Urban Blade: Lethal River

<img src="http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l81/Asmodeus1845/Stories/6908865724_c1ede91844_b-soundslogical-by-nc-nd-20-800x532.jpg" border="1" width="500" align="right">"Well shit..." Mixer Mike smiled to the big mouthbreather beside him. "These bums had grammar lessons too!" He looked to the hooded man standing to one side. "Hear that, Don? We got ourselves a couple of associates looking for pharmaceuticals."

There was no laughter. The two guards were watching Marcus and Ricky like hawks. Only Mike seemed to be showing amusement. He kept them waiting, deliberately, as he checked his roster and made a few notes. Then he looked up again. "There's a lot o' people say they need Lab Cure IX - folks much better-dressed and better-smellin' than you." He scratched his 80s moustache. "Hell, there's people who'll kill just to know where that shit came from."

Again, the Mixer paused deliberately, glancing over his notes again, then looking at Marcus and Ricky ponderously. "Come to think of it... mayhaps you and your associate here know more than I do."

There was a slight change in the atmosphere... the two guards shifting their feet as they sensed Mike about to give an order.

But the Mixer held Ricky's stare a little longer and then said, simply, "Now what's a nice couple o' boys like you want with the Cure?"

 
Mike was dragging this out longer than Ricky would have wanted, and asking questions. The Cure must be something serious, it was pretty serious considering his life would end if they didn't get it. Time to cut the bullshit and get straight to the point. "My friends and I are going to die if we don't get the Cure to this Old Merl dude, we have less than two days. What can we do to get it?"
 
Marcus failed to see why Ricky had to cut to the chase, if Mike was at least being semi-friendly. Or maybe playing with them since they were "hobos" and not convicted criminals. It's not like they were going to talk until they died, either way. That look Ricky gave can go fuck broken glass, for all he cared.

It seems there was a bit of a waiting list for the cure. That could be a bit of a hindrance.

"We aren't interested in where it came from." he said reassuringly. "We were just sent to get some of this cure, in exchange for our lives. Dick here pretty much summed it up. As for any other knowledge, we only found out about it less than 24 hours ago. Though, if our needs were met, I would be happy to find out what I can. When our lives aren't in immediate danger anymore, of course."
 
<img src="http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l81/Asmodeus1845/Stories/6908865724_c1ede91844_b-soundslogical-by-nc-nd-20-800x532.jpg" border="1" width="500" align="right">"Some of the Cure...?" The Mixer echoed Marcus's words back to him with a blend of amusement and confusion. Then he looked again to his two henchman, whose gazes were locked on Ricky and Marcus. It wasn't long before laughter rang through the warehouse once more.

"You don't even know what it is, do ya?" He planted his hands on his hips and raised his voice, as if to an errant child. "It's SINGULAR, boy! Lab Cure IX. The holy fucking grail that everyone's wantin'."

Some of the other workers in the warehouse glanced up. Even the mention of Lab Cure IX brought expressions of curiosity, desire... perhaps fear. It was like a magic word uttered in prayer.

Mike went back to his roster, looking over it deliberately, making more notes. "I'm sorry some prick's got your balls, but that ain't that problem. So either you make it worth my while or get the fuck out of my warehouse."

He turned and moved away, while the hooded man who had led them here started to approach.
 
This wasn't good. Trouble was closing in and they were sitting ducks. As the hoods drew closer his sense of emergency started going off like a rabid dog. Marcus had to think of something quick, or their chance at life would slip through their fingers. It was difficult since his own were trembling. He took one step towards the mixer and called out to him.

"Mike, any chance you like money?"
 
The hooded man and the mouth-breather stopped at the mention of money, their hands inside their coat pockets. They formed a triangle with Marcus, a gap between them through which the Mixer could be seen, turning from between the two shelves of pharmaceuticals.

He considered Marcus for a moment, rubbing his moustache. [Sense Motive score: 4]

"What's that, prick? You got a wad stuffed in that piss-coat o' yours?"


 
"No. However, if you have a working phone, I can make a call to my "bank". I would try to use the cell I found, but now doesn't seem to be good time for reaching for pockets." He said, watching the man gathering around him.

Marcus made sure that his hands were in plain sight. He wanted to wave money at him but it was in account out his reach. At least, until he could get on the phone. His eyes shifted around, trying not to get jumped unexpectedly.

"I can't promise to make you filthy rich, but I will say that there is more than enough to buy an entire shipment of denim. If we don't get that cure, it's lights out. And if I am lieing about the money, I am sure you would kill me anyway. So deceit would not be smart on my part. What do you say?"
 
There was a brief moment where Ricky started feeling the despair of a hopeless situation. But then Ricky felt a spark of hope when Marcus mentioned the money, overshadowed by irritation that he had mentioned it sooner. Oh well, at least Mike might get something he wanted and they could get this show on the road.
 
<img src="http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l81/Asmodeus1845/Stories/6908865724_c1ede91844_b-soundslogical-by-nc-nd-20-800x532.jpg" border="1" width="500" align="right">As before, long silence held, broken only when Mike's laughter filled the warehouse. He tipped his head back, the motion exaggerated, macho, and utterly at odds with his steely-eyed henchmen.

"Well fuck me, boys. World's gone crazy. Can't even trust hobos to be poor no more."

He reached into the pocket of his denim jacket and, in a flash of sleek black, a phone was tossed through the air at Marcus.

"6-2-0-1-4-7-2-1-8-0." Mike recited the number rapidly, his recall perfect. "Put thirty-K in that account. Then we'll talk."

Ricky caught the glance from the hooded man to his right. He clearly didn't agree with his boss going out on a limb like this.


* * * * * *​


Meanwhile, outside the compound, Tanya, Miles and Victor remained in the ditch by the service road, watched now and then by the remaining guard at the door. Trucks were still rolling by intermittently, taking drug consignments in and out of the loading yard. And in the rise and fall of the headlights Tanya twitched and turned.

"This is bullshit. It's taking too long." She looked to the two men. "We have to do something."
 
The exuberance of the man had Marcus chuckling to himself. Even if there seemed to be an underlying distaste for what Mike thought he was, he was going to try and get the man's greenback inspired attention. Catching the phone, his bank was on the line in a matter of seconds.

"Hi... Marcus Davenport... yes... I'd like to send money to another account... 6-2-0-1-4-7-2-1-8-0... Thirty thousand good ones... No... Yes?... 24 hours? Why?... This is an emergency... NO!... Send the money now!... THIS IS AN EMERGENCY!... YOU ARE FUCKING FIRED WHEN HE FINDS OUT!... Fine, it's your funeral."

Marcus begrudgingly ended the call there. There was nothing more he could do. Hopefully, Mike would at least believe him. His life depended on it. Now he just wished he could have told the banker that and not totally turned the situation into a shit storm.

"Ok. You will have your money. The bank decided $30, 000 was a little much to move with one call. It should be there in 24 hours. I am sorry for not being able to get it faster. Rest assured, it will arrive."

He fumed in the general direction of that tight wad bank.

"Now what?"
 
[size=+1]"They certainly taking their sweet time blathering with this Mixer Mike fella," Victor says in agreement as Tanya finally loses her patience, "And we ain't got that much time left. Might be an idea to go find what the fuck is taking those boys so long."

He pulls himself to his feet and swings the AK47 over his shoulder with the makeshift sling attached to it. The two who went inside are either having trouble with the negotiating or they're dead; either way, he's tired of sitting around with his thumb up his ass and nothing to do as the clock ticks down on the time they have left.

Mixer Mike doesn't feel like sharing? Victor has ways of convincing him otherwise.[/size]
 
<img src="http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l81/Asmodeus1845/Stories/6908865724_c1ede91844_b-soundslogical-by-nc-nd-20-800x532.jpg" border="1" width="500" align="right">"Now you go get your friends and meet us in the lot," Mike answered. "We're going for a little ride."

There was an engine roar behind them. Glancing over their shoulder, Ricky and Marcus saw one of the truck trailers was open. A van with blacked-out windows rolled out of it and parked up by the forklifts. Clearly this particular truck had not been carrying pharmaceuticals. More than half of the yard workers they had seen as they entered were now converging on the van. Another hooded henchman was up on the trailer, pulling out bags and crates.

It wasn't long before Marcus and Ricky caught the flash of gun metal.

The truckers and yard-hands were tooling up and getting into the van.

Clearly this little ride was not going to be a peaceful one.

"You want Lab Cure IX?" Mike's voice called to them as he vanished behind the shelves. "You can help us with our field research. Now go get the rest of your shit-stink friends."
 
Yay progress! Boo ominous tension. With a little exhale of slight exasperation, not really liking the idea of going for a ride, Ricky turned around and headed back out the way they came to go tell the rest of their shit-stink friends about what they were going to do next, escorted by the first guard. Nothing was ever simple, and if it seemed simple then it was a damn lie. He reached the gate where they had entered and walked out a few paces, he gave out a sharp whistle and waved them over at the same time.

"Yeah I know we took a minute, it was a delicate situation" They didn't have to say anything for him to know that they had been getting impatient "I guess we're getting the Cure but it looks like Mike needs us to do something first. He said to help out with their 'field research' and to meet him in the lot." He gestured vaguely toward it, after doing the air quotes thing when saying field research. He shrugged at them and let his arms fall to his sides.
 
Field research. That's rich.

Marcus watch Mike's exit curiously. Not that the man didn't concern him anymore than need be...but how he chose to word things. The gears in his head started to roll, with every step towards the truck. What if Lab Cure IX isn't necessarily your conventional cure? Instead of Marcus's first thought, of pills or liquid, the cure might even be some sort of cleansing.Would they be guinea pigs? Perhaps, curing meant some form of borderline genocide. Why else would they need any firepower? The thought made him cringe. Of course, Marcus could always be over thinking. He does that.

He looked up to see Ricky's air quotes. His eyes hid between squinting lids. A bit loose and dry, at the mouth. No wonder he ended up in prison. Stepping up, beside his fellow charismatic, Marcus gave an agreeing nod. He shot an subtle expression of concern towards them, hoping to make sure they would be on their guard. Who knows what was going to happen? In all honestly, Marcus grew wary of the idea that he might not be able to mentally prepare for "Lab Cure IX".

"The nerve agent isn't going to wait and neither should we. Lets go." he said, gripping the new crossbow.
 
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