War Economy



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Scene Title War Economy
Synopsis Adam Monroe follows a lead to buy military hardware from an unlikely seller.
Date September 22, 2009

Verrazano-Narrows Bridge

It's been just under a year since the last time Adam Monroe stood in the shadow of the Verrazano-Narrows. Eleven months ago, this great bridge spanned the distance between Staten Island and Brooklyn, now it's like the broken back of some great beast's carcass. From the Brooklyn side of the bridge, the sundered middle arch looks more fitting to belong in a warzone, the twisted metal structural supports, broken concrete and hundred-foot span of bridge that is missing between them seems like something out of World War II, not the modern era.

It's in the shadow of this now abandoned bridge that a clandestine meeting has been arranged. Two orange and white moving trucks are parked on a dirt access road on the Brooklyn shores, overgrowth of saltgrass and concrete debris scattered on the narrow strip of road makes traversing treacherous; one wrong turn and it's a blown tire and one particularly bad day.

The back of one truck is open, revealing black plastic cases stacked from floor to ceiling inside, and a lone man in a camel-colored suit with a mop of fiery red hair sits in the back of the truck on one such crate, hands folded in his lap. The other men gathered around with him are far less sharply dressed, favoring their digital camouflage patterns, body armor and balaclava; looking more like terrorists than businessmen.

In today's war economy, however, one man's terrorist is another man's arms dealer.

Adam Monroe rarely arrives alone. Today, he's fitted his various men with weapons and armor and a small convoy of SUVs. It's effect, really. One must be sure to show that you have the means to use what you want to buy, because if you don't, why are you wasting anyone's time? But, in the end, it's only Adam who makes his way towards the back of the vans and their various patrons. He's dressed nicely, in a non descript, but rather stylish suit and appears to maneuvar around the warzone like appearance of the terrain with ease. He pauses about twenty feet away and takes a careful appraisal of the situation and then looks to the man with the red hair, "I would assume you are the Irish man. That seems a tad like racial profiling. Might I ask a name?"

One coppery brow kicks up in regard to Adam, and the Irishman lives up to his name with the first words out of his mouth. "You kin' go diddle yerself for all'a th' good it'll do ya." The flash of a smile offered afterwards is like some sick consolation prize to his insulting greeting. "You ain't been 'round this block more than once or twice, 'ave ya?" He starts to stand up, brushing off the back of his slacks as he does before hopping out of the back of the truck. "You ain't got a name, I ain't got a name, me an my mates don't give a flying shit who y'are or what y'want these here munitions for."

Scratching at the side of his neck where razorburn dapples pale skin a blotchy red, the Irishman motions to the two moving trucks. "We'll keep this short'n sweet, I don' do orders over the phone, an' this is all the stock m'willin' t'part with. So you lemme' know what you want, or if one'a your pretty little boys up there by your fancy vans feels like delivering me a nice 'and written list, that'd make me day so much easier."

Adam arches a brow and shakes his head with a look of, 'irish'. He reflects to a time when Irish were treated little better than slaves. He kicked one down the stairs once because he was told they made different sorts of noises when they fell. Unless calling for their 'mams' was different, he really didn't see the difference. "Very well." he says, "I'll call you Seamus, because I'm all English and proper." he walks towards the vans, "Let's see what you have here." he says. "I'm looking towards high end munition delivering systems and specialized equipment. I need more silencers, body armor, sniper rifles. Also, I'm looking to get some ballistic knives, like the Spetznaz use."

"Seamus," the Irishman notes with a raise of his brows, "alright then." There's a look into the back of the trucks, followed by a tired sigh. "Ballistic knives I ain't got jack shit on, might take me a month to pull some out this way. Used t'be easier till the government tightened coast guard patrols 'round Staten Island way." Walking alongside Adam, the Irishman rolls his shoulders. "Body armor, silencers, ammunition, I got you covered t'the gills wit' that. Sniper rifles… that depends on what you want. All I've got to spare are four 7.62 M40s. They're standard issue US military, ain't no bells n'whistles, but they get the job done in urban combat."

Tucking his hands into his pockets to quell that burning desire to scratch at the side of his neck, the Irishman glances up to Adam's SUVs, then back to the Brit with one brow still raised. "Got myself a backload of RPGs brought in from the Ukraine, functional as any of 'em are. Got a few underbarrel grenade launcher modules modeled for M-16s. Got a hundred a'them, AKs as well, but…" his eyes wander back to the SUVs one more time, "'xactly how big an' army are y'buyin' for?"

Adam nods a bit absently as 'Seamus' goes over what he's got. He pauses for some moments. He purses his lips and says, "I've already got two M40s. I need some better ones. How long until you can get me some with bells and whistles?" he questions. He frowns a bit at the Ukranian RPGs. "Yeah, none of them are that reliable." he purses his lips. He needs a mechanic of some sort. One of those mechanical evolved. He pauses for some moments, "I'll take some RPGs for now, but see if you can't find some American or British made. Maybe some Israeli. I'm looking for standard surface to surface and surface to air." he pauses a moment, "I've got enough assault rifles." he says, as for how big of an army that he's buying for, he smiles softly and says, "No one ever knows, that's the point, yeah?"

"An RPG is an RPG is an RPG. Israeli, American, Chinese, British— " The Irishman waves a hand in the air dismissively, nodding to one of his men to move into the truck and start pulling out cases. "They're all made of cheap parts with cheap sights and cheap triggers. But that's why they're good. Easy to produce, easy to use, can take a beating and blow up a house just as fine. You get a fire n' forget weapon system like that, you ain't really lookin' for longevity. I can set you up with twenty and throw in four mortar launchers with it. Need to unload them anyway— consider it a bonus. They're Pakistani, short range."

Halting in his stride, hands on his hips now, the Irishman rubs at his mouth with one hand. "Might take me about a month to pull in the sniper rifles you want. I can pull one or two .338 Lapua Magnum's in, they're long-range anti-material sniper rifles. But it'll take time, those're hot commodities and New York City's a tight place to squeeze anything in."

Adam considers the response for a moment. Mortar launchers? He hadn't particularly thought about mortars, but he can find a use for them. He glances up towards the sky and then nods. He waves a hand and about half a dozen men come out of the SUVs and make their way down towards the boxes. He turns back the 'Seamus' and says, "Alright. Lapua's would be good. What are the odds you can find any M110's." he questions. He looks over the boxes, but doesn't open them himself, waiting for his men to do that sort of thing.

There's a shrug of his shoulders in response, brows furrowed, "Where there's a market there's an opportunity. But I can'nae say exactly how easy it'll be t'find anythin' specific. Me boys an' I've got enough goin' on right now, but by the end of the month things should be calmin' down." Reaching up to scratch at the back of his head, the Irishman tilts his head to the side. "When y'got our contact, did e' tell you 'ow I prefer payment? Most runners ain't got an eye for cash, but it ain't stayin' in the country anyway. If you were comin' t'do a wire transfer, that ain't gonna' fly. Don't trust it no more, not with those bloody freaks runnin' round, yeah?"


"Jus' want t'deal in paper, not plastic, as it were." There's a crook of the Irishman's lips up into a half smile at that. "You good on the currency, or's this gonna' have t'wait?"

He's quiet during most of the explanation. He listens and then there's those bloody freaks and he just smiles, his cordial smile that he'll give to just about anyone before he pauses. He studies the man and his men and shakes his head, "Well, glad someone uses sense." he says, "Can't say how many of those people are around." just as his men start going through boxes, taking stock of what's there. "That's why it's good to be prepared. Surface to air, yeah? They fly, you know." he pauses for some moments, "Well, as long as you're not price gouging, then we're fine." he says, "I came prepared." there's a pause, "Might seem like an odd request, but do you have any Glock 22 or 23s?" he questions, "It's a long story."

"Cop issue shit?" There's a quirk of the Irishman's head to the side. "Don't get much call for 'em, but yeah. I've got a rack in the closed up truck, ten." He motions to the second truck to be opened, "One box of ammunition with the guns on purchase, s'what I give yer contact for a deal, so you get it too. Customer loyalty an' all that." There's a pause, a shift of his weight to one foot.

Then, comes the breaking of the don't care principal. "What're you doin' with all this ordinance anyway?" He looks from Adam to the trucks, then out to the water. "Gon' carve yerself up a chunk'a Staten Island? Or jus' worried ol' Uncle Sam's gonna' come hard upside'yer head sometime soon?"

Adam frowns, "Good, I'll take them. It's…" he shakes his head, he's not getting into it. Lola will like it though. He pauses as his men eventually give him a nod, it's all there, working order, and so on and so forth. He smiles, "Customer loyalty…so…quaint." then Seamus wants to know about what he's doing. He smiles at the man and he says, "I shouldn't need to tell you, there's a war going on yeah? Government has freaks on the payroll, coming to lay waste to New York….there's a freak in the mayoral race." he shakes his head, "Never know when you have to set the world on fire."

A sidelong glance is afforded to Adam, the Irishman's brows furrow, and he considers the answer thoughtfully, a nod of his head coming next before he starts to make his way down to the truck and the water's edge. "Right as rain answer, in'nit?" Looking at the black plastic crates as they're being moved, the Irishman avoids eye contact, and when he does finally look up to Adam, it's with a narrowed focus and an uncertain raise of one brow. "You think'a anythin' else you might want, you just give a call t'that number you were given. Might take me a few days t'arrange a drop an' pickup, but them's the breaks in this day'n age."

Wetting his lips, the Irishman seems to stew over what he's been afforded, nodding his head appreciatively. "You done good wit' this purchase, an' the money checks out, you got yerself a business partna'. You burn me…" he just smiles the rest of that sentence away, there's really no need for an answer.

Adam nods a bit. He motions towards one of his men who others might know as Michael. He hands over a briefcase to Adam who lays it on top of a crate. "I'm sure we'll be able to do well with the business. I'll be waiting on those sniper rifles, yeah?" he questions. And with that, he and his men begin to carry off crates and boxes.

"Contact me in three weeks, an' I'll 'ave an answer for ya 'bout the rifles." One hand comes up, again scratching at the side of the Irishman's neck. Looking out to Adam's men carrying the weapons and ammunition away, he furrows his brows and offers something of an amused smile to the passing hands of ordinance and money. But the mirth goes wordlessly, his pale eyes turn out to the waters again, and to the silhouette of Staten Island in the distance beyond the broken figure of the Narrows overhead.

There's a bitter smile on his face, hands on his hips, firearms being hauled off behind him. All the sentiment the Irishman can give in response, is a sarcastically delivered, "God bless America, yeah?"

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