Chapter 2: Wild, Wild West

The paperwork, it seemed, was building and building on the desk of police Chief Watsup by the day. He clasped his hands together and sighed, anticipating the laborious task in front of him. He, like many others in this city, was growing old and becoming disenfranchised with his lot in life. He had never taken issue with his position as a peacekeeper and a partial pawn of the ruling factions. He turned a blind eye to their dealings and he was paid sizable compensation in return. Lately, though, it was becoming increasingly more difficult to maintain this balance of power. There had been war after war in Roanapur and even the Chief did not have the power to keep it all under wraps, though he did his best. He had a feeling the ruling factions were becoming tired of dealing with him. They would have been very foolish to revoke the agreement he had with them. After all, it was the only thing keeping them out of the spotlight, if only just. But it felt as if the day might come when this balance no longer existed and the criminals would be totally at odds with the authorities.

Watsup removed his sunglasses and held the area between his eyes. He had a lot of paperwork to get through before the rest of his business today. From what he had been told, rumblings of what Roanapur was truly like had made their way back to some of Thailand's higher up officials and the city was being sent a batch of new recruits to assist the police force. Watsup wasn't keen on the idea, given that he had enough men under his command as it was. And the word of the police bolstering their ranks would only cause trouble if it got back to the ruling factions, which it inevitably would. But that was a problem for another day. Watsup plucked up the first stack of papers from the pile and began sifting through them as he resigned himself to working for the day. As it happened, that resignation was short-lived and he was interrupted by the entrance of one of the younger policemen in the station.

"Chief!" the boy said, a touch of panic in his voice. He was maybe twenty-two years of age, with a boyish face and freckles all over.

"What is it, officer?" the Chief asked, having forgotten the boy's name.

"It's them, sir," he bumbled. "They're here. The man in charge is asking to speak with you." Watsup threw down the stack of papers on his desk.

"Dammit! Already? They weren't meant to be here until later."

"So sorry to disappoint," the voice came from the corridor behind the young officer. A man entered the room, then, of his own volition and without an escort. Watsup immediately took note of that. Clearly, he had very little in the way of manners. Or respect. That didn't bode well. Although, he didn't look like a policeman, or any kind of official authority figure for that matter. Ironically, he looked more like some of the criminals that lived in this city. He was tall, maybe six feet and two inches, with neat hair that was longer on top and a moustache and goatee combination that was reminiscent of a different time, something almost like a balbo beard. He was wearing a dark brown western coat over a sleeveless yellow shirt and his legs and feet were covered in sand-coloured cargo pants and black military boots. His hands had also been covered in fingerless gloves.

He came to a stop halfway into the room and stood there as if awaiting a response.

"Help you with something?" Watsup asked. The other officers in the room, who had been going about their duties, all came to attention in case this stranger had foul play in mind.

"As I recall," the man began, "you were expecting me."

"Bangkok said they were sending reinforcements for the station," Watsup told him. "I don't know who you are."

"Reinforcements, huh? That's funny." The man reached into his jacket and produced a wallet, opening it and holding it up in one hand. On the inside, Watsup spotted a small card, almost like the inside of a passport. It had a picture of the man's face on one side and on the top, in light blue writing, was the word 'Interpol.' Watsup's heart sank. "Name's Jones. Heard you boys were having trouble keeping this city under control, is that about right?" Watsup swallowed as he decided how to proceed. Clearly, he had been misinformed about who was being sent to assist them.

"They send anyone else with you?" he asked. "Last I heard, I was supposed to be getting twenty men."

"Change of plan," Jones told him.

He began walking around the room and looking at every little detail he could spot. His brazenness and attitude were getting on the Chief's nerves. His voice, too, a southern American accent that was more befitting of a cowboy from old westerns, was exceedingly irritating.

"I got my own crew, but they're a good bunch, that's for sure. Things are gonna change around here, Chief."

"How's that?"

"Well, you oughta know. The things I've been hearing out there, they would rattle you to your bones. You've been here a long time, so I can respect that. But it really sounds like you're having a hard time doing your job, old timer." Jones must have been in his late thirties, possibly early forties, himself. Watsup's opinion of him was falling more and more by the minute.

"I don't understand," he said through gritted teeth, losing patience.

"Well, let me spell it out loud and clear for you, then," Jones snapped back, his own level-headedness failing now. He lifted one leg and planted his foot on Chief Watsup's desk as he spoke. Then, six more individuals entered the room and began looking around. These were Jones's people, they all assumed. Two men and two women, all in civilian clothes and carrying weapons openly. They looked like a ragtag group of outlaws that had broken into the station. The identification cards on their persons, though, marked them as officially sanctioned agents of Interpol. This was not good. "You fucked up, Chief. I don't know if you've just gotten lazy or if some of the lowlifes that live here are sucking your cock when your wife ain't looking, but the reports I've gotten in the last year alone make it sound like there's no fucking police in this city at all. And the names I've heard…shit, you've had some bigtime assholes in this city. But you didn't lift a damn finger, did ya?"

"You watch your damn mouth," Watsup growled. "You don't fucking question my position here. I do my damn job and I do it well. Ain't my fault if some degenerate slips through the cracks here and there. That's what those damn reinforcements were supposed to help with! And I got you fucking brutes instead." Jones laughed to himself softly.

"The higher ups feel different," he teased, his foot still on the Chief's desk. "They think you're turning a blind eye to what really goes on here. That's why I'm here. I'm your own professional ass-wiper, old timer. You oughta be thanking me."

Watsup gritted his teeth once more and his hands balled into fists, but he remained seated. One of the women who had arrived while Jones was talking came to his side.

"Station's clean," she told him. They must have been scouting for bugs or listening devices. "Me and the team will head out. Meet you by the bar?"

"The one we talked about," Jones agreed. "Should be a good spot to do some recon." The woman smiled at him and then left with the others. Jones finally removed his foot from the desk and placed his hands on his hips. The other officers in here were still incredibly tense, but they had composed themselves significantly once the others arrived. Now, they were back on alert, though much more unsure of themselves. They did not want to risk harming an Interpol agent. That was heat they really didn't need to bring down on the city. "Task Force 216 is in charge here now, old timer. When I say jump, you say how high. Capeesh?" Watsup looked around the room anxiously, but he knew there was nothing he could do. This was the new status quo, for as long as the Task Force were in the city, and worryingly it seemed like that may end up being quite a while. The Chief inwardly cursed Balalaika and her catastrophic wars with old enemies that had come here in the past. Had the last two years been a bit more uneventful, perhaps the Task Force would not be here now.

"You stay out of my way, I'll stay out of yours, and you can boss your own guys around all you like. But I'm still in charge of my men."

"That's where you're wrong, old timer," Jones said threateningly. He then placed his hand on the handle of a gun holstered at his right hip. It was a Volcanic pistol, an old handgun associated with the American frontier, but it had been restored and painted a striking gold colour. The handle itself was black, made of onyx. "Maybe you didn't get a good enough look inside my wallet. I can shove it up your ass and into your thick skull if that'd make it sink in. My word is law, now, and law is exactly what it will be. Seeing as you can't keep control of your own city, I'm gonna do it for ya. And you, my good man, will do exactly as I say. Or else, I'll bring your whole cosy little world crashing down around you, and you'll wish I'd killed you instead." He gave Watsup one last smile and headed for the door. "I'll be back in the morning, old timer, and we can get to work cleaning up this little black spot on the Asian map. It's gonna be sweet as honey, yes sir."