spot for Richmond Gray.  Just
watching him perk up and all but wag his tail at that simple piece of
praise, along with a smile, was more than proof enough of that.  Of
course, using that to his advantage without hurting his sister, or
having her find out about it, was going to be a bit of a challenge.

Alexander wasn't a fool, or at least not foolish enough to try to
continue to fight after it became obvious that Richmond "The Silent
Knife" Gray was throwing in the towel.  "Alright, *alright* already!
I'll help ta do the damn dishes and clean the kitchen.  Izzat good
enough?!"

"Thanks Alexander, I knew I could count on you to do the right thing!"
Turning to beam at Icy, Geraldine continued.  "I knew I could count on
you to back me up, Icy!  You're a modern day woman, after all, who
understands that we should all be treated equal despite our genders.

"So, do you want to do the vacuuming and dusting today, or tomorrow?"

Suddenly, Richmond and Alexander seemed to a bit more cheerful, and
Icy wasn't smiling any longer.  In fact, she almost looked like she
was stunned by this U-turn in the conversation.

"What?"

Suddenly, Demon found his nearly emptied plate to be extremely
fascinating.  He also found himself biting down firmly on his lower
lip.

Yes, he definitely needed to work on his self-control.

"Well, you just said yourself that Alexander and my honey bear should
help out around, so I'm sure you won't have any problems with helping
out either.  After all, you're eating what bro and I cook, just like
they are."

It had been well over five years since he'd last seen Icy look like
she was sucking on a lemon.  

"BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA."

Demon decided to ignore the three sets of glares being directed at him
at the moment.  After all, sometimes self-control was overrated.



Captain Patrick O'Neil was honest enough to admit - to himself - that
he was one of those people who proved that the stereotype about police
officers who could trace their roots back to Ireland wasn't entirely
baseless.  Generation after generation, members of the family had worn
the uniform and walked the walk.

Even before he'd entered the Academy, Pat had known detectives and
captains.  Unless he proved to be a total screw-up, or got caught
with his hand in the cookie jar, he could count on being one of them
some day.  Not that he ever thought he'd need their help, or the
assistance of Lady Luck.  No, young Patrick O'Neil knew that one day
he'd be chief because he was good, and not because of anything else.

As it turned out, it *was* largely due to the Old Boys Club (and a 
great deal of luck) that he'd reached his present rank.  And without 
the hand of God (or the Devil) himself, he'd never go any higher before 
he retired.  But not because he was a screw-up.   Pat O'Neil was a good 
(and about as honest as he could be) cop.  But he did have his 
weaknesses.  Greasy food and alcohol being two of the three.

His hair showed far more gray than carrot-top red, these days, and he
looked a bit more like Santa Claus than someone who set an a track
record at the Academy. Too many hamburgers and too much beer, without
the constant excercise he used to get from his work.  But he was still 
a good cop.  

Which was at least part of the reason why he put up with Willis, after 
that bastard of a commissioner foisted the detective on him.

"You wanted to see me, Cap?"

Speaking of the pain in the ass...

"Shut the door, Willis.  And put out the cigarette already!  My doctor
whines enough every time I see him, without you adding some garbage
about 'damage from second hand smoking' to the fucking list!"

"I love you too, Captain."  Willis collapsed into an untidy sprawl in
one of the two chairs in front of his desk.  "Miller said you wanted
to see me?"

"I wanted to see you when you got in, you arrogant little bastard!"
He didn't need a mirror to tell that his face was just as red as his
hair had been years ago.  Somehow, Sean Willis had the gift of pissing
off his superiors with even the most innocent of comments.

"Crime waits for no one.  Or at least not for little boys and girls in
blue."  Willis' eyes looked like they were showing more red than
bleached blue, and the five o'clock shadow on his face looked like it
was closer to seven-thirty right now.  "But, since I'm here now, feel
free to talk."

Damn, but he hated this part of the job.

"You and Miller are to help Moralez and Jackson with the slasher case.
My gut tells me we may have a serial on our hands here, and I'd like
to get the bastard before he reaches double-digits."

Suddenly, Willis looked like a hunting dog on speed with his body
vibrating with internal tension like a violin string.  "How the hell
are we to do that *and* deal with those bodies we had deal with in the
downtown business area."

Maybe he should have taken some stomach medication after all.

"It's not your concern, Willis.  The feds are looking into the case,
as they feel it's involved with an ongoing investigation they're
running regarding certain inter-state criminal activities.  Which
means we can concentrate on bringing in other perps, instead of
spending our time and money going over the same things they are."

"Fuck the feds!" Willis was leaning forwards, his hands clenched on
parts of the desk that were clear of forms, pictures, and half-empty
coffee cups.  "They'll screw things up six ways to sunday, because
they don't *know* this town.  And then, once they've made a mess of
everything, they'll want *us* to clean things up so they can make
the damn bust!"

"Look, it doesn't matter what you think about the feds."  Thank god
for the soundproofing in this office.  "It doesn't matter what *I*
think of those arrogant fucks either!  What *does* matter, Detective
Willis is the fact that I was told to let the feds deal with this
case.  If you want to tell the Chief and the Commissioner to shove the
order up their asses, go right ahead!  I just hope you've kept your
resume up to date!"

Willis took a deep breath and let it out before breaking the silence.
His voice was quiet, controlled, and about as desperate as a junkie
looking for the needle he just dropped in a garbage bin.

"Look, Cap, something's going *on* out there.  I don't know what just
yet, but it feels *big*.  People are reacting to something out there.
Not the small fry, at least not yet, but the bigger fish that we
watch.  The smug bastards aren't acting like they were just a few
weeks ago, and it isn't because their feeling more heat from us *or*
the fucking feds.  But *something* has got their attention.

"My gut says that whatever's going on, it involves this case. A case
with heavy duty, *military-fucking-grade* ammunition that we haven't
been able to trace.  And my sources say that *this* case is tied to
the mess we had on docks.  A mess that happened right when a boat
coming in from *New Alcatraz* arrived at the docks.

"The Chief and the Commish know the score, Captain.  Tell *them* what
I told you.  They'll change their minds, even if only to cover their
asses in case this blows up in all our faces."

He should leave it alone.  He should order Willis to leave it alone.
He should... "What was the boat carrying?"

Willis didn't smirk at the question, which didn't do Pat's stomach any
good.  "No clue on what it was carrying, or who was on it.  The
records seem to have been 'misplaced.'  That's why I wasn't in
earlier, I was trying to find that out myself.  I've been told that
someone will look for them and give me a call as soon as they've been
found.  I've bet Miller that either they won't find anything anytime
soon, or that the records will show absolutely nothing out of the
ordinary."

In other words, anything 'found' would be as real as a three dollar
bill.

"It wouldn't do any good, Willis."  Damn, but he hated the job on days
like today.  Maybe he should stayed a detective like his uncle after
all.  "When I was told to order you off the case, they let it slip
that *they* were getting ordered to do it."

"From whom?"

"Damned if I know, but it was definitely higher than the mayor's
office."

"Fuck."

Pat found himself looking at the pictures on his desk, before saying
anything.  "Regardless of what your gut instinct is telling you, the
case is no longer in our hands.  You and Miller are to help out on
the slasher case.

"Of course," he absently added before Willis could do more than jump
to his feet, "you've been running a little ragged lately, Willis.  I
can't afford to have one of my people - even a smart-ass like you -
breaking under the job's pressure because he didn't know when he
needed to relax.  I suppose I should try to arrange the case load you
and Miller are assigned so you have some extra free time.

"Needless to say, I'd prefer if you used this extra free time to
actually *unwind* a little.  But I can't force you not to look over
some of your older cases.  That's one of your bad habits, and everyone
around here knows it."

Willis was trying to look like an angel, and failing badly.  "Of
course, Captain.  It's not like you can hold my hand or be responsible
for me when I'm not working.  And I suppose I do have a rep for taking
the job home with me."

Despite himself, Pat felt proud of Willis.  He was a good cop.  

Naturally, Willis couldn't leave it at that before leaving the office.

"Of course, at least I don't chase skirts everywhere I go and didn't
knock up someone's grand daughter at the station's Christmas party
while I was drunk either."

"SHUT THE FUCKIN' DOOR BEHIND YOU, *ASSHOLE!*"



"So, does anyone have any questions on what we're doing with the
warehouse?"

A few years earlier, the Demon would have laughed at the idea that
he'd ever go over a plan in a cream-and-azure color-coordinated living
room.  Of course, spending a few years in solitary confinement can
change a person.

"Weelllll," Geraldine squirmed a bit from her position on Richmond
Gray's lap before saying anything else.  "I don't understand why
you're setting things up that way at the end.  It just seems like
extra work for Alexander."

The Demon paused for a second before saying anything.  Partially to
see if anyone else had something to say.  And partially because he
was having to fight the urge to smash in Richmond Gray's smiling face.

"Paranoia is a good habit to get into in this business, sis.  And it's
never a good idea to have all your eggs in one basket."

Turning slightly, Demon focused on Alexander, who was taking up the
rest of the couch.  He had that slightly glazed look on his face that
he occasionally got before handling a computer issue.  Then on Icy,
who was curled up on the love seat like a cat surveying her kingdom.

"Anything else?"

Four heads were shaken.

"Good.  Supper's in an hour."



Fat Louis was in a relatively pleasant mood this evening.  Tonight, 
the trucks would head out with their cargo, and he'd be able to sleep 
easier for a while.

For last few days, several different ships had unloaded certain items
which didn't *quite* match what their manifests showed.  A crate of 
guns here, and a crate of uncut drugs there, added up to quite a few 
crates after a while.  Especially given how many ships unloaded
massive amounts of cargo each day onto the docks.  

It was much safer than it sounded to most outsiders.  The people who 
did this for a living tended to learn fast, if they wanted to stay out 
of prison.  They also tended to learn to keep their mouths shut, if 
they wanted to live.  And what custom agent had time to check each and 
every shipping container a vessel held?  Especially when the crew in 
question was so friendly and were willing to show their appreciation 
of their dedication with cold, hard cash?

From the docks, they would be placed in a warehouse, much like the
more legal - if less profitable - cargo.  Then some would be sent to
the local distributors for the greater metropolitan area, while the
majority would be sent in trucks to various locations.  

Normally the longest the goods would remain in a warehouse was
forty-eight hours. Meaning it was out of town (or out on the town)
before the guvs even suspected something was up.

Of course, Lieutenant Dougall had looked at things and had seen just
how wasteful it was.  If you were willing to store the goods for a
few days, you could build things up and send out a lot of trucks that
were fully loaded instead of just one or two that were no more than
half-full.  Even with the extra money you'd need for things like
security and bribes, you could still increase your profit margins by
quite a bit.

To Lieutenant Dougall, the added risks seemed pretty damn small.  And
even if the cops or another group *did* stick their nose where it
didn't belong, they *were* part of the Maccivelli Ring.  Certainly,
they could deal with the problem and leave with the goods before
anyone else could show up, right?

Of course, Lieutentant Dougall wasn't here overseeing the operation.  
He was.  And it would be *his* head that went on the chopping block if 
something ever went seriously wrong.

Normally, Fat Louis wasn't this nervous about things.  Of course, 
normally you didn't have some group of crazies killing scores of 
Maccievilli Ring members and managing (so far, at least) to get away 
with it.

Still, over half the trucks were fully loaded already.  Another hour, 
or two at the most, and they'd be gone.  Then he'd be able to sleep
the sleep of the supervisor who's current project has been
successfully completed.

And what could go wrong in two hours, anyway?



Demon was almost right in front of the pair of sentries before they 
even seemed to notice him.  Sure, the fog was heavy tonight.  And yes, 
his black outfit *did* blend in well with the darkness here among the 
dock's warehouses, at least at this time at night.

But it was still seemed ... wrong ... to go after people who this 
clueless.  Like he was a sword being used to cut off a branch because 
some idiot forgot his axe and saw back home.

Ah well, a job's a job.

"Dude!  Watch'a doing out here at this hour?"

Well, at least they were *trying* to keep him distracted, and weren't 
doing something as stupid as flashing their guns around.  Demon had to 
give them a *few* points for that.

"Walking.  I've been out of town for a while and wanted to take in
some of the sights.  I don't suppose either of you has a match or
lighter?  I don't seem to have mine on me."

Of course, it would help it they weren't concealing their handguns
where even a rookie cop would think to look for them.  Or if folding
their arms that way didn't make it harder for them to draw their
weapons quickly.

"Man, you really shouldn't do that to your body.  That stuff kills
you, ya know?"

Demon looked at his watch.  It was ten after.  Time to get the party 
started.

"Doesn't everything, in the end?"

The two punks seemed to find this hilarious, and started to laugh.  
Demon just smiled as he started to move forward again.  

Bonnie and Clyde then introduced themselves, and Demon lengthened his 
stride to pass by the pair of fresh corpses. 

No one seemed to notice him.  Which was stupid, but understandable.  A 
giant black man firing a gattling gun could distract just about anyone.
   


When the storm of bullets started to go through the loaders and guards 
like a hot knife through butter, Fat Louis naturally started to panic.  
The fact that the obvious source of this rain of death was the single 
largest human being he'd ever had the displeasure to come across 
didn't really figure into the situation, such was his shock.

Still, he might have managed to keep some shreds of dignity and tried 
to rally a defense of some sort.  After all, if he managed to salvage 
something from this disaster, and brought the giant's corpse with him, 
he might actually be allowed to live.

But then he saw the guard right beside him suddenly develop a third 
nostril, and fall over.  And then the guard that had managed to huddle 
down by one of the trucks seemed to develop a rather fatal case of 
lead-induced spinal trauma due to black-clad form that rolled by him.

By the time one his trucks actually *exploded* Fat Louis had already 
come to a rather intelligent decision.  If he ran for it, he'd be
killed if the Maccivelli Ring ever found him.  If he didn't run, he
was *definitely* going to die here tonight.

Without a second thought, Fat Louis made his way towards the
warehouse's back office faster than he done *anything* in years.  He
didn't come across anyone on his trip through the warehouse, suggesting 
that the people who hadn't been out front already had decided to cut and 
run.  He was going to do the same thing, but not without some things to 
give him a chance to actually get away with this.

A few seconds later, Louis was leaving the office, a bulging briefcase 
in each hand.  Now, if he only survived the brief run to the back door 
and his car, he might actually live to see the dawn.

The smiling man that seemed to ooze out of the shadows in front of him 
dashed Fat Louis' hope.  Even as a knife handle filled his field of
view, he couldn't help but wonder how the hell someone could actually
hide in the dark while wearing a vanilla white outfit?



Despite the fact that he had a healthy respect for Richmond Gray's 
abilities, Demon didn't let himself be distracted as he entered the 
warehouse.  Or maybe it was *especially* because he had a healthy 
respect for what the psycho could do.  They may be in-laws, and they 
might need each other right now, but Demon wasn't going to press his 
luck further than he felt he needed to.

Despite that, it was obvious that Gray had spotted him first.

"Mr. Demon, sir, I take it that all our playmates outside are tired 
out?"  One of the scariest things about Richmond Gray was how polite 
and happy he sounded.  Assassins generally don't apologize as they 
slice you into small bloody pieces, nor do they sound  - or look, for
that matter - as if they'd be perfectly at home on some children's
show.  

In a way, it made Richmond seem even stranger than how he'd acted the 
*last* time he'd crossed paths with Demon.

Which was quite the accomplishment, because when they'd last been in
a warehouse together, with each of them trying to kill the other, 
Richmond Gray had been a grinning lunatic in the eye of a storm of 
blades.

"You could say that.  I take it that everyone that was in the 
warehouse but tubby there isn't going to be coming out under their 
own power?"  

"It would be safe to say so, Mr. Demon."

Not even bothering to roll his eyes, Demon opened both unlocked 
briefcases at once.  The money in the one on the left would be useful.  
The documents in the briefcase on the right could be *extremely* 
useful.

"You take the briefcases.  I'll take tubby."



Four fully loaded trucks left the warehouse, with Demon in the last 
one, seconds before a series of controlled explosions took out the 
engines in the remaining trucks.  Demon might not care for some of 
his sister's choices over the last few years, but he had to admit 
she *was* good at what she did.  

Even as he saw the truck being driven by Richmond Gray (with Geraldine 
riding shotgun) take a left at the four-way, Demon couldn't help but 
wonder who would be more shocked by this.  Forsythe, for the loss of 
his goods.  Or whatever cop was the first to see the carnage and the 
goods they'd left behind?

Not that it mattered much to Demon right now.  Forsythe wanted him 
dead, and he wasn't about to feel sorry for the punk.  And as for the 
cops, well the guvs said he had a free hand as long as he kept things 
discreet and didn't go around killing cops and civies.  A little 
reminder now and then that he was holding up his end of things might 
give him some extra breathing room.

A few minutes later, the other two trucks had also turned off, leaving 
Demon alone with the night and the unconscious form of Fat Louis.  If
he was awake, he probably wouldn't have appreciated being tied up and
being squeezed between a pair of crates.  Not that Demon gave a damn
about his passenger's comfort, but at least he didn't have to listen
to any annoying pleas for mercy.

"Enjoy your sleep, Fatso.  If you don't sing like a bird, I'll be
happy to get some more exercise in tonight."



Author's Notes:

To be perfectly honest, I had a lot more trouble doing this part than
I did with my first ImproFanfic part (for Dark Heart High).  I knew
*what* I wanted to do with my part a day or two after reading Part 3.
Unfortunately, I couldn't seem to get the ideas to actually "come
out".  I was either totally unsatisfied with my attempts, or I had
people written Out Of Character.

Several days, and quite a few hours of listening to various CDs for
"mood music", later and Demon, Alexader, Willis, and the rest of
the whole sick crew finally smashed through the gates.  I'm still 
trying to figure out why I *had* this problem to begin with, but my 
best guess is that I was worried that I would choke and ruin what 
the first three parts had given the readers of this series. 

Obviously, the first part of this episode overlaps with the previous
episode of Black Pack.  With everyone but Alexander out of the house,
it was just too good an oportunity for me to pass up.

Basically, this part is about smarts.  Willis isn't stupid, and
neither is his captain.  And just because people like Alexander and
Demon didn't decide to use their mental gifts in a legal fashion,
doesn't mean they've somehow lost them.  They may apply it
differently, but none of the characters are morons.

I also tried to cover more mundane things.  As previously pointed
out, Demon and co. don't have servants/minions/underlings any more.
They have to cook for themselves (or go to a restaurant, or get
food delivered to them).  Likewise, who's going to do the dishes
or vacuum the house?

My hat must, of course go off to Mads for starting us down this
steep hill in a semi without a set of working breaks. ^_^

My thanks to Lawrence Chu, the Admin, for giving me an extension.
To Ryunson and Mads for listening to my framework ideas.  And to
my pre-readers, Mads and Anna!



Alexander looked up from the television as Demon entered the room.

"Wha' took you so long?"

"Fatso was smarter than the last bozo we entertained.  Since he
figured he was dead anyway, he decided to be brave."  Demon sighed
deeply before collapsing onto the couch besides Alexander.

"What's wrong, he died before he talked?"

"Nah, he talked.  I'm just not sure how much we should trust what he
said, or the information in his briefcase."

"Oh?"

"Alexander, would *you* have used people like that to guard a
shipment?  Or used those other morons to try to kill us?"

"Shit NO, Demon!  They were strictly amateur hour!"

Demon took a handful of chips from the bag Alexander was holding
before saying anything.

"Exactly."

Nothing was said for a moment as both continued to watch the news.

"Shit.  You think we're being set up?"

"Why do you think I asked you to arrange for separate locations to
hold the trucks?  If goofs like them made up even a large *minority* of
the Ring's membership, the guvs wouldn't have needed us.  I don't know
if Forsythe's trying to wear us down, get us to underestimate him, or
setting us up.  But any way you look at it, I think the little punk's
up to *something.*"

"Izzat what's got you down?"

"Nah.  It's just that this country's really gone to hell since we were
put away Alexander.  This is the first time I've *ever* broken a
baseball bat on the same day I bought it."