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Oddsock

Algonquin Assassins

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Oddsock

Zera, thanks for telling me. I was going off of memory and thought I was in Suffolk.

 

ChrisAndy, if it's that hard for you, you can pursue someone else. Understandably some ped models just don't like spawning until forever and ever. Did I mention that he could be found on and around Parr St, including Lynch Station?

 

El Zilcho, grand and brave work, the charitable donation is very enjoyable. Enjoy your vacation; it is well deserved after all you've gone through. I do hope that within a short while we'll be seeing some more contracts felled by your skills, however.

 

Observer X, sorry, totally missed that you had gotten him! I'll update the databases later today.

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Observer X

I've been approached by a client. Somebody needs to be murdered and, once more, I'm leaving it in your more than capable hands.

 

Ten years ago Alexei Yuran was instrumental in the cross-border trafficking of women between states of the former Yugoslavia. Russian born and Romanian bred, Alexei became renowned amongst 'slave girls' as a brutal and dictatorial leader of an underground human trade ring operating primarily from Bucharest. With millions of dollars in cash flow, the late 90's saw business eventually expand to a new home in Moscow, from which thousands of women were traded to the majority of eastern Europe. Conflict in the second Chechnyan war and the breakup of the former Yugoslavia significantly bolstered patronage into the 'sex dens' under Yuran's jurisdiction. Ironically it was the conflict in Chechnya that became the downfall of his criminal organisation. Taking full advantage of the boosted arms trade scene Alexei attempted to deal with localised sects of public 'freedom fighters' in eastern Chechnya. Surely enough he became caught in border skirmishes and was forced to flee to neighbouring Georgia, temporarily halting business proceedings. In another twist of fate it was just a month later that INTERPOL searched Alexei's temporary safehouse, after receiving information from an 'inside' source. Alexei was not found and presumedly fled to the USA days later.

 

The informant's name cannot be disclosed.

The current status of Alexei Yuran's human trafficking empire cannot be disclosed.

The case against Alexei is presumed to be cold, for an undisclosed reason.

 

Alexei is (or was) an internationally sought criminal and as such should be treated in a serious manner. You will find him in the Castle Gardens area of Southern Algonquin. He apparently frequents the 'Poop Deck' seafood restaurant at the far south of the map, by the ocean. He is a large man and is dressed in a white long sleeved business shirt, with an open collar. He wears a necklace and has a clearly visible upper chest. Black pants and shoes are also his standard attire. The main distinguishable characteristic of Alexei is his combed, dark brown hair. It looks like a toupee due to the undergrowth of grey hair clearly seen. He also has a dark brown goatee. Mind that when he speaks it's with an American accent, apparently trained over the course of his time in Liberty City.

 

My client has requested that the job be done in an efficient and timely manner. Civilian casualties, as ever, will not be tolerated. Creative use of the environment may be important in case of a heavy police presence. Due to the nature of the hit and importance of the target himself, a $6,000 reward is personally on offer. Best wishes, assassins.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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ChrisAndy
Zera, thanks for telling me. I was going off of memory and thought I was in Suffolk.

 

ChrisAndy, if it's that hard for you, you can pursue someone else. Understandably some ped models just don't like spawning until forever and ever. Did I mention that he could be found on and around Parr St, including Lynch Station?

 

El Zilcho, grand and brave work, the charitable donation is very enjoyable. Enjoy your vacation; it is well deserved after all you've gone through. I do hope that within a short while we'll be seeing some more contracts felled by your skills, however.

 

Observer X, sorry, totally missed that you had gotten him! I'll update the databases later today.

I'm not sure how much more clear I have to make this. I saw him where you said he would be, on Parr Street. I saw him there once and never again. I have not seen him anywhere in that area or by Lynch street.

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Oddsock

You don't have to make it any more clear, I understood you the first time, and I've told you that, so perhaps it is I who needs who clarify things.

 

I know you found him once. I know you haven't since. Tough luck. Keep trying or go after someone else.

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ChrisAndy
You don't have to make it any more clear, I understood you the first time, and I've told you that, so perhaps it is I who needs who clarify things.

 

I know you found him once. I know you haven't since. Tough luck. Keep trying or go after someone else.

Alright. What's your Xboxlive gamer tag? Can you PM it to me?

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Oddsock
You don't have to make it any more clear, I understood you the first time, and I've told you that, so perhaps it is I who needs who clarify things.

 

I know you found him once. I know you haven't since. Tough luck. Keep trying or go after someone else.

Alright. What's your Xboxlive gamer tag? Can you PM it to me?

Same as my name here.

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Jean Capel

(I'm back, note, the contract detailed below is not one issued by the AA and is for flavor purposes only.)

 

 

 

At the Behest of a Friend

 

They call my style old-fashioned, I call it reliable. There isn’t much appreciation for practicality and panache. These days, style takes the place of substance and fear takes the place of reliability and insurance. When a client calls me with a concern, I take care of it quickly, cleanly, and quietly, albeit expensively. I have a variety of methods that are entailed; each is used for a specific situation, but is versatile enough to be adaptable. Reliability, safety, and peace of mind, these are the things I use in my profession, and they are the reasons that clients come to me instead of some two bit punk child with no experience and not the least modicum of civility or respect.

 

I rarely if ever meet a client, but when I do, I dress well, a first impression is always important, my dress and manner reflect that. Of course, the people who see me once wouldn’t recognize me again if I stood in front of their face and called them mother, you’d be amazed what you can do without plastic surgery. Jewelry and glasses, facial hair, real or false, hair dye and wigs, the appearance of weight gain, different clothing, and even false tattoos or scars can be made to look real. Sometimes the best way to blend in is to hide in plain sight. When the pressure is on, you’d be amazed how fast you can make yourself look differently, even if that means sacrificing your vanity for a good shiner.

 

For legal purposes, I go under many names in many countries. I have access to my multiple sets of documents at any point in time when I need them. I don’t carry them all with me for obvious reasons; however those relevant to a certain location are safely stowed away near an easy access point.

 

My dress depends on where I go, I wouldn’t very well wear a track-suit when walking into Goldberg, Ligner and Shyster now would I? As despicable as those shylocks are on the inside, they like to look nice on the outside. Blending in is as mentioned above an important part of my profession, although on occasion standing out can be useful.

 

An example I cite often to my clientele as a sign of my dedication, is one contract in particular. The associate that I was being assigned to was deliberately causing credibility and privacy troubles with his employer; I was thusly assigned to liquidate him from the company’s roster. As this employer was having a credibility problem with former business acquaintances due to this associate, I was paid a tidy sum as most specialists were avoiding these men like the plague. A prime example of my work, I am almost indiscriminate of who I am employed by, as long as a certain equilibrium in my work environment is not disturbed by my work with a particular client.

 

I was given a small dossier on the associate, apparently the company hadn’t done their research, he’d been an informant for another company that had a monopoly on the industry, as well as an agent provocateur. I am a much more thorough man, I can not afford to miss any detail, and perception is one of the greatest tools in my metaphorical box.

 

For over a week I followed the man. I photographed him and his associates and determined their identities. I made personal anecdotes about personality, habits, frequent spots of interest, license plate number, and several other factors. I updated my employer every two days, and asked if he would like to adjust his unemployment list to include the man’s associates. Even though I was denied as I assumed I would be, I like to give my employers options, and the extra fee per roster liquidation.

 

When I finally decided that I’d gathered enough information, I collected my dossiers on the men I’d researched and their own personal employer, collected that into one large contract file, and then shredded and burned the other copies, I said before I sell my clients peace of mind and I mean it.

 

I followed the man around for a day, as an example for other less then trustworthy associates wasn’t needed; I decided to wait for the most private opportunity to inform the man of his liquidation, to avoid causing a scene.

 

As long as I waited, I’d never before seen this man in particular stay in one spot for more then an hour. I finally decided I would have to be a catalyst in this situation. I approached the man, I was dressed poorly, a blue and white striped track suit and some jeans. I had a cheap revolver stuck in my front waistband to give myself the appearance of a thug. I approached the man and flashed my firearm at the pusillanimous crowd surrounding the associate. They retreated, yet this man swung at me, I chuckled at his foolish bravado as I dodged his blow.

 

A police cruiser passed by and I took advantage of the opportunity, I quickly slid my firearm into the gutter, it was a Saturday night special, cheap, I had other tools for usage. I readied myself and took a blow in full view of the police officers. They came and curtly arrested him, neglecting have me fill out paperwork.

 

I retreated to my car after thanking the officers; little did they know how much easier they were making my job. I entered my grey four door sedan, and I followed the police car. It was a long and very dreary ride, but eventually they reached the local prison. As they were a few stops away, I parked my car, opened up the trunk, and removed my rifle case. I took up the most viable vantage point, and I removed my automatic M4 carbine. I flipped the fire-mode selector to semi automatic, and I took aim as the car began to arrive. I adjusted the iron sight, set up the bipod, and screwed in the silencer. My clothing was about as dark as the surface under me, so I had no fear of discovery before I pulled the trigger.

 

The officers exited the vehicle and let my assailant out as well. They walked him up to the two carbine wielding guards. I figured I could easily let them take care of him by firing off a round and scaring him, LCPD aren’t known for understanding. However, I always make sure my client gets what he is paying for from me, so I decided against it. I selected a magazine from the case and inserted it into the gun as the officers from the car and prison respectively began chatting while their prisoner waited idly.

 

I grinned as I inserted the magazine. Experimental fragmentation 5.56 rifle rounds. They’d not been cleared for use by any militaries yet, but certain private armies had used them in war zones. Essentially, the bullet upon contact with anything, acted similarly to a hollow point, but rather then sending out jagged edges and “Mushrooming”, the bullet itself using some classified technology, exploded, and completely shredded the internal organs of the enemy combatant, or piece of clay, depending on your aim.

 

I set down a tape-recorder and turned it on. Then, I aimed for the man’s center mass, and I pulled the trigger three times, pausing between rounds to savor the pandemonium my gunfire caused. With each shot, each bullet hole, multiple small holes perforated the man’s torso and legs, the shrapnel from the rifle rounds.

 

I chuckled grimly at ironic yet poetic justice at the man’s fate. He shredded the privacy of my employer, and was physically shredded in turn. The police were shocked, and began to spread out, searching the street level and alleyways, and making quick sweeps of the upper levels; they apparently failed to see me.

 

I knew I couldn’t go back to my car, however, I snapped a few photographs of the shell casings on the rooftop, the dead body down below, the police officers searching, and the weapon I used. I left the rifle on the roof and after picking up my tape-recorder, retreated on foot back to a storage facility where I had stored my files.

 

This was where I began the final stage of the contract, the debriefing. Most clients just want someone dead, and although I don’t mean to sound like a broken record, I sell my clients peace of mind. I converted the format of the tape, and then copied it to DVD. I made a copy of the large case file, and attached the copied DVD and photographs. In total, my client received photographs, an audio file of the contract, and the informational file and dossiers I had compiled. I also had a copy of this file. It was untraceable to me, but I kept it to remember my enemies, and to remember clients.

 

I received payment, the lead detective investigating the death of the associate, apparently an alcoholic, was in a horrible car accident on the Alderney highway. All of his brakes happened to fail at the exact same time. Personally, I believe he was intoxicated, but that’s the excuse.

 

My employer sent me a bouquet of flowers and a box of chocolates as a parting gift for my self-interest favor. Who says criminals have no sense of humor?

 

Anyway, to the point, if you’d like me under your employee, say the word, I could use the extra money. As I was directed here by a friend, I thought you should know. Shanks shot himself in the head last night, poor kid never got his head out of the game.

 

I don’t expect you to attend to the funeral; after all, you were only business associates.

 

 

Awaiting your word

 

- The Mosaic

Edited by Jean Capel

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Oddsock

Well, good work. I hope that in the future the assassinations you tell here will be those contracted by the Algonquin Assassins. Otherwise, I'm afraid your expertise and storytelling is not wanted. Sorry, just sticking to business. Shanks was a good fellow, it's unfortunate he took that decision to end his life. I never figured working for my organization could cause such a thing.

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Jean Capel

Ah, the example was merely a resume, I'll assume it's accepted then? As for Shanks, he was cut out for the physical part of this job, but he was never the most stable operative I've ever run. Still, he was my favorite, I guess that's why he called me.

 

Back to business, I'm working on a contract as of now, I'll report back soon. Till then.

 

 

- Mosaic

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Oddsock

Until then. As for a resume, those come in the form of completing a hit contracted by the organization -- anything else is just work history. I await your "application."

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Jean Capel

Last Meal

 

I find it ironic that although I have a disdain for criminals and those who gain from murder, I act as their vanguard for so many problems. I suppose I justify myself by knowing that even though one unsavory figure is gaining from my work, another is losing the same amount, if not more. I am the necessity that is the equilibrium of this city. I have no delusions that I could clean this city out of criminals myself. If the death penalty, torture, and each other don’t dissuade them from their line of work, I certainly wouldn’t. I couldn’t very well kill them all either, for I am only able to operate the way I do because of my anonymity, my professionalism, and my balance. If I were blinded by some self-righteous ideological pseudo-revenge mission, my demise, either self-inflicted or otherwise, would be an inevitable outcome of the situation. That, in the end, was Shanks’ own downfall, he took on a force that he had neither the resources nor the resolve to fight to the bitter end, I suppose he couldn’t let him live with the thought that the bad-guys never really lose, they just change uniforms.

 

With that thought in mind, I bring you my official resume to your emphatic organization. I reviewed your dossiers, and I decided I’d be doing a philanthropic service to the world if I took out one of Eastern Europe’s premier slave traffickers, rather then settling an angry housewives dispute the courts or the would be much more apt to.

 

I decided to pick reliability on this one. This man had survived civil war, had been chased by Interpol, and had thrived in a predominately destitute and seedy region, for this liquidation, a simple nine-millimeter caliber wasn’t going to do it.

 

As I sat on the second floor office of my humble abode, I decided to seize my current free-time and start contributing to my savings account. I went into the closet and ignored the finely crafted shotgun case on the shelf. I slid my hand over and pulled an ornate and sturdy wooden box down from its perch. I slid the lock’s numbers to their appropriate combination, and opened the case.

 

Inside laid my “Ol’ Faithful”. An 1895 Nagant 7 shot revolver. The wooden grip still appeared freshly lacquered, and the steel appeared polished. I wiped the gun down with a handkerchief just incase it had accumulated any dust, and cleaned it once. Even though it fired 7.62 Nagant rounds, I had it loaded with .32 Magnum cartridges, as I’d bought an aftermarket cylinder for that purpose. I removed the silencer from the case; I couldn’t resist buying one, for practical and collector’s reasons. The Nagant was and is one of the few revolvers on earth capable of using a sound moderator, and due to the lack of a slide firing back; it is more apt for that purpose than a pistol. I slipped the silencer into the pocket of my black dress pants, and the firearm into one of the large interior pockets of my black suit jacket, above my green shirt.

 

Ten minutes later, I was in my black four door Emperor 2008 model, locked, loaded, and ready to work. I had the dossier under my seat, and a short-barreled automatic pistol in a compartment under the back seat. See, even though the local police officers are crooked and don’t follow procedure when smacking around a suspect, usually of color, for some reason they never fail to adhere to the rules of search ability. Maybe it’s all the liberal judges getting child rapists and drug dealers off because the cops pulled a dime bag or some GHB out of the back seat. Whatever the reason, if it isn’t in my arm’s reach, they can’t search it. Thankfully, even though I can reach into the back seat, they’d have neither cause nor grounds to search for a compartment. Thusly, if I ever need some extra firepower or a little bit of stow away cash, I keep it in there.

 

I had reviewed the dossier before-hand, and knew the apparent local spots of the war financier and profiteer known as Alexei Yuran. I decided to try the local sea-food restaurant first, as it was about the time for the dinner rush I figured our friend would be hungry.

 

I arrived and parked up; I stuffed the dossier inside of the backseat compartment, and locked it and my vehicle. I took a leisurely stroll down the pier; I smelled the salt in the air, reminding myself of lovely days gone by. I arrived at the restaurant and sat down. To my luck, the only people around were my “Dead-ee”, a couple that was leaving, and a waiter. Our friend was beginning his meal, and so I ordered a Guinness and a shrimp platter, and had a meal of my own.

 

The meal was tangibly foreboding. Every so often he’d look up at me, as if he was afraid between faux-pretentious sips of drink and bites of shrimp, I were going to go for his jugular. Give me some credit; I have more sophistication then to kill a man who’s eating.

 

I finished around the same time he did, the waiter was long gone by then. Rather then leaving however, I left a gratuity, for the wandering wino I suppose, and got up. I walked to the railing and admired the view of the endless and majestic ocean, so peaceful. In this bliss a thought crossed my mind as I heard the man’s chair scratch the floor when he began to leave. I thought of a rather ironically appropriate tune for this man.

 

I waited a few moments, and I followed him, I removed the revolver from my inner coat pocket, and the silencer from my pant’s pocket. I screwed the silencer into the barrel, and then let my right hand, my trigger hand, drift ever so slightly in the gentle evening breeze.

 

Slowly, I turned the corner, with the financier only a few feet away. I ascertained that we were completely isolated and obscured from vision, if there was to be any time to strike, it would be best to do it now.

 

I raised my firearm, and I opened fire, two shots perforated his upper torso, most likely making contact or at least nicking his lungs. I fired two more shots at the left side of his lower abdomen. The silenced gunfire made little sound, only a moderately loud rushing of air, and a high pitched, but not too noisy ringing sound with each shot.

 

Alexei hit the ground with a thump, blood was splattered all over his clothing, and the wounds, and bullet holes were evident. Spills of blood were leaking from his torso, but his eyes showed no fear.

 

“Your bullets, they injure me, but what I have done will live on. I will be immortal in the minds of those girls; they will never forget my touch. The fate you give to me now is nothing, for I will be praised for my strength and discipline upon my deliverance…” he wheezed, spitting blood in-between sentences.

 

I chuckled at this man’s perceived bravado, “Rape and murder are just a shot away, huh Alexei?”

 

And then, he did something strange, he looked up at me queerly and laughed. I laughed with him, and then I put the gun to his head, and as his eyes widened as he realized the consequence of his actions, and that his friends had forsaken him, I pulled the trigger. I stood to avoid blood splatter, and then I fired another round into his face for good measure.

 

I walked away calmly and briskly, singing “Gimmie Shelter” to myself all the way back to my lovely home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I hope that is an appropriate enough of a resume. I'd appreciate being sent the balance of my funds from this job, along with the money I received from Shanks' several contracts.

 

 

 

(OOC: Previous contracts)

 

The Hove Beach Black PMP Racer (Long while back)

The Lawyer Beating (Algonquin park bathroom)

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Observer X

Blimey.

 

 

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Infinite Monkey

Ahh; home again, my brothers! Lean, tanned and refreshed and ready for business. But, contracts a little thin on the ground I see? I hesitate to take one off the list; instead, I shall endeavour to drum up a little trade.

 

There is a petty criminal who operates around Joliette Street in Bohan. He goes by the name of Lenny the Lips. He knows a little too much about this and that, and is not above parleying his little bits of info into a lighter sentence, if he falls into the hands of the long arm of the law.

 

It seems the police do have their sights on him and he is such a poor criminal that is only a matter of time before they get him into the back of a patrol car, and down to the station where he will instantly begin chatting away to the DA about whatever takes his fancy.

 

Lenny the Lips is a high priority for the the police, who are patrolling Bohan looking for him; they know he's going to talk. They are overlooking other criminals in the area so as to not tie up officers. If you see someone being arrested in that area, it's Lenny.

 

He must be "intercepted -with extreme prejudice" , but of course, go easy on the arresting officer; he is only doing his job, same as you.

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Oddsock

Ojala que Lenny is removed from this world without incident. I fear an assassin might need to take a chance and assassinate him outright, getting the police on him, and probably leading to casualties exceeding just the target.

 

Did you know, Infinite Monkey, that someone has the same profile picture as you? How strange...where is it from anyway?

 

Jean Capel, that was...interesting to read. Almost shocking the way Alexei reacted. I heard a saying once, something like "even in death a snake spits venom." I can't help but think of it...just so strange. Well, excellent work, both your procedures and debriefing were exemplary. I'll see about those previous contracts.

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Infinite Monkey

I doubt this "Rockteur" is a devoted fan aping my style; it is more likely that he is merely as lazy as I am; I just pulled an image from the approved gallery of avatars. I chose "Green Haze" because of it's simple mystery, and was about the only one there not trying too hard. Mind you, I can't help noticing mine is bigger than seems usual... Oh well.

 

Anyway, enough of this self regarding nonsense; we have work to do!

 

 

 

In want of entertainment last night, while waiting for the list of open Targets to build a little, I decided to see what Star Junction's theatre district had to offer. I watched the new musical "Raincoat Express" at the Seagull Theatre. And I must say it was the most excruciatingly awful piece of tawdry excrescence that has graced the stage anywhere. The tunes were tuneless, the script was anemic and formulaic, and the two leads trudged through it all without shame or competence.

 

If Theatre as an art form is to survive, this sort of thing must not go unpunished.

 

So, my brothers, search the back-ways and courtyards of Star Junction where the playwright -J Peasmold Gruntfuttock- the MD Rambling Sid Rumpole and the two "stars" -Dame Ceilia Molestrangler and aging juvenile Binky Huckerback- may be found between performances.

 

Celia has red hair and affects to wear a large yellow flower in her buttonhole.

 

Binky is overweight and blond and poses behind dark glasses.

 

Gruntfuttock, The playwright is an earnest bearded youth who can be found sitting, notebook notebook in hand, as he works on his next "masterpiece".

 

Sid is to be found inflicting earache on passing citizens with a rusty old saxophone.

 

 

Find them, my brothers, and do the world of the arts a favour in the way that only our good offices can.

Edited by Infinite Monkey

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Oddsock

I'm not sure I've ever encountered this particular brand of art critic...

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El Zilcho

How fantastic to see Brother Infinite returning to active duty! It warms my heart to know that. At the moment I must shamelessly admit while you clean the streets of Liberty, I'm catching a tan in Barbados and Cayman Islands, albeit at the same time checking on one of my various secret, untraceable accounts. I've recently been updated by satellite phone, that a few more TPD members have met unscrupulious ends in the pathetic attempts to escape. I had the best men hired, and the downfalls of these scum are quite exceptional, enough for me to list them;

 

Drowned in sewers, hurled into a private jet engine, neck broken by transvestite hooker, ran over in front room by drunk bus driver (his minibus slammed through the front door just as our mark answered the intercom), incinerated on his yacht, sprayed with bullets and run over by subway train (his corpse was dragged over 300 feet before the train stopped), poisoned chocolate éclair, rocket launcher through window (killed three of the wretches in a conference), electrocuted in his Olympic swimming pool, decapitated with katana in front of his bewildered associates and finally (my personal favourite) burned alive with Molotovs while making love to his wife. Oh, how could I forget? Crushed in a car compactor.

 

I'm eliminating what remains of my paper trails. Should be back to work soon. I give my regards to all, old and new, Brothers of my organization.

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Jean Capel

Got A Ticket?

 

 

When I awoke, it was eight in the morning, the light was shining through the curtains, and my lovely lay next to me. I clicked off the alarm preemptively; I didn’t want to wake anyone, not yet anyway. I dressed in professional attire, black slacks with dark green turtle neck and a black v neck suit jacket. I decided that since today would be a most likely public job, I would need an altered appearance. I shaved off my beard, trimmed my hair down a bit, and then put on black sunglasses and a brown curly haired wig, and a faux-brown moustache. Most importantly, I spent half an hour applying a false tattoo, one sported by the Albanian Mafia.

 

I quietly shut the door behind me as I left our bedroom, and walked to my office. I checked available contracts and decided on our unhelpful neighbor as the target of the day. I removed a 9x19 millimeter Glock handgun from my locked desk. I loaded it, chambered a round, and holstered it in the back of my waistband, with the safety on of course.

 

I fetched the keys from the kitchen and left a note. Then I locked up behind myself quietly. I decided to take my wife’s car this time, since I figured I’d be back before she would need it. On my way out the door, a rather uncouth looking Hispanic man ran into my 1969 Dodge Charger. He knocked the tail light out inadvertently, and quickly rose and continued his run without apology or explanation. I soon found out why, a rather portly police officer was in a pathetic attempt at pursuit. I chuckled at the ineptness of the officer, entered my wife’s sedan, and took off after the criminal.

 

I caught up with him a block away in my vehicle; I yelled several warnings, telling him it’d be best to stop running. He flipped me off and flashed a firearm, so I nudged him with the vehicle, and sent him flying to the ground. I exited the car, and broke his wrist with my foot; earning a sickening cracking sound, and a rather loud shout, possibly involving several threats in Spanish. I then disarmed him and held him at gunpoint with his own rather crude weapon, until the police officer caught up. He thanked me, and I went off to continue the actual purpose of my trip, as satisfying as that segue had been.

 

I meditated to the sounds of Phillip Glass, along with interludes of Kyuss or Nightmares on Wax CDs. In my peace, I admired myself pretentiously in the mirror, for middle-age, I thought I was in damn good shape, and my slicked back natural gray hair could still catch a younger woman’s eye, even if it was unwanted.

 

I was soon at the metro; I figured it’d probably be the best location to scout in the beginning. Besides, the client requested clean and quick, blowing his head off with a shotgun as he walked out the door of his home wasn’t going to accomplish either of those goals.

 

The dossier was unspecific about this man’s employment; however, I felt it was irrelevant as long as he got a noon lunch break. I lapped around the metro around four times, at approximately one in the afternoon, he showed up, waiting for a train ride. I decided to indulge this man once more before his final exodus.

 

For a bit, we chatted about sports and weather, until finally we got to the meat of the subject, the inferiority of others.

 

“You know, we elite, we need to band together. We must be the vanguard against the philistines and the degenerates that inhabit this city.” I was lying of course, but like I said, I was indulging the man.

 

“Damn straight! Our friends in power need to protect us, so that we can elevate ourselves to their own heights and in turn benefit them. We can’t let these junkies and homosexuals take up positions of power! The so called neighborhood watch where I live is run by incompetent fools!”

 

“Unfortunately, our friends can’t always protect us from everything. Sometimes, our friends are in reality our enemies. We must always remain vigilant.” I spoke verily as the train began its approach.

 

“Yes, we do need to take measures to protect ourselves, we can’t rely on others all the time, but-”

 

“However, that is not my dilemma to face today.” I interrupted.

 

“Huh, what do you mean?” He raised an eyebrow.

 

“I mean my friend, as incompetent as your neighbors are; they have opted to choose methods of trash disposal that aren’t entirely ethical or legal.”

 

He slowly began to panic as he realized my meaning. I hit him in the solar plexus with a fist, and then struck him in the throat with a knife hand strike with my free hand. He gagged and simultaneously crumpled. I caught him and tossed him into the path of the oncoming train. The gore from the body splattered the window, and his body was dragged on as the train plowed through the station. I wiped the specks of blood that had flown onto my face, and heard multiple screams people witnessed the gruesome sight.

 

Then, a police officer approached me gun drawn. I turned around and with my hands behind my back, flipped the safety off my pistol. He told me to show him my hands. I chuckled and rushed him, head butting him in the torso. I hit him with a right cross in the face, then rose and kicked his weapon hand several times until his pistol slid across the platform and onto the tracks. I pressed my gun against the chin of the officer and spoke.

 

“Call in an officer down and a suspect on the run, give my description, and don’t even think about going for your back-up or I’ll blow your brains out all over this wall.”

 

I wasn’t going to kill him obviously, it’d be unnecessary. I needed him to believe it though. He obeyed, so I took the radio and I fled. I ran down the tracks for a while, and finally the radio chatter ended. I had to find a cabbie to take me back to my car once I reached the street level again.

 

The ride home was once again filled by music. I ditched my disguise in a trash can down the street. And when I knocked on the door, I returned to a loving embrace and warm words.

 

 

 

I await payment and an update of my account’s balance. I look forward to more work.

 

 

Till’ Then

 

Mosaic.

 

 

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El Zilcho

Excellent, another TPD member escape with 148 other associates and members aboard a plane that was flying over the Pacific. They were nearly out of our grasp, they had nearly let us slip away. But unfortunately for them, one piece of luggage was aboard, that was full of 50kg of liquid explosives. The plane was lost over the ocean, blown up and all traces of it were lost. I doubt even the oil streaks remain. smile.gif Now, only the most intelligent, genial members of the TPD remain, those clever enough to disappear. I think they won't last long now though. I'm guessing about 20 remain, at the upper most.

 

I've nearly finished my work Brothers, I think what remains of the paper trail is gone, but I'm on a flight to Berlin to terminate an accountant who talks too much. I'll see you soon.

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Colt M14

I'm starting again. All over again. Colt no longer exists.

 

 

Sergei Alexis sat in his apartment, the TV blaring. He was deep in though. Sergei was a hired gun. He worked for the one paying the most. A stack of hundred dollar bills lay on the table. His feet were sitting on the table right next to the money. A large bolt action sniper rifle sat on his shoulder, his hand steadying it. His phone beeped suddenly, startling Sergei. He slid it from his pocket and answered it. "I have another job for you. I'm paying twice the price." Gary offered.

"I'll do it." Sergei replied quickly, a grin on his face.

"I like you, Sonny." Gary said with a laugh.

 

Sergei had to assassinate a police officer that had been proven to be corrupt, but paid the chief not to fire him. Sergei got to the Police station, as Gary said, he had created a large diversion in middle Algonquin. Sergei stepped up the stairs to the roof. He stopped suddenly when he noticed the police officer. A pistol in hand he ran around the corner and shot him. A light voice could be heard from down stairs. "I guess the tip was right." A dozen men ran up the stairs, pistols blazing. Sergei shot through the police forces, knowing he had been betrayed. He hopped in his Red and white Sabre GT and drove off, the rest of the police force on his tail...

 

His heavy muscle car spinning around the corners, swerving past police cruisers. He screeched into a safehouse. The door slowly lowered. For the next few hours he sat in his Sabre GT, scribbling down plans to kill Gary. He knew, if he assassinated Gary himself, he would be killed by his associates. Then he came up with a perfect plan. The perfect design. All he needed was someone to complete it for him...

 

Dossier

 

Target: Gary Merca

 

Appearance: He may assume many disguises to prevent an assassination. His basic appearance is A Caucasian male with no facial hair (may vary in disguises) and short hair. (May also vary in disguises.)

 

Location: At every night at 12am he heads to the pier directly lower in algonquin. (On your GPS it will stick out, South-west of the Helitour parlor.)

 

Motive: You are issued with one pistol fitted with a disposable grip and anti-finger print latex covering. You are to be dressed like a local thug. You are to head to the Pier at 11am and wait until he arrives. He will usually stand around, waiting for a contact, who he has a meeting with. Rarely he may walk around. If you do not find him at 12am, roam the pier and you will find him. Jog up to him and yell for his money. Make it look like a common robbery. If he runs, shoot him. If he stays, pistol whip him to the ground and shoot him. If he shoots back, shoot him. Drop the issued weapon on the target and leave the area. There are to be NO civilian or law enforcement casualties.

 

Payment: If you complete the contract and prove with pictures, you will get a payment of Six thousand American dollars. If you complete the target without the written motive, your life will pay the price.

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El Zilcho
If you complete the target without the written motive, your life will pay the price.

Is that supposed to be a threat? Because if it is I can think of a hundred ways to have you pay for that insult. If I were you, I wouldn't insinuate you are to kill anyone from this organization because if you did you would quickly find those closest to you disappear. Take it from me; don't f*ck around with us.

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Colt M14

 

If you complete the target without the written motive, your life will most surely pay the price.

Is that supposed to be a threat? Because if it is I can think of a hundred ways to have you pay for that insult. If I were you, I wouldn't insinuate you are to kill anyone from this organization because if you did you would quickly find those closest to you disappear. Take it from me; don't f*ck around with us.

Ah, you see, you took my message wrong. If you do not do it as I have said, his associates would hunt you down. But if you were dressed as a common thug, and killed him in a robbery, Then they would have a hard time finding you in Liberty City.

 

Edit: Also, why would I try and kill one of my brothers in the organisation.

Edited by Colt M14

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El Zilcho
If you complete the target without the written motive, your life will pay the price.

Is that supposed to be a threat? Because if it is I can think of a hundred ways to have you pay for that insult. If I were you, I wouldn't insinuate you are to kill anyone from this organization because if you did you would quickly find those closest to you disappear. Take it from me; don't f*ck around with us.

Ah, you see, you took my message wrong. If you do not do it as I have said, his associates would hunt you down. But if you were dressed as a common thug, and killed him in a robbery, Then they would have a hard time finding you in Liberty City.

I see. My mistake, although I'm sure he won't be a problem to our professionals.

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Colt M14

Also, may I ask which target is open. Most on the list have already been taken.

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El Zilcho

You wouldn't try to kill a Brother, but Colt was a troubled figure, was he not? He did leak information so you can understand any suspicions.

 

As for targets, Alexei has been taken out, as has the other target by samelleu, only your target and Greg Perristy remain. Yes Brothers, business is very slow.

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Colt M14

I checked and Greg has also been taken care of. You are right, business it tough. And don't worry about the Colt problem, it will be fixed soon. Wink wink.

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Jean Capel

Just to reiterate what our associate Colt has mentioned, I have already liquidated Alexei and Greg. Currently, I am doing my preliminary work on our lovely butchers of art, expect an update soon.

 

 

 

 

- Mosaic

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Colt M14

May I ask somebody to set up a hit?

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El Zilcho

I've got a hit for someone. My talkative banker friend blabbered this out before I threw him 20 storeys down onto the Berlin traffic;

 

His associate has been responsible for all the TPDs money. He lives in Switzerland, with an alpine retreat that's fit for a king. But unfortunately for him, he isn't aware that we operate in Liberty City and is in Algonquin for three nights to withdraw all the cash in the TPD accounts still around. Since all the other men who have access to it are dead or have fled, our associate thinks its open season and its giving him a chance to withdraw about $60 million in cash. He'll be near the Liberty City Bank, specifically in South Algonquin, just outside the FLEECA building where he'll be withdrawing the money.

 

He wears a dark green (buttoned up) suit with dark green trousers, with a light green striped tie on a white shirt. He has a little stubble and dirty blonde hair. Also wears black shoes and can frequently be seen talking on his cell phone. His name (I believe this is accurate, but my source of information was hanging by his ankles off a rooftop so the pronunciation may have been slightly off) is Mr Schrödinger. The payment is $800 if he is executed cleanly and his mobile phone is retrieved (any contact details on it will be passed on to my hired men who will then terminate the contacts), and another $100 added if he is photographed before and after the execution.

 

Good Hunting Brothers.

 

P.S I am writing this to you as I have just disembarked a red eye flight; I'm back in Liberty.

 

 

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Colt M14

Sergei woke, with a ring at his door. He stumped slowly over and opened it. Nobody around. He looked to the ground and noticed a pack of documents. He snatched them, closed his door and sat at his table to read them. A hours later, he was dressed in his finest suit, a custom bolt action sniper rifle in his briefcase and a White and blue Sabre GT waiting for him out the front.

 

He screeched up at the bank of Liberty and parked his car. He looked around nervously for anyone watching. He lay his briefcase on his lap, opened it and admired the rifle. He took his time, scanning the area and cleaning his rifle. It was about time to go searching. He popped the rifle into the case and closed it. He dropped it on the passenger seat and left the car.

 

He roamed the streets around the bank. Scanning around and observing his surroundings. Pushing though crowds of people to get to where his target may be. He returned to his car and headed to the FLEECA ATM. He pulled into an alley across from the atm. He did half a dozen walk by's to check the area for sniper spots. Having not seen his target, he walked into an alley and waited. Leaning against a pile of boxes his got a phone call. He answered it slowly. "Sergei. I need you to do some.. Work for me." The man on the other line offered.

"Het, comrade. I have some business of my own." He said hastily and hung up.

 

He walked back to his car and got his case. The time will come soon. He re-entered the alley and took a seat on one of the boxes. He set up his sniper rifle on a tripod and attached a camera to his scope. A light drizzle ensued. Sergei pulls his collar up to cover his neck. He watched. He waited. The target did not come. A guard took his shift out the front of the building. Sergei covered his rifle with a cloth and headed to the guard. He hit him on the back of the head and dragged him into an alley. He checked the guards pulse. Alive. He headed back to his hiding point and uncovered his rifle.

 

The target was at the ATM. Sergei hesitated and aimed his rifle. He shot a well placed bullet into his brain. Everybody kept walking as he fell forward onto the ATM. He looked as if he was alive. Sergei packet his rifle and headed to the body. He was about to drag him into the alley when he noticed that card and pincode had already been entered. The money just a button push away. Sergei, A faithful and loyal associate, pressed cancel. He took the card and the Targets cellphone. Just as he was dragging the body into an alley, A police officer noticed. "Hey you, stop right there!" Sergei pushed the body away and sprinted to his car.

 

He vacated the district quickly and returned to his apartment. He slid the card and the phone into a package. His hit was completed. If only his Gary problem would be quickly ended.

 

 

El Zilcho's target: Deceased.

 

(( Sorry for no pictures, my camera wasn't working. ))

Edited by Colt M14

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