Participants:
| Scene Title | War Economy, Part III |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | It all comes together. |
| Date | April 19, 2010 |
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A single fluorescent lamp clicks on inside of a long and narrow metal room. Corrugated steel walls are painted a deep brick red, hung with metal latticework framing that has flat-panel monitors bolted to them. Snaking lines of cabling bundled together with plastic ties connect the disparate wires as they make their way down to an industrial looking desk seated at the far back of the long, narrow room.
A metal creak comes with the opening of a door to the long room, one side of a shipping container groaning open, followed by the silhouette of a single man stepping inside. With a resounding clang the door comes shut, and booted feet clomp across the metallic floor towards the desk.
A snow-crusted balaclava is thrown down to the desktop with a slap, gloves far dryer landing atop it. Settling down in the folding chair at the desk, homicide detective Danny Walsh slides the old keyboard forward, eyes alight to a screen that isn't displaying satellite maps from before the storm. A quick alt+tab brings up a formerly minimized messenger window that is promptly typed into.
0dannyboi: Is it done?
Leaning back against the folding chair, Walsh lifts one hand up to rub at his forehead, fingers working over his creased brow. Staring at the screen, he's not certain how long to sit and wait for a response, not even certain if the person on the other end will come through as promised, but with half of the money he's owed having been paid up front, he's hoping. Fortunately, and surprisingly, he doesn't wait long.
Rebel: we have confirmation from one of our men: james alton is dead, as are all of yours. an unfortunate change of event but not outside of the bounds of our arrangement. the remaining balance due of $257,342 has been deposited to the accounts specified.
Red brows lift up in surprise and Walsh purses his lips, letting his head loll to the side as he considers the answer. Ten good men died for a sizable lump sum of money. Danny's lips part in a breathy laugh, shoulders rising and falling slowly as he leans forward and back to the keys again, tongue rolling across the inside of his cheek as he does.
0dannyboi: If you just wanted Jimmy dead, you could've just asked. I don't see why you went through all the trouble of having me fuck with that agent. But your money's just as green regardless, you don't have to explain yourself to me. Is that the end of our arrangement?
The response comes faster than Danny can remove his hands from the keys.
Rebel: trust is important to gain even if through lies. thank you for your cooperation detective walsh. you may hear from us again.
Rolling his tongue over the inside of his cheek, Danny quickly types the only response he can across the keys, head shaking slowly from side to side.
0dannyboi: wonderf—
Rebel has signed off.
"Well fuck you too," Danny breathes out in a murmur to himself, slapping his hands down on the sides of the desk beside the keyboard. Reaching into his jacket, detective Walsh removes a satellite phone from a large internal pocket, rising up from the desk seat and clunking across the metal floor as he dials. There's a long, drawn-out sigh as he waits for the person on the other end to pick up.
"Oi, hey, it's me. Yeah… the money went through," Danny quietly reaches up to scratch at the side of his cheek as he glances back at the computer behind him while listening to the person on the other end of the phone. "Yeah, yeah it's all good. Look, I need you to get me in touch with a supplier, I've got some munitions requests coming down the pipe that I can't cover on my own, couple'a my boys got whacked."
With a furrow of his brows, whatever the response was on the other side seemed distasteful to Walsh. "No, fuck no I ain't gettin' nothin' from that Zarek shit-heel, he still owes me five grand for those dud rockets. Who'se your other contact, the one from that time we needed those MP5's?" Danny lifts his eyes to the ceiling, staring vacantly at a spot of rust bubbled through the paint, then nods his head.
"Right, gotcha." Danny's blue eyes glance along the wall as he turns to look back at the computer, "Give ol' Giddy a ring an' let'em know tha' I need t'buy some toys…" there's a furrow of the detective's brows, lips pressed flatly together in thought. "I don' care if'n I 'ave t'drive down t'Chicago myself."
"Call d'Sarthe."