Whispers of Rio 4.
January 13th, 5002
Warehouse District, Za Garoto
Goncalo, Rio de Janeiro,
Holy Terra
A summer storm had rolled in a few hours previous and the rains were a chaotic thing, a solid sheet of water that broke loose in a moment’s notice before ending just as suddenly. The alleyway was a far, grimy cry from the radiance of the Lux Splendor Ball, despite being almost in sight of the palace in which it took place. Shadows clung to the wet brickwork that hemmed in the backstreet, the usual moon and star light absent as clouds covered the sky.
The result was a dark, wet atmosphere that muffled sound and limited visibility. It was the perfect night for what Juan Diego had in mind. With a steadying sigh, McTavish tugged his hat down; obscuring his features as he moved down the alley. His jacket was pulled tight to his body to ward off the cold. One hand held a massive Mitachau auto-feed pistol, its heavy two and a half kilogram weight a comforting thing in the gloom.
Behind McTavish spread out four young men with blades drawn and expressions grim. Tonight was not a social call, by any stretch of the word. The five men came to stop outside of a warehouse door that had no markings, bore no indication of what lay beyond.
“Hector, Shin, remain outside to cover our exit. El Jefe…” McTavish’s voice was low, a whisper that carried not far. “… is entering the rear with the others. Our job is to ensure no escapees. We are to ensure Lord Minton knows how poor a choice it is to make an enemy of Los Pachuco’s, yes?”
The other men nodded solemnly as Juan’s right-hand man invoked the name of their new Samba, based in the slum district of Za Garoto. It had not taken long for the small Samba, no larger than ten men, to sanitize a small section of the neighborhood and drive out Minton’s ‘tax’ collectors in a forceful fashion that left no doubt as to the change in social order. The Hawkwood lords response, to have a family now under Los Pachuco’s protection beaten and their home burned, prompted the action tonight.
The raid proceeded smoothly, with McTavish and two of his men entering the door as it was kicked down, while Juan and his team entered from the opposite direction. Caught in a cross fire, the men inside, loosely associated with the Andragathía Samba, surrendered quickly with only two deaths on their part.
Juan racked the slide of his own pistol, an iconic sound that echoed in the warehouse, drawing a flinch from the captives as he stopped before them. The pistol was held down, at his side, betraying the military training of his youth, his finger off the trigger, in the line of sight of hawkwood affiliated gangsters. “Gentlemen… I am Juan Diego Raoul Castenda, and you have insulted me. I do not take insult well, as I have shown your master, Lord Hawkwood.” His words were crisp, clipped and forceful as he uttered them.
“Your master spoke poor words, wounding my pride and I cut him four times for his strike. A family that pays me respect has been assaulted, drug from their beds and beaten in the street.“ He let that hang in the air as he moved closer to the man identified by McTavish as Minton’s main henchman. “Now, gentlemen, given my response to his words, pray tell, Master Errol…” He addressed the henchman now. “What do you think I will do?”
Errol raised his gaze from the floor, looking upward to Juan. “I swear to Mantius, Hazat, that I will hunt you, skin you and make a coat from your flesh. You will never be rid of me. Killing Andragathía men was the worst mistake you have made since coming to Rio.” He spat those words, the vehemence of his tone striking Juan as an amusement.
Nodding to McTavish, Juan turned to the man next to Errol. There was a half heart-beat pause before the pistol’s report thundered in the warehouse, followed by the slump and thump of Errol’s body to the floor.
“Landros, is it?” Asked Juan, looking then to the next man in the line. “Your master spoke poor words…”
Warehouse District, Za Garoto
Goncalo, Rio de Janeiro,
Holy Terra
A summer storm had rolled in a few hours previous and the rains were a chaotic thing, a solid sheet of water that broke loose in a moment’s notice before ending just as suddenly. The alleyway was a far, grimy cry from the radiance of the Lux Splendor Ball, despite being almost in sight of the palace in which it took place. Shadows clung to the wet brickwork that hemmed in the backstreet, the usual moon and star light absent as clouds covered the sky.
The result was a dark, wet atmosphere that muffled sound and limited visibility. It was the perfect night for what Juan Diego had in mind. With a steadying sigh, McTavish tugged his hat down; obscuring his features as he moved down the alley. His jacket was pulled tight to his body to ward off the cold. One hand held a massive Mitachau auto-feed pistol, its heavy two and a half kilogram weight a comforting thing in the gloom.
Behind McTavish spread out four young men with blades drawn and expressions grim. Tonight was not a social call, by any stretch of the word. The five men came to stop outside of a warehouse door that had no markings, bore no indication of what lay beyond.
“Hector, Shin, remain outside to cover our exit. El Jefe…” McTavish’s voice was low, a whisper that carried not far. “… is entering the rear with the others. Our job is to ensure no escapees. We are to ensure Lord Minton knows how poor a choice it is to make an enemy of Los Pachuco’s, yes?”
The other men nodded solemnly as Juan’s right-hand man invoked the name of their new Samba, based in the slum district of Za Garoto. It had not taken long for the small Samba, no larger than ten men, to sanitize a small section of the neighborhood and drive out Minton’s ‘tax’ collectors in a forceful fashion that left no doubt as to the change in social order. The Hawkwood lords response, to have a family now under Los Pachuco’s protection beaten and their home burned, prompted the action tonight.
The raid proceeded smoothly, with McTavish and two of his men entering the door as it was kicked down, while Juan and his team entered from the opposite direction. Caught in a cross fire, the men inside, loosely associated with the Andragathía Samba, surrendered quickly with only two deaths on their part.
Juan racked the slide of his own pistol, an iconic sound that echoed in the warehouse, drawing a flinch from the captives as he stopped before them. The pistol was held down, at his side, betraying the military training of his youth, his finger off the trigger, in the line of sight of hawkwood affiliated gangsters. “Gentlemen… I am Juan Diego Raoul Castenda, and you have insulted me. I do not take insult well, as I have shown your master, Lord Hawkwood.” His words were crisp, clipped and forceful as he uttered them.
“Your master spoke poor words, wounding my pride and I cut him four times for his strike. A family that pays me respect has been assaulted, drug from their beds and beaten in the street.“ He let that hang in the air as he moved closer to the man identified by McTavish as Minton’s main henchman. “Now, gentlemen, given my response to his words, pray tell, Master Errol…” He addressed the henchman now. “What do you think I will do?”
Errol raised his gaze from the floor, looking upward to Juan. “I swear to Mantius, Hazat, that I will hunt you, skin you and make a coat from your flesh. You will never be rid of me. Killing Andragathía men was the worst mistake you have made since coming to Rio.” He spat those words, the vehemence of his tone striking Juan as an amusement.
Nodding to McTavish, Juan turned to the man next to Errol. There was a half heart-beat pause before the pistol’s report thundered in the warehouse, followed by the slump and thump of Errol’s body to the floor.
“Landros, is it?” Asked Juan, looking then to the next man in the line. “Your master spoke poor words…”