The car jerked to a halt, and he had to brace his arm against the headrest in front of him to keep him from flying into the front seat. He hated it when Tony drove. The man was about as careful behind the wheel as an amputated chicken. Considering the man hadn't ever actually gotten a license, it wasn't exactly a surprise. He glanced out the window. Night had fallen over the city. The only light on the street coming from what little moonlight was visible from through the clouds, and the flickering yellow glow of the dying street light at the corner.
He bit back a sigh. It was the perfect conditions for what they were doing. Tony turned the car off, and stepped out. The man in the passenger seat, John, followed suit. Feeling slightly sick, he followed them out onto the street. Tony was a thin man, small man. Patchy black hair swept back with grease, and draped in a cheap dress-shirt and even cheaper pants. John was every bit his opposite. Tall and fat with no hair to speak of, his stained sweatshirt strained against his considerable girth.
The pair pulled a pair of revolvers from their waistbands, and checked the chambers. Tony looked back,
"All right Ricky, you're up."
Ricky kept himself from rolling his eyes. It had been like this for months now. He was always saddled with the shittiest or most dangerous jobs. Like being the guy to bust the door down. He'd hoped that by now, he would be at least trusted to do more than kicking doors down and shaking down terrified civilians, but that was just the job.
Baby steps, he had to remind himself. Baby steps.
They were outside a run-down market. The faded sign over the doorway announced the business as being "Marcello's Market." He hoped that Marcello wasn't home for the evening. Judging by the slightly aged and rotted looking bread in the window, business was bad enough for the guy as it was.
He approached the door. The picklock set felt heavy in his pocket, but he didn't bother with them. Subtlety wasn't the Family's strong suit. Didn't believe in it. So instead, he reared back, and kicked the door right above the locking mechanism. The door creaked, and the hinges broke as the door swung open. Ricky was shoved roughly out of the way as John and Tony strode purposefully inside, their revolvers drawn and held out limply in front of them.
"Marcello! Get the fuck out here!" Tony bellowed as Ricky followed them inside. A tall, thinning man in his early fifties stumbled through the doorway in the bag of the store. He tucked his thinning gray hair behind his head with a shaking hand.
"M-Mr. Martinez," stuttered Marcello, "I-I-I, ahem," he gulped nervously, glancing trepidatiously between John and Ricky, "Y-you're early."
"Changing up the deal, Mac," said Tony, casually leaning against the counter. His gun dangled loosely in front of him. The steel-gray of the muzzle danced tantalizingly close to Marcello. His brown eyes watched the movement hypnotically.
"C-changed…b-but I-I-I-" he tried to say, but Tony cut him off, leaning dangerously against the counter. He leveled a cool glare at the petrified man.
"Don't tell me you don't have the money for me Mac," he said, and clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "See that would make me upset. Now you don't want to upset me, do ya Mac?"
"No sir!" Said Marcello quickly, "But-but it's like I said…you-you're early! I can have the money, but I need time I need-Ah!"
Marcello recoiled in horror as Tony discharged his revolver into the wall behind the counter. Smoke pooled from the barrel as Tony turned the weapon on Marcello.
"Where's my money Marcello?"
Poor Marcello could only stutter in horror. His eyes unable to leave the weapon pointed between his eyes. There was movement from the back of the shop, and Ricky turned. From the doorway that Marcello had come through, he could see the small face of a young boy. Maybe only seven or eight, and likely the grandson of Marcello. A wave of guilt washed over Ricky, his stomach clenching painfully. Were they really about to rough up this poor bastard in front of his grandkid? Especially when Tony was full of shit?
This was the first time that Ricky had ever heard about any kind of change of deal with the protection rackets in town. Far as he was aware, they weren't hurting for money. Sure, things between the boss and his brother were starting to get heated, but there weren't any signs that the bigger revenue streams were starting to dry up. This was about one thing only. Greed. Either Tony wanted the money for himself, or he was trying to prove that he was a big earner. Trying to make himself into a made man that much quicker.
He'd seen enough. He snapped his fingers, strange mist exploding from the tips of his fingers. The men and child all froze in their tracks, as though time itself had stopped. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. Channeling some divine will into the air around him, he rewrote the mens memories as he fished through his pockets. He pulled a stack of bills from his pocket and placed them on the counter in front of Tony.
Returning to his position, he snapped his fingers again and Tony's gun lowered to his side. The man smirked nastily, staring down at the wad of bills on the counter.
"Pleasure doing business with you."
Without another word, Tony led the trio from the market. Marcello looked like he hadn't yet recovered, and just nodded numbly.
Ricky bit back another sigh.
Baby steps.
It was late by the time Ricky returned to his apartment. It was a dingy rathole in the middle of skid row. The paint peeled from the walls, and there was still a hole in the wall from a previous tenant. A slightly stale stench permeated the space and hadn't disappeared in spite of using up an entire bottle of air freshener.
He pulled his jacket off and tossed it absently on the couch. Dragging his feet to the fridge, he pulled a beer free and popped the cap off with his thumb. He meandered over to the couch, and fell into its worn and torn upholstery. He closed his eyes and sighed, sinking deeper into the faux leather. The door to his bedroom opened, and soft footsteps padded along the cracked wooden floor. He didn't bother looking, he'd known that they were the before he even got into the building.
"You shouldn't be here," he grunted, still not opening his eyes. He heard them drag over a wooden chair from the small dining table and stop just a few feet away. He opened his eyes and looked over. Renee Montoya stared back at him, her expression hard. He met her gaze, not backing down.
Renee Montoya had been Percy's partner for six months. A tall, woman of Latin heritage with long black hair pulled into a tight ponytail. Her hands were shoved deep into the pockets of her rain coat, and her eyes were covered by a Gotham Stampeders ball cap.
"Someone might be watching this place, what if they'd spotted you?"
"Don't flatter yourself," she scoffed scornfully, "You're not important enough to be watched. Besides, I've been staked out by the building all day. No one was here, so we're safe."
He sighed, and closed his eyes. He took a heavy pull from his drink. "What are you doing here Monty?"
"You haven't checked in in over a week. I was starting to get worried."
"Nothing new to report," he said bitterly. "Still got me running collection rackets."
"Who'd you hit today?"
"Some shopkeep on 65th. He's fine, but Tony is getting a little more…ambitious. Damn near killed the poor guy because he decided to raise the price of collection and changed the date."
Montoya didn't respond, and that was fine by him. He didn't much feel like talking at the moment anyway.
"I'm worried about you, Metro," she said softly after a moment. "Not too late to back out of this, you know?"
He sighed, opening his eyes. Ricardo Bianchi, better known to the world as Percy Jackson, had been undercover with the Falcone crime syndicate for the better part of four months. His hand unconsciously wrapped around the thin leather of the necklace dangling from his neck. A magically enchanted artifact from Zatara of the Justice League which changed his appearance entirely, except for a select few. His black hair and fine Anglican features had been swapped for the plain features of a tan-faced thirty-something with light brown hair and pale grey eyes.
In the months preceding his investigation, Percy and Montoya had uncovered a plot by Christian Falcone, the head of the Falcone crime family. Salvatore had been making moves that were supposedly in contrast with the direction Christian wanted the family to go. Drug-running, working with…unscrupulous characters and capes. It was the type of thing that drew attention, and Christian wanted nothing to do with it.
Tension between the brothers had only continue to escalate. Christian had hired international hitman, Deadshot, to kill of important members of the family that were close to Christian's brother Salvatore. Two men had died before Percy had managed to capture Deadshot. This was what Percy had been working for. What he had been waiting for. The escalation into all-out war. It was where Percy would be able to make a name for himself. Where Percy would be able to earn the trust of his superiors and be able to gather hard, real evidence against Christian.
District Attorney Harvey Dent had concocted this entire scheme with Police Commissioner Jim Gordon and Batman. His plan was to charge Falcone and his entire family under RICO. The Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act, a federal act that let the authorities charge the leaders of a criminal organization with the actions of the organizations even if they never so much as left the safety of their home.
"I'm fine,"
"Bullshit," Percy glanced at her. "You look like shit, Metro. When was the last time you slept."
He didn't answer. He didn't need to. She was well aware that he wasn't sleeping. The bags under his eyes were evidence enough.
"Just need some more time," he grunted. "It's been slow, but I'm making progress. They've been letting me see more and more of the operation recently."
"We already know which businesses are theirs," Montoya countered, "From that book in Pyg's basement."
"Assuming that it doesn't get thrown out as evidence," said Percy. "We both know that's not out of the realm of possibility. That little book gets thrown out? You can say goodbye to linking any of those organizations to Falcone."
During his first investigation with the Department, Percy had discovered a disc drive that had gotten a young girl murdered. The drive contained all of the known businesses, associates, and cash flows for the entirety of the criminal organization. The only problem, was that the drive had been taken and decrypted by Batman, before being handed over to the Department. Even a half-competent defense attorney would be able to have the drive thrown out as evidence.
Which led to Percy current investigation. It was his responsibility to gain status in the organization, and find evidence linking Christian Falcone to the activities of his family. That it really was a criminal organization, and that Falcone was the ringleader.
Montoya pursed her lips and sat back in the chair. She knew Percy was right.
"I just don't like this. I've never liked undercover work. Shit's too dangerous."
"Monty, I appreciate the concern. Really I do, but I can take care of myself."
"I'm more worried about the toll this shit takes on your brain, Metro," she snapped. "If you're even half the decent guy I know you are, then beating up and robbing civies is going to fuck you up." Percy averted his gaze. "And don't pretend like it hasn't already started. I know you've been buying out some of the protection rackets, but that shit can't last forever. Christ only knows how you're getting away with it, but the money is going to run out sooner or later."
She was right about that. The Department had, shortly after the beginning of Percy's investigation, received an incredibly generous Donation from the Thomas and Martha Wayne foundation. The bulk of the funds had gone to Percy's operation, and he'd been using it as he had earlier that night, to pay off the Family in favor of ruining the lives of some poor family just trying to make ends meat.
But it could only go so far. Percy could only get away with so much, and more than once, Percy had been party to something he really wished he hadn't been.
"I'm managing, Monty." He said gently. "It's not been going great…but I'm managing."
"But can you keep this up?" She pressed.
Percy grimaced. "I will. There's no other choice."
He was woken up several hours later by his phone. His arm fumbled around in the dark for a moment before he found it and pressed it to his ear.
"Yeah?" He asked, and a male voice, one he didn't recognize spoke.
"Warehouse 12 on the pier. Be there in an hour." The line went dead. Percy sighed, collapsing into his pillow and closing his eyes. He wanted nothing more than to fall back asleep. He was momentarily sympathetic to the other con-men and wise-guys in the family. When you signed up to be with the Falcone's, they owned you. Mind, body, and soul, they owned you completely and utterly.
He pulled himself free of the covers, and got himself ready. He tucked the small six-shooter he'd been given by Tony into the waistband of his jeans and made his out of the dingy apartment. Warehouse 12 was stuck in the middle of a maze of other warehouses in the shipping district. The soft breeze of the sea danced along his skin, and Percy allowed himself a moment bask in the comfort of the sea.
Releasing a breath, he opened the door to the warehouse. There was a mass of people inside, at least thirty maybe forty. It was the largest collection of men that Percy had seen since he had joined the family. He could see a couple of made men near the front of the room, and his stomach plummeted. Something was happening. Something big. He stuffed his hands into the pocket of the hoodie of his sweatshirt, releasing a burst of divine energy over himself as he did so. A watery mist descended over him, dancing along his skin, making him all but invisible to those around him.
He pulled his phone out and began recording, bringing the phone around and trying to get as many clear faces as he could.
"Shut the fuck up!" Roared a voice near the center of the room. Percy whirled his phone around. A man stood up on an overturned box. He was a tall man and well-built. His long black hair was pulled into a bun. He wore a finely made suit of silk, and Percy could see the shimmering steel of a handgun in a shoulder holster. Percy knew this man. Giovanni MonGrave. Second only to Christopher in his authority in the family.
This couldn't be good.
The room fell silent, and Giovanni's eyes darted around the room.
"As most of you are likely aware, there have been tensions in the family for months now. Minor scuffles, some dissenters and trouble makers. But tonight, it was the real deal. Two hours ago, Salvatore Falcone split from the family."
Once more, murmurings erupted and Giovanni drew his pistol. The murmuring stopped, and Giovanni's finger danced closely to the trigger, his jaw clenching and unclenching tightly.
"As of this moment," he continued, "Salvatore and those loyal to him are traitors to the family. To Mr. Falcone. He is a traitor and he will be treated as such. As of now, we're at war gentlemen. You'll be asked to kill the men you once treated as brothers. This is non-negotiable. You will do as your superiors tell you. If you don't…" He trailed off, his unspoken warning needn't have been stated.
Percy's stomach clenched. It was finally happening. Excitement and apprehension at war in his chest.
"You'll be given your orders!" Barked Giovanni, "do what you're told, and don't fuck up!" He glared one last time at the collection of wannabe gangsters, and then jumped off the crate, disappearing into the back of the warehouse. When he was gone, and the warehouse began to stir back to life, he ended the recording and sent a couple of quick messages. Stuffing his phone back in his pocket, he dropped the illusion over himself and looked around the warehouse.
"Bianchi!"
Percy turned, and tried to keep his agitation off his face. Tony bore down on him, a grim fixed firmly in place.
"Come on," ordered Tony with a jerk of his head, "We got work to do." There was a look on his face that Percy hadn't seen on the man before. Stoic determination.
Percy didn't say anything, but followed. He waited until they had left the warehouse, and were piling into a cramped, old sedan. John was already waiting for them behind the wheel, the engine was running and the inside was warm as they piled inside.
"Where are we going?" Percy asked, but neither man answered and they pulled away from the warehouse, over his shoulder Percy could see a number of headlights follow them out of the docks. They drove in silence for some time, passing through the darkness and the rain as they drove deeper and deeper into the city.
He didn't like this. Didn't like where this was going. He glanced at the rearview mirror and tried to count the number cars behind them, but the lights were too bright and it was impossible to distinguish them in the rain. Percy sat further back into the chair and focused on calming his rapidly beating heart.
This was a hit.
He was sure of it. These men were burdened with the air of duty. Of grim resolve. Percy recognized it, had been around it all his life. These men were preparing themselves to take lives and commit unspeakable acts of violence.
And he would be asked to take part. To be an active participant. His hand clenched and unclenched. Once more he was going off to war.
And the lines between good and evil had become more blurred than ever before.
