“For something that’s supposed to help you breathe, this thing sure is choking.” she thought as she secured the gas mask around her already balaclava-clad face. It was half for the bug exterminator cover, half because they didn’t wanna breathe in any of that crap after they completed their mission. The bright red coveralls were thorough (even their tails were covered!) and it already made them sweat in the van.
The color made her feel relatively unsafe, with how white and blue were the predominant colors around Eiskat. They’d stick out like a sore thumb in any firefight. Thankfully, however, any fighting would be done indoors and hopefully afterwards, a clean getaway.
Eiskat was coated in a near permanent white mist of snow and ice, even when it wasn’t particularly windy. A byproduct of the cloud seeding. Weather in Mamalokat always felt forced and artificial, because it was. The towering skyscrapers of Solkat were obscured behind a slowly forming blizzard and the onion-shaped domes of Eiskat’s Fakonan temples. In place of concrete and glass monoliths dedicated to entrepreneurs who amassed wealth and global influence the likes of which emperors long past could only dream of, the icy district made it clear that they still worshipped the old gods.
In place of artificial starscapes reaching for the sky from constructions hundreds of meters tall, light here came from braziers placed at regular intervals either on the street or hanging off buildings. It filled the frigid air with a smoky, homely scent, not that she could feel it through the stifling respirator. She looked through the snow-dusted windshield at the mauve sky. It was one of the few places in Mamalokat where one could see the stars. She let the almost foreign visage calm her nerves before she spoke to her team. Three other mammals were in similar attire. One was a Class IV mammal, taking up most of the space of the front cab as he stood at the wheel, shoulders almost ready to pop out of the hazard suit, the other two were Class IIs a tad smaller than her and equally lean. Today he was “Slick”.
“Masks sealed?” She asked, her voice muffled. Her team all nodded. “Good. No need to run through the plan again, I hope?” Slick nodded, and she could imagine the other two in the back did likewise.
“Bead check.” She stuck her paw in a fake pocket and pressed a button on the walkie-talkie strapped to her waist.
“Checking.”
“Check.”
“Ready to rock” Two male and one female voice confirmed, their sounding off heard twice, once the real one, once in the electrical buzzing of the radio.
“Confirmed. Comms good.” She nodded. If all went well, they’d stick together, but as she’d so often learned, it was better to hope for the best and prepare for the worst.
A couple of Royal Guards passed by, dark blue capes fluttering behind them, briefly revealing their modern handguns contrasting the cutlasses at their hips. The two cougars looked inside the van, but continued on without breaking stride. Good.
Whatever faults the MKPD had, the Eiskat Royal Guards were ten times worse. They responded only to the district’s self-appointed monarch, which gave them a lot of leeway in what they did to “uphold the Light”.
Anyway, neither the royal thugs nor the real cops would be the one to respond to what happened next.
She looked at the industrial laundromat across the street. Square, metal and ugly, it didn’t even come close to the strict building codes Eiskat’s sovereign had implemented to “maintain the cultural integrity of our fair city”, yet she was sure a few generous donations to the royal treasury had passed that particular hurdle. Trucks labeled with different names of hotels and restaurants left, ostensibly to drop off their uniforms for the day. It was one of the busiest laundromats in the city. Yet even so, the amount of steam that billowed from its vents seemed excessive, and more than a few citizens had complained of a potent chemical smell. Yet the Royal Guard never seemed interested in it, and the one time the MKPD had tried to investigate, they were hit with a jurisdiction claim from the RG.
“Are you all ready?” She asked.
“Born ready, Miss.” Slick replied happily in his thick Stateless drawl.
“Their alarms are toast for the next ten minutes.” The other woman of the group replied in a quick, efficient voice as she clicked away on her modified CERA. The leader was confident that Oh-One was right about that. No one could bend technology to their will like she, and it wasn’t just because of her incredible computer expertise.
The bulky CERA module-phone was wired to a keyboard at which she clacked furiously before disconnecting it and shoving the phone back into her coveralls.
“Let’s do this.” The last man sounded off coldly, a sinewy Class II, tall for his species, the shape of his gas mask betraying him as a cervine. Forest was a simple, efficient callsign for a simple, efficient operative.
Her own callsign tonight was “Leader”. Unimaginative, but it got the job done.
“Good.” She checked her handgun beneath her suit, making sure the safety was off. She’d practiced quick drawing with her bulky gloves for days. “Let’s rob these fucks blind.” She grabbed her equipment bag and got out, leaving the keys inside. In a few minutes, someone else of her team would “steal” the vehicle and drive it out to a secluded location to torch it. Even in her bulky suit, the biting cold of the frozen district chilled her to the bone. Nevertheless, she walked slowly, as much as she wished to be indoors safe from the frost.
A few passer-byes gave them looks, but none seemed too interested. Vermin problems after all were common in this district. She listened to her own breathing within the mask, focusing on it to keep her heart rate under control. They crossed the snow-covered yard and entered the laundromat.
Everything was pristinely white and clearly cleaned multiple times a day. An expensive coffee machine was serving up an arctic wolf’s order. The fox receptionist boredly typed at a brand-new top of the line laptop. Two lynxes that could have been twins read magazines on a bench. Everything was brand new and almost artificially clinical.
All eyes in the room fell upon them. A few clients were watching their clothes spinning away at the smaller washing machines. Those were legit. As for the others…
“Exterminators. Doing a preliminary investigation before we bring in the smokers.” She said coolly as she walked over to the receptionist. The wolf was just picking up his coffee, ripping open a couple of sugar packets to pour into it when he walked to intercept her.
“Lady, I dunno who you are, but we didn’t order no fuckin-“ Whatever he wished to say next was replaced by a screech of agony as the scalding coffee was splashed onto his muzzle as the heavily suited woman launched a devastating booted foot into his chin. He was launched backwards into the coffee machine, barely catching himself on a desk as he growled and reached into his jacket. His wrist was painfully seized and twisted, a handgun falling to the floor. With a heave, the tall woman slammed his head into the machine again. Plastic shattered and sparks of electricity flew as the lights flickered and her crumpled to the floor unconscious.
Having no time to celebrate her victory, Leader drew her sidearm and leveled it at the receptionist’s head just as she was reaching under the desk. Only her eyes, chillingly unphased and steely, were visible through the mask. The rest of the team had drawn their own guns and were covering the civilians. The real ones screamed, backed away against walls and tried turning on their CERAs to call the police, which all mysteriously seemed to stop working.
The others eyed the intruders in protective gear, hands raised but not up, doubtlessly weighing up their chances of reaching for their own guns.
“Don’t even think ‘bout it, son.” Slick said, his Stateless burr sounding garbled through his mask.
“No one needs to die today.” The leader of the heisters said, pointing her gun when at the receptionist, when at the rest of the guards. She saw them look at her sidearm. A GZ-75, the enlarged trigger guard and compensator marking it out as the machine pistol variant. Definitely not a cop gun. “It’s obvious enough what we want. Give that and we’ll be out of your fur in a jiffy.”
The receptionist shakily popped open the registed and bundled together the stacks of cash.
“H-here,” She said. “It’s all we have. T-the safe is on a timer, I’m afraid, it doesn’t open until-“ The few notes were slapped out of her hand and the pistol’s heavy compensator was shoved into her face.
“You think we’d have dressed up for the gala for a few bucks!?” Leader snarled to the terrified fox.
“You know what? Fuck it. You’ll keep up the song and dance of “what are you talking about?” until either your pals or the law get here. Miss Oh-One?” Leader looked at the rest of her team.
Oh-One, the shape of her mask hinting at a feline being the sole clue as to her identity, turned away from the surrendering guards back to the receptionist. Amber eyes through the foggy lens glared at her, seeming to roll up into her skull for a second. The fox frowned down at her computer as it seemed to begin to do things on its own, a certain program opening. The receptionist frantically slammed the keyboard and moved the mouse to no avail. She even ripped the power cord from the wall, yet the device somehow did not die. At least not until the desired command was introduced. The screen went black as the large metallic door in the back clacked open.
“Thank you.” Leader said, lowering her gun. The others walked backwards, still keeping their sidearms trained on the guards. One by one they entered the door, Leader slamming it shut, the door locking automatically. Slick took a hatchet out of his coveralls and severed the thick cables leading out of the door. The cables belched out sparks and electricity before falling limp.
There was a constant hum and clang of heavy machinery, which had undoubtedly concealed the commotion upstairs. Perfect.
The door had led onto a metallic catwalk and below was a bona-fide factory. Liquid was being mixed in giant vats, catalyst beds and reaction vessels hummed, with workers draped in white coveralls and gloves milling around them. All of the workers moved with quick, expert moves, the various components placed in a perfect assembly line which processed tens of kilos of Twinkle every day. At the very end of the assembly line were tables with scales and chemical equipment, where the drugs were tested for purity, weighed and packed. Vents and pipes were crisscrossing the ceiling, doubtlessly good enough to filter the toxic fumes of the drug well enough to be considered nothing more than the stench of detergent by most.
Despite having already known what was below the laundromat, the heisters looked down in awe at the operation. It must have taken years, teams of expert engineers, not to mention millions of dollars to complete all this. Their pondering was interrupted by a loud slam against the metal door. It held firm, but that would likely change soon. There was no time to waste.
Opening up their duffel bags (which fittingly enough were marked with the biohazard symbol), they retrieved their larger weapons alongside several flashbang grenades. Leader grabbed her UZI, slamming a magazine home and pulling the charging handle. She tested the bulky laser module by painting the red dot across the walls. Forest meanwhile grabbed his M14k, screwing a bulky suppressor at the end of the short battle rifle, more to spare his comrades tinnitus and reduce the flash than for stealth.
There were two guards milling about, both jaguars, doubtlessly South Nyteri Sicarios. They were here more for intimidation purposes, to dissuade any worker from pocketing a few grams to sell off or “use recreationally”. Which was why their underfolder AKs were dangling from their slings for the world to see.
Leader and Forest picked up a stun grenade each just as the heavy door was slammed again. This time, the two guards looked up. They went wide-eyed for a moment at the sight of the armed intruders. The half second of confusion was enough for the grenades to be thrown at their feet. The guards raised their rifles, but before they could rack the charging handles, the grenades rolled at their feet and went off with a deafening bang. They screamed as they covered their eyes and stumbled. The grenades were older models, which relied on pyrotechnics to work, and one of the nearby chemical benches caught fire.
“Move, move!” Leader demanded, charging down the stairs. The drug factory exploded in pandemonium, workers screaming and taking cover. “It’s the fucking cops!” one of them yelled, leading a group of chemists to run up the stairs before they came across four gun barrels pointed at them.
Before the guards could recover, Leader slammed her heavy steel SMG into his jaw, knocking him to the ground. Blood and a single tooth poured from his mouth as she stomped on the small of his back and tied him up with zipties.
Forest did likewise, twisting the gun away from his opponent then punching the sicario’s elbow in the same motion. There was a pop and a scream of pain. The M14k’s wooden stock slammed into the jaguar’s face with a wet crunch and he fell limp. No zipties were needed.
Slick and Oh-One joined them, the former brandishing a sawn off lever action shotgun while the latter held only a subcompact pistol.
The workers looked dumbstruck at the attackers, some raising their hands, some backing away despite knowing there was only one way in or out. A corpulent tapir was holding a fire extinguisher and moving to the growing chemical fire. He blinked at the heisters, wondering with horror if they’d consider the heavy extinguisher a weapon. Eventually, Leader cleared that up for him.
“Mind telling me what you wanna do with that?”
He blinked, taking a moment to reply. “I uh… I wanted to… put the fire out? I-it’s dangerous.” He added dumbly.
“Then what the fuck are you waiting for? Get to it, on the double.”
The stocky chemist nodded gratefully and ran off to perform his duty.
“Rest of you, back off. The Cartel won’t harm you for not interfering, that’s not your duty, that was the guard’s, and they fucked up.” She gestured at the two bloody unconscious bodies.
“All of you have PhDs and expertise they cannot afford to lose, you’ll be transferred to another facility. Don’t be a hero and you’ll live to make this poison another day.” The chemists all nodded and backed away against the walls. They wouldn’t bother them.
The four grabbed their empty duffels and marched over to the table where the finished product was proofed and packed.
Leader pulled security, painting her UZI’s laser over the chests of a few eggheads who she thought were too close, causing them to cower, before settling it on the door. The slams were more insistent now, the heavy steel gate beginning to shake.
“Hurry up, get the shit!” She ordered. Packs upon packs of glittering white powder, as well as Twinkle in other forms such as pills or liquid, poured into the bags. Slick tossed one of the bulky duffels to Leader with ease, which she caught and put over her shoulder with a grunt. Damn, this thing was heavy.
The goods were packed. Now for the parting gift.
“Phase three!” Leader said. The team nodded and aimed their weapons for the equipment. The bark of the guns within the factory was hellish. The countless metal recipients caused the bangs to echo and reverb. The workers screamed and flattened themselves against the floor. Bullets tore away at the various equipment, groans of metal joined the cacophony of destruction as piping and scaffolding collapsed beneath the deluge of supersonic lead. Fumes and liquid began to leak from the damaged containers, and the heisters suddenly felt very grateful for the bulky hazmat suits. The team moved on through the lab, sidestepping terrified chemists, boots splashing foul chemicals as they thoroughly destroyed the lab. What they just stole would be this factory’s last batch.
The slams against the door were getting more frantic now. Doubtlessly the guards believed they’d begun massacring the staff. Though the truth would probably anger the Cartel more than sheer manpower losses.
“Phase four.” Leader ordered. Forest and Slick went over to the far wall, both fishing equipment out of their packs. The larger operative stuck a large round breaching charge on the wall, while his companion placed the fuses.
The door groaned beneath the assault, a visible bulge was around the lock now as they kept ramming it. The soundproofing of the door was no longer effective, screaming, cursing and weapons cocking being audible.
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“Hurry the Gehl up with that charge!” Leader snarled, keeping the laser trained on the door. They had superior cover, and the guards would be hesitant to shoot up the lab with their workers still down here, but an extended firefight was out of the question.
“Calm down, miss, it’s almost done.” Slick said as if to a petulant child asking why the cookies weren’t done yet. Taking a few steps away from the charge, he held up a detonator.
“Fire in the hole!” He clacked the device twice and the wall disintegrated as a concussive boom rocked the building’s very foundation. The workers’ screams were inaudible beneath the echoing boom as brick debris, dust and chemicals quickly filled the lab in a choking haze. At that exact moment, the door finally slammed open beneath the determined assault, the guards pouring in, now brandishing automatic weapons.
The heisters didn’t need anymore encouragement as they went through the hole. Leader and Forest fired upon the attackers as they ran backwards. None were hit, yet the ricochets of automatic fire inches from their heads halted their advance.
The heisters found themselves in the underground parking garage of the building next door. It was an office space still under construction, yet a single white van was waiting for them, keys in the ignition. The four drug-filled bags were thrown in the back as the heisters jumped in their seats. Slick took the wheel. He floored it, tires screeching on the concrete as the
The Cartel goons finally made it to the breached wall and began firing at the fleeing van. Slick drifted across the pavement, only a few bullets pinging the rear bumper and shattering a side window to little effect. The van sped across the empty lot, sparks flying as its front bumper slammed into the ramp then crashed through the barrier, speeding away into the snowy night.
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While inherently anti-state, criminal organizations that wish to grow into a force to be reckoned with must structure themselves a lot like a military, or ironically, a police force.
It must have a strict, and clear hierarchy. Orders are orders. Its soldiers must be well trained and disciplined. It must have systems like internal and external investigations, quick reaction forces and intelligence services.
It is what separates cartels from street gangs. If they wish to grow, they must mimic their enemy.
The moment the alarm system went down in the laundromat, another alarm went off a few blocks away. A snow leopard working the night shift at an accounting firm saw a tiny warning on his computer screen. He quietly picked up his phone and called the enforcers on site. When they didn’t answer, he made a quick call to his superior informing him of the situation. Then, it was out of his paws and he went back to his usual, mundane job.
In the same building, IT experts switched off their usual programs and accessed CCTV footage from opposite storefronts. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. No police cars, no gunfire, everything seemed perfectly mundane. They’d have probably picked up on the exterminator van as a foreign vehicle had it not been stolen mere minutes after the heisters left it.
However, they didn’t have to wait much longer for confirmation. Their phone lines exploded with activity as the enforcers present called them and screamed out the situation. Before long, whatever was jamming the alarm had passed and a general emergency joined the quickly mounting pandemonium.
Not far away, a card game in a restaurant’s basement was quickly abandoned as its players, all large gruff Class III and IV mammals, rushed for the armory, throwing on body armor and loading their weapons: compact SMGs this time. Their targets were fleeing in a van, so they’d need something that could easily be fired from a vehicle.
The enforcers rushed to the parking lot through the backdoor, clambering into an armored muscle car: more than enough equipower to catch up to a van, enough armor to stop most small arms.
The driver turned the key, expecting the familiar roar of the V8 engine, but was instead greeted by a tired mechanical cough. Frowning, he tried again for the same result. Cursing, the men popped the hood. This car was the driver’s pride and joy, and he quickly identified something that shouldn’t be there: The spark plug wires were disconnected.
With his heart in his throat, he checked where the spark plugs should have been, only to find a rolled up piece of paper.
It was the day’s comic strip from a newspaper, depicting an irate boar kicking at a car with its wheels fallen off and a steaming engine.
Before long, the heisters’ van disappeared into the dense traffic of Eiskat. Night was turning into early morning and delivery vans were making their first rounds, providing the perfect backdrop to blend in. After deciding that they’d put enough distance between themselves and their pursuers, the crew pulled off the main road and onto a stretch of snowy wasteland that once upon a time had been a park. The only clue as to its original purpose were a few hobos sleeping on battered benches around trash fires. They put some more distance between themselves and the homeless until they were out of sight.
They stopped the car and looked around. Oh-One connected her CERA to the keyboard once again and checked nearby CCTV cameras. Nothing but early morning commuters and unfortunate early morning office workers clutching coffee thermoses like their lives depended on it.
“We should be fine.” The young woman declared. The heisters’ commander sighed in relief in the passenger seat.
“Good, then we can finally take this shit off.” She removed her stifling gas mask and hazmat hood, ruffling her sweat-soaked fur.
Louise Clawson grinned back at her most trusted Intelligence investigators.
“So, what was it like playing bad guy for a day?” she asked playfully.
“Are we really bad guys if we steal from drug lords and destroy their factories?” Oh-One asked, gratefully removing her own mask. The brown furred caracal looked in the rear-view mirror as she fixed her head fur, currently dyed navy blue and silver. Her amber eyes glinted with annoyance. “Shit, I’ll need to dye it again tonight.”
“As far as the MKPD is concerned, we’re criminals now.” Forest said dryly, removing his own mask. The reddish-furred antlerless caribou showed no sign of discomfort from the bulky gear like his peers. “If they ever find out that is. If the Cartel doesn’t get us first, of course.”
“They won’t.” Oilslick said simply, the musk ox removing his own mask. He grinned at his team. “ ‘sides, even if they do, we’ll all flee to the Outer Range. My ol’ folks will take us in for sure. Gehl, we may be able to do more good that way, the Cartels use it to run their cargo, not to mention the Marauders are getting bolder.”
“Yeah, that’s easy for you to say, drifter, but some of us like civilization.” Oh-One snarled, lighting a cigarette.
Oilslick cocked an eyebrow. “You like anything, kiddo? That’s news to me.”
She gave him the finger.
“Everyone calm down.” Louise interjected. They’d rested for a bit, but now was the time to move. “We won’t get caught. We’ve been through this. We covered our tracks perfectly. Besides, the MKPD will never find out about this. Maybe the Royal Guard goons. It’s not like the Cartel will go to the police.” She let silence fall in the van that was beginning to get filled with cigarette smoke.
Louise allowed herself to light one up herself and the others soon followed suit.
“And I just wanna say, I’m proud of you. Everyone did their duty, nothing went wrong and no one got hurt. Textbook op.” ‘Hymer would be proud.” She thought with a smirk. “You’ve all done more to cripple the drug trade in one night than the entire Vice squad did in a month.”
Oh-One blushed, looking down. Oilslick gave one of his signature grins. Even Forest seemed to twitch a corner of his mouth in the closest he could get to a smile.
“Not that I’m the type to rain on parades, but we ought to get moving.” Forest rasped. He crushed his cigarette into the car’s ashtray. Usually, he’d have been worried about leaving behind DNA evidence, but there wouldn’t be much of anything left.
“Right.” Louise did likewise with her own coffin nail.
The four Intelligence investigators exited the van and began changing their hazmat gear for their street clothes that were already stashed in the back. None were bothered changing in the others’ presence. They already did this almost on the daily. The suits were likewise thrown in the van and they retrieved their duffel bags. Inside those bags was their salaries put together for about 100 years, plus bonuses, yet using the illicit goods for anything other than their mission did not cross any of their minds.
Louise popped open the fuel cap and inserted a long rag into it until she felt it soak into the gas. She then lit the dangling end with her zippo and the four of them began to walk away towards where yet another car was waiting for them.
None of the Intelligence Unit looked back as the van exploded into a heap of oil and burning metal and the warmth of a thousand suns baked their backs, bathing the early morning in warm, greasy light.
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Pablo Cazador had woken up determined to have a good, lazy day and to let nothing ruin it. He’d told his cook the night before to serve him breakfast in bed. As much as he enjoyed the finer things in life, the jaguar preferred the start of his day simple: homemade bread sprinkled with olive oil, cold cuts, cheese and vegetables.
Instead of his morning workout, he had his rhino masseur, Silva, give his muscles a good once-over as he simply sat on his flat stomach, relaxed, and allowed the pain to turn into relief.
He’d left his landline off the hook and set his CERA on “Do Not Disturb” and only used it to catch up on some rumors on 3degrees.mk (as much as “anonymous people’s extreme ideologies they wouldn’t in a million years spout in public” counted as rumors) and play Red Checkers with someone all the way in Yavuz.
If the Boss wanted to yell at him the next day, let him. It had been a truly fucking gehlish week, all because that dipshit Rodrigo had gotten robbed by some daring gang. Well, not only had they robbed him, they destroyed his Twinkle factory (what kind of fucking moron puts a drug factory in the city center?). It was a blow of tens of millions, not just in the loss of the goods, but also in the cleanup and the song and dance they had to perform to make sure the filth and the media didn’t stick their noses into it. Of course, saying nothing of the gaping hole the Cartel would have in their revenue stream, but it was one Cazador was more than happy to fill.
Rodrigo had been more than happy to oversaturate the market with his subpar synthetic slop. It still got people addicted, and It was much quicker and cheaper than using the Chispa plant, but the purity was in the gutter, and it was downright dangerous shit. Sure, all drugs are dangerous, as the media repeated ad infinitum, but you want repeat customers, not corpses.
Well, now, things were finally back to the way they were supposed to be. While Rodrigo was trying to find a new location for a drug factory and begging the Cartel for money to stay afloat, Cazador had been busy. He instantly ordered his overseas plantations to increase production and the first batches had already impressed. The customers used to Twinkle made from laundry detergents quickly noted that it had a better kick with less aftereffects. And once they tasted that, they could never go back to Rodrigo’s synthetic slurries made by college kids wishing to pay off their student loans.
Yes… things would be back to the way they were always meant to be, and youngsters like Rodrigo had to learn their place.
The heist had been bad news for the Cartel, and devastating news for Rodrigo, but for Cazador, it had been his most profitable week in years.
Nothing could ruin this day. Not even the METF breaking down his gate with an APC then storming his house like they were rolling up into Grazali. Like most things in his life, it was a temporary annoyance that would be easily dealt with.
An overgrown tiger cop was presently keeping him at gunpoint with an obscenely large automatic shotgun while the rest of his tactical team went through his mansion.
He kept up his smile as he leisurely ate his svini steak. He didn’t even wince at the cops breaking down his expensive rosewood doors or carelessly taking down his paintings worth millions hoping to find safes or recently fixed walls hiding drugs. Whatever the damage, he’d get ten times over from the city, together with a signed apology from the governor and the assurance that all these cops would be lucky to write up parking tickets for the rest of their miserable lives.
“I’m not sure what you’re hoping to find, Officer… Jehud, was it?” Cazador said between bites. “Even if I were some villain, do you think that I would be dumb enough to stash the goods in my house instead of buying out some property in the middle of nowhere for storage purposes?”
He saw the tiger cop’s granite jaw twitch with doubt. Of course, he was correct. He almost felt bad for the dumb bastard. It wasn’t his fault someone had ratted, probably Rodrigo in an attempt to scare him into submission. That little shit clearly didn’t know who he was dealing with. He’d been tortured for two weeks by Whayca’s brutal Federal Kommandos before being rescued by a Cartel strike team and he hadn’t told them a thing. He was the Boss’s oldest and most loyal lieutenant. And it was time he reminded everyone of that.
The muscular feline looked around, still keeping his scowl, but clearly nervous. He was young for an METF operative, eager to prove himself. Just like Rodrigo, a youngster with more balls than brains.
Suddenly, the cop’s searching green eyes fell upon a sofa on the other side of the dining room. It was an exquisite thing, made of dragonskin and the wood carved by Stateless master sculptors. Due to dragon hunting being banned almost worldwide, the piece of furniture had been manufactured on a Stateless airship in neutral air space, therefore leaving the object in a legal gray area.
“Ah, you like that?” Cazador asked, folding his napkin after wiping his maw. The tiger turned around, murder in his eyes that made even the seasoned criminal pause. “I can tell you are a dragon lover, but rest assured, the creature was already dead. Why let such a beautiful pelt rot away?” He said, flashing a grin that was half golden teeth. The cop’s eyes didn’t leave the sofa however.
It had just arrived the day before, never even been sat upon. Yet… something was off. Cazador saw it too now.
On the corner of one handle, poorly carved with a knife, was a hydra. The Cartel’s secret symbol. Cazador felt his food get stuck in his throat.
The cop reached into his webbing and retrieved a large-bladed combat knife. It had a brass knuckle guard, like the trench knives of the First Burning Steel War. Without warning, the knife was plunged into the sofa. Cazador’s screams and curses fell on deaf ears as he cut out a perfectly square hole, then ripped out the padding.
Standing there were stacks of white, twinkling bricks.
The cop’s shovel-like paw picked one up, weighing it, a triumphant grin across his granite features.
“Jackpot!” He gleefully yelled, both for his team, and himself it seemed.
Cazador was left dumbstruck. The jaguar couldn’t even feel afraid. It was so unbelievable that his brain refused to process it for a second. Yet, when he did, aside from realizing it had been an obvious set-up, he saw something about the drugs:
The twinkle was unlike that of his own product. Instead of the faint, slightly blue spark, it was a shimmering white… like the synthetic imitation.
Those were Rodrigo’s stolen drugs.
He hyperventilated as the large cop grabbed him, pushed his body across the table and cuffed him, tears of fright pricking his eyes. He couldn’t even hear the tiger reading his rights over his own heartbeat. It wasn’t prison that he was afraid of. In fact, he hoped that they shoved him in the deepest, darkest hole then threw away the key, because that would probably be the one thing that saved him.
The robbery, the destruction of the factory, then Cazador moving in to fill the gap and becoming the Boss’s favorite again, only for the stolen drugs to show up in his house? There would have been no doubt in anyone’s mind about what that meant.
As he was dragged outside, he saw the gawkers behind the police line which inevitably formed whenever the filth congregated in one place. A single figure caught his attention. It was a black timberwolf, short for his species, lean muscles built more for endurance than sheer strength. His hoodie and jeans blended in with the crowd perfectly, but it was his demeanor that set him apart. The stance of someone sure of themselves, the eyes, one forest green, the other the color of mint, that didn’t gaze in amazement like everyone else.
He looked at Cazador directly and gave him a spine-chilling grin that showed sharp, perfectly white teeth.
Then he turned around, whistling a merry little tune, disappearing into the crowd.