Le gasp! Could it be? Is this a new chapter...? Why yes, yes it is.

Un-beta'ed, as always.

- o – o -

The So-called Rebel Alliance

Controlling gang lords was like herding cats, Scales thought as he watched the taillights of Fleming's limo recede into the distance. From experience, however, the smuggler knew that cats responded better than gang lords. The dockland strays, for example, would follow whoever fed them.

The events of the meeting had disturbed the smuggler, to say the least. If Fleming had made a deal with him to, say, keep the drug lords from selling their wares outside of primaries, he'd have agreed in a heartbeat. But the billionaire had wanted Scales to take control of Palm City—excluding the business district, of course.

Fleming wanted to protect his reputation with the media…all so he could get a contract with the bleeding Chinese military. Scales didn't personally know much about the Chinese, or their military, but he sincerely hoped that the Palm City Triad kept in close contact with the motherland.

This was one problem Scales neither wanted nor needed, on top of his current dilemma with the Cape and his secret identity (or what it might be, at any rate). Fleming wanted the smuggler to do his dirty work for him.

Scales sighed heavily, rolling his massive shoulders back in an attempt to relieve the tension that had built up during the meeting. As far as his enemy was now concerned, he'd be bringing the gang lords in line with ARK's goals.

Why had he agreed so quickly? He had to admit the prospect of that much power was tempting, but it had a price that he was loathe to pay. In return for that power, he'd have to sacrifice the respect of his colleagues (such as it was), and the loyalty of his employees.

If he took this offer, he'd probably disappear like Czyjak had.

Edwin Czyjak had controlled the business district for nearly thirty years. Seven months after ARK had arrived in Palm City, he'd vanished. It was rumored that he'd been giving information on the local gangs to Fleming in exchange for free reign in the business district, without ARK interference.

A week after that rumor had started flying, he'd vanished. What the rumor mill wasn't quite clear on was whether ARK had been responsible for the disappearance, or an irate fellow gang lord. (The odds were currently in favor of a fellow gang lord.)

Scales sighed again and looked around the lot. His minions—his family—were milling about. Despite their best attempts not to look worried, it showed rather plainly on their faces. Given that the nearest local equivalent of the anti-Christ had just made a pact with their boss, it was understandable.

Peter Fleming was playing some twisted game, and acquiring contracts from foreign militaries wasn't part of it. The man wanted something from the gangs, and he wanted them united under one banner. A banner he knew (or at least thought) he could control, preferably.

Scales had to smirk at that. If Fleming had known that the criminals in Palm City generally behaved like cats, or that they got along as well as petrol and a lit match, he might not have bothered at all…

The smuggler groaned, rubbing his face with both hands. This was shaping up along the lines of another bollocksed-up take-over attempt. It had been about fifteen years ago, when he himself had been green and getting his feet wet in the areas of racketeering and smuggling.

A Sicilian from one of the big families back in New York had attempted to move his operations in Palm City. Upon his arrival, he'd practically demanded help from the more…pure families. Needless to say, the local Italian mafia family had not been impressed.

If there had been one source of complete unity back in those days, it was a Molinari who'd been scorned. The result of their distaste had all of the police departments reeling in shock. The gangs formed one of the largest united fronts on the west coast, the likes of which hadn't been seen since the 1940s; they had then proceeded to run the Sicilian out of Palm.

If he recalled that year correctly, the alliance had collapsed shortly thereafter. Provisions had been put in place, however…just in case another foreign influence ever attempted another takeover. And now Fleming was the Sicilian all over again…

For some reason, Scales grinned. Now there was a way to solve this situation… "Kazzie!" he bellowed, startling the large man. "Shift your arse, you dozy bastard!"

The man strode over, an apprehensive look on his face. Considering that meetings with the local anti-Christ always had the smuggler on edge, it wasn't too hard to guess why. "Boss?" he asked nervously.

"Pass us the blows, old son," Scales replied, a dark grin spreading over his face. "I'm calling a meet."

Kazzie handed over the cell phone without a word.

- o -

Scales leaned back in his chair, watching the gang lords eye each other suspiciously over the table as they sat down. Surprisingly, the majority of them had arrived.

His primary ally, Poker Face, was seated at his right hand. Despite the Italian's initial reluctance to attend the meet (possibly due to being woken up at three in the morning), he'd been the first to show his face at Scales' warehouse.

Across from the Italian was Scales' least favorite person. Max Malini had received an unusual invitation, even by gangland standards. Beating an enforcer to a pulp, just to send an invitation, was considered a bit excessive. As this was Scales, however, that little courtesy had been quietly ignored.

The magician and the don were scowling at each other, and appeared to be attempting to kill each other with their eyes alone. That, or it was a one-sided staring contest that Poker Face would win, as he was physically incapable of blinking.

Half an hour later, the rest of the gang lords (and lady, Scales amended silently, upon seeing the head of the Russian mob) had arrived and were seated around the massive oak table that dominated the center of Scales' warehouse.

Molinari was the first to speak. "Dominic," the Italian said, voice raspy from an apparent lack of sleep. "Everyone is here. What is this about? You called a meet at three in the morning; I think everyone," he gestured to himself and the other gang lords, "deserve an explanation. A good one," the don added with a scowl—or as much of one as someone who couldn't blink was able.

Scales stood up and leaned against his chair. He always spoke and thought better if he weren't confined in some way. The smuggler decided to show his hand before anything could get in the way. "Las' nigh'," the deformed smuggler started, "I go' a visit from a tosser everyone 'ere knows well."

He smirked as everyone, even Malini, sat up straighter at that statement. These days, anything related to ARK or Fleming would get the speaker the full and undivided attention of everyone in the room. After that, one had to be careful of how they continued their speech…

"Peter Fleming wants gangland united under a banner 'e can control," Scales said. He waited for the outraged yelling to die down.

The representative from the Russian mob, a woman named Anastasia, gave an un-ladylike snort of derision. "And how do you know that?" she asked with a smirk, leaning back in her seat. It was apparent that she was confident that she held the high ground now.

Scales smirked back and began pacing around the assembled gang lords like a hungry wolf. "I know," he said, "Because Fleming tol' me." The deformed smuggler leaned against the back of Poker Face's chair.

"Well fuck that," a lighter voice spoke up. It said something of their willpower that the assembled gang lords, or their representatives, didn't shoot the speaker. Li'l Z was an up-and-coming in the world of drugs and armed robbery. Unfortunately, that didn't save him from being a mouthy bastard.

"What I wanna know," the drug dealer continued, "is how this dude knows Fleming. Seems kinda suspicious, don't it, that this guy gets the personal calls from the devil, an' we don' hear nothin' about it?" He grinned, looking pleased with himself.

"Funny y' should ask tha'," Scales said, pacing back to the drug dealer's chair. He leaned over the younger man, grinning darkly. "Fleming thinks tha', because I ain' shot 'im yet, I tolerate 'im."

The deformed smuggler grinned at his colleagues. "Fleming wants me to take o'er gangland, an' 'e wants me t' turn control o'er t' 'im. An' because I'm so bleedin' loyal," he added sarcastically, "'e thinks I'll do it."

After a few minutes, Poker Face spoke. "You want us to run him out, like the Sicilian," the don said quietly. It was a statement of fact, not a question.

"Tha's abou' i'," Scales replied, nodding. He saw the confused look on Li'l Z's face and sighed. "Few years back," the smuggler started, "a Sicilian from New York comes into Palm City. Th' lad figures tha', because 'e's a big man back east, 'e can be a big man ou' west as well."

"Cute story," L'il Z said, interrupting Scales' narrative, "but what the fuck does that have to do with you getting it from Fleming?"

Scales and the assembled gang lords—with the exception of Malini—sighed in unison. Li'l Z was known for many things; tact was not one of them. Unfortunately.

"The Sicilian decided that bullying the Molinari family into line was the fastest way to get what he wanted, yes?" Anastasia asked. Scales nodded, feeling immensely grateful to the woman.

"Yeah. Only," he continued, "it didn' work ou' so well for the Sicilian. The Molinari family gets in a right mood and forms an alliance to get this berk out of town. Every gang in Palm gets un'er one banner and destroys th' lad's business. An' after 'e was gone, they made a few provisions in case o' this e'er happenin' again."

"And you want to create a new alliance to run Fleming out like this Sicilian," Malini said, speaking up for the first time since he'd entered the warehouse. Scales smirked at the man from his place behind Li'l Z.

"Gi' th' man a biscuit," Scales replied, clapping sarcastically.

- - o - -

Several hours later, Scales sat alone at his table. The gangs had agreed to mobilize for total warfare, in a unanimous vote. In the past fifteen years, the most they'd dealt with were petty squabbles over a shipment or territorial markers between gangs.

Fleming, however, was another breed of predator entirely. The gangs weren't happy, and they were going to fight fire with fire. Scales was fairly certain that ARK wouldn't know what had hit them.

The deformed smuggler sighed, and began dialing a familiar number into his cell phone. Dana was going to be at risk during this, her and her boy. As he listened to the phone ringing on the other end, he began planning the move that Dana and Trip were going to have to make.

"Dana…?" he asked, when the phone finally picked up. "We need to talk…"

How the hell was he going to explain this to her…?

- o – o -

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