A/N: I haven't written here in well over a year. Getting back into writing, I thought I'd stop by and at least try to finish up one of the stories I left hanging - especially since I'd written a good portion of this one, and had a lot planned for it. Oh well. Here's the next chapter, and hopefully I'll remember and continue with another one relatively soon; I'm tired of forgetting my shit.

The Ammu-Nation – located in all your major U

The Ammu-Nation – located in all your major U.S. cities – was a front in and of itself. It was a gun store, pretending to be a gun store, literally. It sold guns legally to keep appearances, but in actuality, most of its customers were there because they needed illegal guns, plenty of ammunition, and low prices.

I happened to be one of those people, on this very unfortunate day.

My Phoenix was parked in front of the gun shop, awaiting my boys. It was such a nice car; white, with a blue, flaming phoenix – clever, right – painted onto the hood. Now, the windshield was splinter-cracked from the center outwards, and there was a large blood stain on the front. No-one seemed to ask me about any of that, curiously, as I sat in the parking lot of the gun shop, looking extremely pissed as I leaned on the front of my car.

"Connor!"

I looked up; it was them, my infantry. I smiled, and gestured to the Ammu-Nation's double doors, then began walking towards them. I had called ahead to the shop, as our 'organization' was a regular customer for large orders, and told them exactly what we needed.

Two dozen Irishmen walked out of the Ammu-Nation, all of them toating guns. A few of them were holding, openly, SW MP-10 sub-machine guns, while some others had your classic Winchester Defender pump-gun. I myself had a lovely M4 Carbine hanging from my right arm. Underneath all of our shirts, covering our hairy, Catholic, cross-wearing chests, were sets of Kevlar bullet-proof armor.

We were ready for war.

Jesus laughed a thick, spiteful laugh, and ducked under his Glendale to begin reloading his Micro Uzi. Three other Cubans were to his right, and three cars in total surrounded the mouth of the hospital, perhaps a dozen sweaty Latino men and a half-dozen Sharks arranged around it. The Irishmen put on Frank Bogart's hospital bed were at the hospital doors, making pot-shots at them. It had only been about ten minutes since the initial attack, and there was probably about half an hours' time before any cops showed up, depending on how far away they were.

Suddenly, a nice white Phoenix found its way onto the street and skid to a halt, door facing away from the hospital. A van followed it, and made a sharp handbrake turn to stop. The back of the van doors opened up, attracting the attention of the Sharks and Cubans, and out spilled over twenty Irishmen at least, all wearing some kind of identifying mark like a Red Sox hat.

When I jumped out of my Phoenix, two other boys with me, Cubans and Sharks were already being down in the street. I looked to my left, saw one go down with a sickening crack of a bullet to the forehead; to my right, another, with numerous automatic rounds to his stomach.

I reached for my gun –

-- and had to duck as a bullet tore its way through the neck of one of my friends beside me. War was a bitch, right? I already knew that.

Taking the carbine I'd gotten earlier out of the floor-board of my Phoenix, I slung it over my shoulder and took aim. I pointed the sleek barrel of the gun at one of the Sharks – I recognized him from somewhere – and pulled the trigger. It was a single-fire, so one bullet ripped out of the chamber of the gun and landed in the Shark's face, sending him to the ground, falling like he'd slipped on something.

After only a few minutes, there were only a few Cubans and Sharks left, and they had nowhere to go; if they retreated into the hospital, our guys in there would fill 'em up. Out here, it was just a waiting game of shooting back and forth until they wound up dead.

Making the only rational decision, all of them loaded up into two of their cars and a motorcycle, and sped off in opposite directions. I lunged over the corpse of a fallen ally and made several shots at the retreating motorcycle; the heavy-set man on the bitch seat of the bike took a few M4 rounds to the back, and toppled off of the bike, sending the vehicle crashing and most likely killing the driver.

I pointed at the remaining guys I'd brought with me, then to the Cuban car making its way down the streets.

"Go after them! Follow them back to their shitty little hide-out, and kill as many of the fucks as you can! We'll take on the Sharks at their own place later."

They all took my orders to heart, and jumped back into the van, shouting out obscenities and generally having a high moral for the situation. The van tore off down the road, and I tossed my M4 into my Phoenix, heading for the stairs to the hospital as quick as I could.

We – by we, I mean me and two of the living guys who had been assigned to guard Frank – rushed into his hospital room to make sure he was alright. He appeared fine; he was awake, so he'd been given his revolver just in case anyone made it into the room. When everything was as normal as it could be, I considered talking to him about my suspicions of a traitor in our organization. I figured, though, he'd had enough trouble for the day, and I'd wait until he got out of the hospital in a few days to talk to him.

Meanwhile, I made my way back to my Phoenix, sirens wailing in the distance. Starting up the car, I made my way towards a repair-shop; before I started parading around town in the car, I figured that getting it fixed up would be a good idea.

So it was there, sitting outside of a repair shop and drinking a cup of coffee with a cigarette that I began to plot my attack on the Sharks, and waited for a call back from our boys about the Cubans.