Rites Of Passage


keira_icon.gif khalid_icon.gif walsh_icon.gif

Scene Title Rites of Passage
Synopsis Working herself closer in to the Irishman's confidence, Keira Fionn finds herself presented with a rite of passage… but for what, she'll wind up being surprised.
Date November 29, 2010

Jamaica Bay

Thick and heavy clouds cover the open skies like a patchwork quilt of gray shades.

From the decomissioned air strip of Floyd Bennet Field, the expanse of Jamaica Bay spreads out eastwardly towards the Atlantic, a briny and frost-rimed wetland park. Shoulders hunched forward and breath issuing steaming from his lips, NYPD Detective Daniel Walsh cradles his coffee cup between both gloved hands as he watches the sun rising over the waters of the bay.

"Y'know, sixty years ago this place would'a been bustling with airplanes. Me gran'father worked here, repairing planes in these very hangars." There's a furrow of Walsh's brows as he turns to motion towards the large and historic looking aircraft hangars, labeled with marquees that proclaim National Park Service and Floyd Bennet Field across them. The hangars themselves are in immaculate condition, as is much of the tended grounds, chain link fencing keeping rabble out, and the less pesmanently present Audi sedan idiling out front of hangar 7.

"So, I figure with th' work you've been doing for me, it might well be time t'show you a bit more of what's the ropes in our line'a work…" Turning to the woman he's speaking to, Walsh's brows rise as his pale stare levels on Keira Fionn, a hesitant smile creeping nervously across his lips as he breaks away from her, tapping on the roof of the car to indicate that the driver can pull away to park.

"I have a daughter 'round about your age," Walsh muses as he looks back out to the glittering sunlight reflecting off of the waters of the bay. "She an' I don't speak much, but y'know… yer a good kid," Walsh opines as he looks back to Keira, his face stung red from the cold. "C'mon, let's get our asses inside so you can see the big deal."

If this is the center of Walsh's operation, right under the noses of the NYPD helicopter dispatch, it is a miracle that no one can hear him coming from miles away dragging his gigantic brass balls behind him.

"I promise it's warmer inside."

Keira is sporting her own coffee, which she holds close to herself. She's also quite bundled up, wrapped in a long wool coat, a fluffy hat over her head. She leans on a stylish cane as she sips at the coffee, peering out over the same view that Walsh enjoys, a faint smile on her face. She tries to dress nice for Walsh, wearing pinstripe suits instead of baggy jeans and skimpy tops. She wants to impress this man. She likes him.

As he speaks of the old days, blue eyes turn to peer at Walsh, her head tilted to one side. "I wish I could've been there. Always liked airplanes, especially the old style ones. They look so much cooler than modern ones." She smiles charmingly up at her boss.

The mention of a daughter prompts a slightly concerned look on Keira's face as she moves to follow Walsh. "You should talk t'her more. I never got th'chance to know my dad. I think I found him, but he…doesn't really care. Guess I shoulda expected as much from th'guy who abandoned my mom b'fore she ever had me." Her cane clicks on the pavement as she follows after Walsh. "So…you should try an' talk t'her more, before it's too late. Y'know? Family's important."

She smiles faintly as she follows after him, looking forward to the warmth.

"S'very too late," Walsh murmurs with a displeased look before hiding behind his coffee. Turning away from Keira, he leads the way between Hangars 7 and 8 to a side-facing entrance to one of the pair. A jingle of keys coming out of one pocket prefaces locks clicking and doors opening, along with a gout of heat issuing from the heavy door as it opens into the hangar.

"Me'n Susan have ourselves an' unfortunately diverging outlook on life, based much on some things she can'nae help, an' some things I can't." Reaching inside of the door, Walsh flips a switch, bringing on rows of hanging lights one at a time, each one popping on with a noisy crack of electricity going to them.

Canvas tarp covered boxes rest on pallettes set atop the poured concrete floor in neat, organized rows. Further racks and shelver are obscured by cloth coverings, all of which are kept at a mild temperature warmer than the outside, but still jacket weather. "Four years ago, just 'fore the bomb, these hangars were turned inta' business cncession storage fer sporting events. After the bomb, nobody gave a shit about sporting events out 'round here an they were turned inta' leased storage space…"

Striding past the first row of tarp covered boxes, Walsh takes a sip from his coffee, then pauses in the middle of a four-way stop between then, turning to look back to Keira. "A good friend'f mine bought up two'a these hangars for dirt cheap, started up the business so'ta speak. Ol' Billy may be gone, but his legacy…" Walsh intones as he motions around to the rows of storage, "all'at still lives on."

Keira frounds. "I'm very sorry things aren't going well b'tween your daughter an' you, then." She looks and sounds genuinely saddened by the fact that things aren't well between Walsh and his daughter. However, sensing it's a bit of a touchy subject, Keira steers clear of any further mention of miss Susan. Instead, she is quite content to simply follow Walsh into the hangar.

As the lights come on, she peers around the warehouse, her brows lifting as she observes the rows upon rows of boxes. "This is amazing…there's so much here!" She takes another sip of coffee, her eyes trailing over each box as they walk, the girl looking quite amazed by what she sees.

As he stops, so too does she, leaning against her cane. "Looks like he left an amazing legacy. Wish I coulda met him, too. This is an amazin' setup you got here." She smiles cheerfully up at the older man.

Clearing his throat, Walsh offers Keira a lopsided smile. "Well," is admitted a bit shakily, "Billy-boy was a lil' bit like vinegar. He got better with age, but he was kinda' bitter." Taking another sip of his coffee, Walsh turns away and jerks his head towards the end of the aisle, walking that way at a slow pace to let Keira keep up with her leg injured as it is.

"So," Walsh quietly states as he starts walking for a door to a maintenance room in the hangar, "this is where the yellow brick road stops, an' we're at the gates of the Emerald City." Resting one gloved hand on the door knob, Walsh looks back to Keira with his brows furrowed. "'Fore I take you in here, I need t'ask you a very important question, an' dependin' on what you've t'say about it will dictate how th' rest'a this goes."

One hand on the doorknob and the other balancing his coffee, Walsh furrows his brows nervously. "What, honestly, s'your opinion of them Evolved types?" Slowly, one of Walsh's eyebrows rises. "Be hones', an' think 'bout yer answer. Because I need t'know 'xactly where y'stand."

Keira follows along after Walsh, her eyes still wandering over the contents of the warehouse. She's definitely amazed by this warehouse, and its rows upon rows of boxes that she assumes are filled to the brim with weapons. Her cane clicks on the concrete floor as she follows behind Walsh, smiling faintly. "Eh, nothin' wrong with bitter. In any case, I like vinegar. S'good on chips, with salt." She grins.

His next question prompts raised brows, and Keira thoughtfully sips at her coffee as she peers at Walsh in thoughtful silence. She's quiet for a good long while, as well, studying Walsh's facial expression. That's a pretty loaded question, really— he could be an Evolved, and saying her real feelings on the matter might ruin her chances.

But he did ask for honesty.

"My politically correct answer'd be that I am a supporter of registration." She frowns. "My politically incorrect answer is that I don't like 'em." She leaves it at that, frowning— bracing for the worst, even.

Walsh furrows his brows, silent in his stare leveled on Keira. After a moment his wrist turns and the doorknob clicks. As that door opens, the sounds of a muffled television start filtering out through the opening. "Well, good t'know we're somethin' on the same page then. I'd like t'introduce y'to my business partner'f going on a year'n a half now…"

Stepping in through the door, Walsh leads the way for Keira to follow him into a long and narrow maintenance room refitted into a makeshift meeting area and living space. Metal-framed bunk beds are set up against the far wall and the end of the long room, a pair of metal office desks aren't far away, atop one of them is a small, boxy tube-television showing a black and white episode of Bewitched.

Sitting at the desk, portions of a Glock disassembled on a blanket laid out across his lap, a duskily-skinned arabic man offers a silent and judgmental look to Keira as she enters. When he turns to more fully look at her, Keira is shown the horribly scarring covering the right side of his face, slices dragged down through his skin that resemble playful touches of a knife's edge.

"Keira, this is Khalid Sadaka. Khalid, this here's Keira Fionn, she's the supplier I tol' you took over fer Nicky when he went tits-up on us." Casting an askance look to Keira, Walsh waves her in with a wary smile. "Khalid's what you'd call a specialist, an' he's somebody you might be workin' a bit more with in the next few months…"

As he admits to feeling similarly, Keira relaxes visibly, smiling faintly. That is a major relief, that he doesn't like Evos, either. "Good t'know you feel th'same. I was hopin' I wouldn't get attacked for sayin' that." She peeks in as he opens the door, her brows raising. She follows Walsh in, her cane clicking on the floor as she examines the room.

Her eyes trail to Khalid as he fixes that silent look upon her, her brows raising. She says nothing until Walsh offers an introduction, and dips her head toward him in a respectful nod. She waits for the introduction to finish as she steps in fully, coming to a stop in the center of the room, her brows raised. People must stay here, too. Interesting business she's getting into— one she's happy to get into.

Finally, she dips her head toward Khalid once more. "Pleased t'meet you, Mr. Sadaka. I look forward to workin' with you in the future." Ever the respectful one, to those who she feels deserve her respect. She finally removes that fuzzy hat of hers, tucking it into her pocket.

As Keira moves thorugh the door, Walsh slowly closes it behind her, then offers a look to the silent Khalid. Carefully moving the pieces of his Glock from the blanket to the newspapers folded out atop the desk, Kahlid bundled up the empty blanket and throws it towards the bottom bunk, then pulls himself out of the chair and to his feet. Closer, now, Keira can see a notch missing in his upper lip, split away by the same cruel torture that half of his face underwent.

"You've been workin' with us long 'nough, an' what happened on the 8th helped solidify things for me, darlin'." Walsh steps around Keira side, then looks askance to her. "Khalid an' I are workin' on somethin' for next month, an' we'd like t'recruit you for some side jobs. How much d'you know about Gideon d'Sarthe?"

The name is an evocative one, dredging up stories of gang wars in New Orleans and Chicago, the greatest rival of Daniel Linderman. Powerful, cruel, cunning, every part as much lion as he is man.

Keira only gives Khalid's face a brief glance-over, memorizing his features for future referece. Not like he would would be difficult to pick out in a crowd, with that facial scarring. She doesn't bother asking how that happened. If it's going to be explained, it will be on the silent Arabic fellow's own choice, not at her pressing for information.

Once finished memorizing the man's face, Keira turns to Walsh, smiling faintly to Walsh as he speaks. His final question prompts another smile, and Keira slowly nods toward Walsh. "I have heard about Gideon d'Sarthe, yeah. My homes talked a lot 'bout him. Big time gangster, prolly bigger than I'll ever hope t'be." Certainly, it's been difficult enough for her to just get to where she is now.

She leans on her cane, slurping down more coffee. "And, as always, m'happy to help you out." She doesn't say that he's more like a father than any other man in her life, which is exactly why she's so eager to help him out.

"We're looking t'take him out." With Walsh, there is absolutely no wind-up before his pitch, he just throws things out there. "Permanently." Brows lifting, the detective walks over to the desk Khalid was sitting at, pulling out a chair and turning it around to face Keira, then dragging the other out fot himself as he takes a seat. "The how'f it isn't all that important right yet. But the fact of the matter's that we want to own the market on what it is we do, and what we do is move guns. Gideon's got himself a good business, a big business. Thing is, with Kain Zarek dead an' outta' the picture, my operation's now the second largest in the city."

Walsh folds his arms over the back of his chair, straddling it backwards, still holding that coffee cup, contents long since cooled. "There's some people I want bumped outta' the way 'fore we get that far though, an' it needs t'be done sooner rather'n later. There's a shop up in Manhattan, called by t'name of Miss Aphrodisia's. You ever heard of it?"

Keira's brows raise, and she can't help but grin, just a little bit. Oh, this kind of thing is right up her alley. She moves to her seat, settling down and rubbing at that nearly healed wound from the eighth. "Mmm, sounds like this'll be right up my alley. M'always happy t'help you out." Hits? She can happily do that. Intimidation? She can do that too. The sky is the limit when it comes to this kind of thing.

"Miss Aphrodisia's? Yeah, I've heard of it. Never really shop there, a bit too…fancy shmancy for me, and th'like. But I know where it is." She offers a slow nod, watching Walsh as she drains the last cooled contents of her coffee cup. "Just ask, and ye shall recieve." She offers a faint smile to Walsh.

"I want it gone," Walsh specifies, offering a brief look to Khalid, then back to Keira. "Point of fact is, I want it gone, an' I want it t'be a message. Y'see, that's… where the question I asked you earlier starts t'come into play. See th' owners of that cute little shop are running guns, not many, but enough. They're also selling t'clients that me an' Khalid an' our friends don't much take kindly to either…"

Rubbing a gloved hand across his mouth, Walsh glances up to Khalid, then back to Keira. "I'd like you t'bring down the whole bloody building. Explosives, fire, whatever it is you'd prefer. Call it an initiation rite, do it up how'er you'd like to, and we'll obviously see how it goes. Kill the owners if y'can, but don't sweat the pretty little hairs off your head if'n that ain't possible, because this is one'f those messages that works just as good with or without bodies."

Walsh's brows furrow and his light eyes track to Khalid again, as if conferring with him, then settle on Keira again. "You think yer up fer this? It's big trust, but you pull this off an' me'n you'll be in thick as thieves, as it were."

The petite, tattooed woman leans forward in her seat, her brows raising as Walsh gives her the details of what he wants done. That little grin that was tugging at the corner of her cheeks only grows as he explains his desire, her hands resting on her knees. Destroying things? Explosions? Making a message for Gideon d'Sarthe? The eager look on her face says far more than she can.

"I think I can manage that quite well, really." Arson is so fun, too. She smiles up to Walsh, nodding quietly. "I'm in. I'll do it, and I'll do m'best to make sure those owners don't get outta there alive." She dips her head toward Walsh, rubbing her hands together, before letting them come to rest on her cane.

"If you provide me some good C4, I can have that building turned into a crater by the end of th'week— with time t'scope it out an' all." She can also potentially drag Jason in on it, she's sure. She won't introduce him to Walsh, certainly, but she'll give him the hope that if he helps, she might be able to get him in on some of the action. Even if it's just under her supervision.

"I have some," Khalid finally speaks, crossing his arms over his chest and shifting his weight to one foot, "I can't spare too much though. We need it for next month. I've got some det cord I can spare, we could rig together some home made incindiaries instead. I've got plenty of gasoline, we could whip up some improvised napalm, that's always good for a show." Khalid Sadaka is nothing if not a professional.

"See?" Walsh waves a hand at Khalid, "This s'why I love this bloody guy, napalm, c'mon who'd have thought of that, seriously. It's like that ice cream truck through the feckin' front doors of the MET." Walsh exhales a breathy laugh as he shakes his head, finally leaning over to set his mostly empty coffee cup down on the adjacent desk.

"A'right, so, this is all on you darlin'. Whatever munitions you need we can supply you, but it's up t'you an' whoever you bring in t'this mess t'get the ball rollin on yer own." Folding his gloved hands together, Walsh's brows furrow and blue eyes square on Keira. "Ideally this needs t'go down in no more'n two weeks, t'give us breathing room between now an' when we hit Gideon in the bread basket."

Keira grins, suddenly, over at Khalid. "That all sounds beautiful t'me, handsome. Anything you can hook me up with, I'll happily use. Hit th'supportin' wall with some C4, set the rest on fire, and we'll be in business." She smiles charmingly to the Arabic man. Seems she meant her comment about him being handsome, as it sounded like a genuine compliment.

Blue eyes meet Walsh's, and Keira nods slowly, grinning up at the man with an almost eager expression. "Oh, I can manage it in a week, week and a half at most. Might be able t'look up some munitions experts, too." Then, she straightens, sitting at attention as she smiles up to Walsh. "You can count on me…this shit's right up my alley." First will be a quick trip into the shop to scope things out. Shouldn't be too difficult, she'll just have to take the plugs out of her ears and cover them with her hair.

However much she meant it, Khalid's expression implies that he didn't take it that way. Call it being self-conscious, but his recent maiming has him on edge. Just a scowl offered to Keira, nothing more, not since the boss seems to have taken a shine to her. "Good, then that packs us up nice an' tidy. You get this done as yer initiation, an' I'll introduce you t'a few more friends'f mine an' let you in on the whole big deal…"

There is, admittedly, some levels of this conversation that Walsh is purposefully keeping Keira out of the loop on. After this job is over though, she's going to have a clearer picture of exactly what she's getting herself into. "Alright, get yer ass outta' here. The car's parked n'waitin'. Keep in touch but don't come back here till I tell y'to, ain't no need to draw any more attention t'this place than's necessary."

Khalid's scowl is met with a slightly apologetic look. But scars are sexy, promise! However, Keira offers a nod toward Khalid. "Thanks. I'll look forward to meetin' them." She offers a faint smile toward the Arabic man, that apologetic look in her eyes. She didn't mean to offend him, really! She's just not one to beg forgiveness from anyone.

She's certain there's pieces of the big picture that she's missing. But she's not like most people; Keira, she's quite happy to wait to be included. She'd rather prove herself than be a pest. And that is just what she's going to do, she's fairly certain of it.

With a nod, Keira stands, leaning on her crutch with a grin to Walsh. A lazy salute is offered. "I'll make you proud again, boss." She smiles up to him, before she's on her way oward the door, her cane clicking against the floor as she walks.

When the door opens and shuts, Walsh exhales a breathy sigh, then turns to offer a look askance towards Khalid. "Shake the chain," Walsh instructs, "let the dogs know it'll be feedin' time soon." Swinging one leg from around the chair, the Irishman pushes himself up to his feet and dusts off his hands, looking towards the closed door with an inscrutable expression.

"Gonna' be fresh meat everywhere soon."

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