Road-Worthy: A Role Play of Vengeance

Back Story and Plot:

Jack Mcalister Carlyle "Rowdy" was, before a series of bad informatoin lead to a shooting that required more then a little covering up, a Covert Operative for the Central Intelligence Agency. Now, after a swift kick from his job with the CIA, Jack drives a semi truck.

One day Rowdy gets a call from an old friend from the agency, who lives in New York City. Who invites Jack to come up for a visit. Upon his arrival, Rowdy finds his friend's apartment trashed and his friend lying dead on his bedroom floor. He finds a Smith and Wesson handgun laying next to the body. Before the cops arrive, Jack takes the pistol and leaves, wiping his fingerprint from the doorknobs. After a little digging into his friend's buisness, he finds that Andy had been addicted to heroine and had taken a large loan from a big time company to finance his latest fix. Obviously, he hadn't paid.

Posing as a police officer, struting, cursing and screaming, he was able to get the handgun's information from a throughly terrified clerk. The serial number on the handgun allowed him to trace the weapon to a small time gangbanger who, with a little prompting and more then a little pain, gave up all the information he knew.

The gangbanger told Rowdy of a large drug dealer, raking in millions of dollars every month, how they could operate without fear of discovery and their exact location. The Arctic Ocean.

It was a good operation, Rowdy had to admit. A huge warehouse in Yellowknife was just the begining. Each year, during the winter, the arctic ocean freezes over. The ice is over four feet deep and strong enough to allow an eighty ton semi truck to drive across open water.

Now, Rowdy's got a mission and come hell or high water he'll see it through to the end, in minus fifty degree cold.

((This is a very simple RP. Join at your leisure, but there are a few rules you need to follow.

1: Be realistic, this RP is based in three places mostly. New York City, Yellowknife Canada and the Drug dealers warehouse. Dress for the weather
2: Military, or other dangerous experience required if you want to fight well. Come on, high schoolers have no idea what to do with an automatic rifle!

3: No lone wolves, meaning there cannot be a single bad guy who does incredible and impossible stuff (Punch through a wall. Shoot with a gun that has a bent barell, etc.).While it is sorta fun, the problem with the RPs here are that Lone Wolves hang up the story. So please, be social

Other then that, just have a great time!))

Here is the sheet

Name:

Date Of Birth:

Experience:

Appearance:

Weapons of Choice:

Hometown:

Bio: (If it's not classified)
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Name: Jack McAlister Carlyle "Rowdy"

Date Of Birth: March 3rd 1981. 29 years of age.

Experience: Six years as a covert operations agent specializing in South America and Mexico.

Appearance: Rowdy is 6'5 inches tall. He favors blue jeans and a white T shirt. On few occasions he is seen with two blue eyes, but this is not the case. He has two different color eyes, his right one blue and his left brown. Because of this, Rowdy's eyes are hypersensitive to sunlight. He wears a pair of mirror lensed sungllasses religiously. His hair is cut short and is light brown. He weighs 140 pounds, all of it muscle.

Weapons of Choice: The 45. Magnum Automag Pistol, whwich he carries in a shoulder holster, under his left armpit.

Hometown: Lebanon, Oregon

Bio: Born on a cold morning in the pacific northwest, he was christened Jack Mcalister Carlyle. As a child he was an untouchable, neither unpopular or popular. Instead he floated in the middle, seen by none but seeing everything. This turned from a running joke with himself into a habit and, when he graduated high school with straight A's, he was given a scholarship to go to the school of his choice, but Jack MCalister Carlyle turned it down. What Jack did, was apply to a trucking company and learn to operate a semi truck, just as his father had. He worked for a time, but his heart was never in it. At 23 he applied to the Central Intelligence Agency. The rest is classified, was eaten or burned.

Rowdy was not seen or heard from again for 5 years. What happened was never released, talked about or even acknowledged it's existance. This time, Jack was behind the wheel of a semi truck, a Peterbilt. The nickname "Rowdy" was hung on him when he busted an accustic guitar over the head of a dispatcher who had screwed him out of a lot of money.
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The coffee was terrible, so awful in fact, that Jack McAlister Carlyle, a coffee drinking man, wasn't planning on ordering another cup. Jack thought that he could more then likely turn the cup over without spilling any on the floor.

He was doing just that, when an aging waitress with garish makeup on approached him with a hangdog expression on her face. In one claw-like hand she clutched a hand sized notebook. When the waitress put a hand on the counter, Jack was afraid her talon sized fingernails would sink straight through the marble countertop and into his leg. She sucked on her front tooth, as she waited for Rowdy's order.

Thinking hard, Jack decided to cut his losses and politely say "Oh, that's fine, darlin', I'm running late. The coffee was wonderful."

She gave him an annoyed look, before snatching a bill from her apron's pocket and slapping it on the marble. She lumbered through the double doors leading to the kitchen. Jack could invision that she was retreating to stuff more children into the oven to make the cafe's meatloaf.

Rowdy beat a brave retreat out to his truck, which was idling in the parking lot. He shivered as he got in, and said "It's sure getting cold out there, Baby." to the Peterbilt. "Hope you can last the winter, we can't afford a break down this year."

Baby the truck, pulled away from the greasy spoon, headed north towards Montana and another finished load. That means, money in the bank.

A few hours later, while Jack was tapping his foot to a high paced country song and beating on his steering wheel. His phone began to buzz, startling him and almost causing him to lose control of his truck. The Peterbilt slid far onto the shoulder of Interstate 84, making a hideous noise on the rumble strip, before Jack was able to wrestle it back onto the road.

The phone was still ringing, so Jack picked it up and put it to his ear "Hello?" he said into the phone.

"Where the hell are you, McAlister? You should hahve been to Billings two hours ago! Do you realise the kind of money you cost me!?!"

Jack silently cursed himself, his dispatcher, Mark had finally pulled one over on him.

"There was an accident on the road, Mark, I can't stop something like that." Jack lied easily, in truth he had spent thte extra time on his load at the cafe, with the taloned waitress and the stone coffee.

"No you weren't Carlyle! I checked your truck's GPS! You goddamn moron! I pay you to get the load there on time and in tact! Not spend all your time at the Troll's cafe!" His dispatcher spat into the phone.

"Good god, Mark, cut me some slack man, I've been working withhout stop for over a year now. I need some R&R, man!" Jack yelled back.

"Well I can do something for that, Carlyle, I'm laying you off for so long, they'll have to take the dust from your truck with a shovel! Get to Billings and then go for your R&R, call me when you're done!" The phone call stopped as quickly as it had begun.

Jack threw his cell phone onto the dash. It hit the dash and bounced, changing course to hit the window. When the high speed phone hit the windsheild a crack appeared that ran all the way form top to bottom "FU-"

BEEEEEEEEEP!!!!!

The train whistle of a Kenworth passing him drown out the rest of his sentance.

Today couldn't get any worse.

Suddenly, the trucker in the Kenworth turned on his CB and a voice that sounded like Dumb and Dumber said "That was a nice throw, Barry Bonds."

And it just got worse from there

(I would very much like a backstory, but I assume that this entire RP is about a drug trafficking operation.)

Name: Jack Roland Kirby.

Date of Birth: November 8th, 1980. 30 years old.

Experience: 5 years as an officer of the law, 2 as a firefighter of his hometown of Yellowknife, Canada.

Appearence: Wears the standard navy blue police jacket, often with a high visibility jacket and his police cap. Is 5'10", and weighs about 175 pounds, give or take an apple stroudel. Has dirty blonde hair, buzzcut, and the same color goatee. Ocean blue eyes with a small scar above his right eyebrow from where an assailant fired a .32 there, denting the skull.

Weapon: a .32 revolver which he carries in his hip-holster. Will also use his patrol car's pump-shotgun, 12-guage.

Hometown: Yellowknife, Canada.

Bio: Being born into poverty and three younger brothers, Jack instilled a strong sense of leadership at an early age. His father died when Jack was 12, causing him to take on jobs to support his family. When he was of acceptable age, he was hired as a crosscountry truck driver, scraping to get by. Finally, he enlisted in the fire dept. Of Yellowknife, and finally the police department. He has been on patrol ever since.
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Jack's working boots crunched on the blue gravel, and made a quite unique sound. You know, the sound that gravel makes when it's as cold as hell and you quietly think to yourself. He approached the 8-12, hoping to aquire a sluurpee from one of their machines and a bag of chips; it was his lunch-break.
The red-white-and-blue bell above the door to the shop rung with its usual iconicness (Jack never did get that word right,) and Kirby knocked the mud and rock off of his boots on the door-frame.
He walked down the aisle to the machine which always churned the sweet gooey goodness and mixed it into crushed ice, for the juice to be sucked up and the ice to be crunched upon. Pour, grab, pay. The usual routine. He hoped that one day, it would be different. Maybe, just maybe- one day it would be--

Then he noticed it.

Gas for under a dollar. Okay, not what he was expecting, but he sure was happy to see it. Much more cheaper than what the Department got. Who knows, maybe he'd get a raise if he kept on saving money. *Well,* he thought, *drill, baby, drill.*
He wondered what his usual partner, Rodney, was doing right now. If he was early to finish his "food," he'd check on him.

Name: Allister Monteray White

Date Of Birth: May 18th, 1984. 27 YOA.

Experience: National guard 4 years, lumberjack 3, just reached1 year as a dealer.

Appearance: Allister is a rough and tough man, thanks to his days as a lumberjack and National guardsman. He wears typical redneck clothes at time, complete with a stetson. When not dressed in such attire, he wears an old leather jacket and jeans, to match his favorite era of pop culture.

(Colt M1911A1)

Weapons of Choice: Smith and Wesson 686, Colt M1911, Browning BAR Safari for long range, and preffers Assault rifles of all varieties when avalible. Also, at times, may use the Chevrolete Chevelle to crush a few people.

Hometown: Amarillo, Texas.

Bio: Served in the National Guard for four years starting Age 19. He specialized in long range target and covert ops, though those were simply the things he was good at. He was not good at following orders, but his drill sergeants were as soft as a turd to him. After serving a while, he took up as a lumberjack for three. On his 26th birthday, he gave up the job, looking for more excitement. On a routine grocery run from his trailer park, he drove by an abandoned Chevy Chevelle. His own car was a beat up old 50's truck, and he was a fan of Chevrolets. He parked his truck neatly in a ditch and took the chevelle. Ran perfectly.

Days later, he found that there was a special surprise hidden under the drivers seat. A Smith and Wesson M686 and a total of seven pounds of Cocaine, Marijuana, and Heroine, neatly stashed in a briefcase. He never did drugs, but he sold them for top price. Soon after, he became a drug dealer. When he learned of the Ice Road, he decided he would give it a try.
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Alaska, cold as hell and not good for mileage. I had stopped at about ninety gas stations on the way here to Yellowknife, of course being this far out of my climate, I guessed it was typical to be a little irritated. The cold weather gave me a few aches here and there, but my body was simply getting used to the weather. I guessed that maybe I would be driving a Semi eventually, having heard about the whole Ice lake. I didn't have much of an idea of how to live out in the wilderness. I didn't even know what the drugs were. All I knew was that there were trucks and ice. Now, I was a few miles from Yellowknife, and closing.

I'll make a post later on. Right now, I want to observe and then join in. But know that I write this profile because I WILL join later when it gets interesting.

Name: Derek "Double-Barrel" Kennedy

Date Of Birth: July 13th, 1978. Thirty-two/32

Experience: Former drug dealer and hit man.

Appearance: Around 5'11. Weight is around 180 pounds. Usually wears a black pair of jeans, a studded leather belt, a black beater with a heavy metal band t-shirt under a leather jacket with Hells Angels patches on it.

Weapons of Choice: Double-barreled sawn-off "Lupara" or shotgun. Switchblade and an illegal Berette 90two 9x19mm semi-automatic pistol.

Hometown: Los Angeles, California, USA.

Bio: A drug dealer born and raised in Los Angeles. He grew up a criminal as a kid and still is. He joined the Hells Angels as soon as he hit the age requirement of twenty-one and never thought twice about it. He sold drugs and killed people for the gang for four years, until he continued out a contract out on the one person you never kill. A cop. Derek killed the man with his signature Lupara, and was forced to go into hiding for some time.

He left town a week after the murder and went up to New York. He's been working with the Hells Angels chapter up there for some time now, but has been off the scene for some time now.

The patrol car's engine hummed it's sweet, sorrowful tune as it strained down the icy highway. Jack rode hard to the police station; he had finished lunch early and had time to spare. He passed sveral truckstops and diners on his way, most in terrible condition, and even more where the coffee sucked and the meatloaf tasted like his sergeant spent a few rounds in the boxing ring with it.
Yeah, when you have a SO who boxes like Mike Tyson your life doesn't exactly improve.

The radio Clicked three times; a high priority message.
*All available units, code 23-Bravo, reported gunfire in Shackleton marketplace, three shooters. Repeat, all available units code 23-Bravo, Shackleton. Over and out.*
Kirby turned on his patrol car's siren, executed a 0-90 degree perfect semicircle, and sped down the opposite side of the highway.

Jack put his head into his hands and stifled a frustrated sob, when he looked at the mess that was in the back of the trailer. Pantyhose, 58 X 13 feet of pantyhose. That fact alone would not have made Rowdy pause, it was the first three pallets in his trailer, they were busted and nylons were piled chest high in the back of the trailer. Mark was going to flip his lid when Jack called him and told him about this. It must have been when Mark's call almost made him drive off the road, this was all his dispatcher's fault.

Beside him, the forklift operator shook his head, like his best dog had just died. "You're gonna be here awhile, friend." the lumper groaned then added under his breath "So am I."

The receiver was absolutely thrilled to see him, when he first showed up, then they were miffed when he told them who he drove for and after that they were foaming-at-the-mouth angry, when the forklift driver told them of the pantyhose complication.

"Why don't you get the hell outta here, McAlister." the lumper drove his forklift into the trailer and began putting the nylons into a large plastic sack.

Jack's head was down between his shoulder blades, as he slunk out the Shipping and Reciving door. It was raining outside, it figured.

In his pocket, his cell phone began to chirp in a very obnoxious way and Rowdy took it from his pocket, intending to throw it to the ground and stomp on it. Then he saw the caller ID, Albert Corer.

"Jesus, Buddha and Zesus." Jack mumbled to himself, as he clicked the little button on the side to answer "Hello?"

A gruff sounding voice answered "Jack? Hi Jack, it's your old buddy Albert Corer, you better remember me."

"Last time I laid eyes on you, you were up to your eyeballs in mexican banditos. I thought they killed ya." Jack said, remembering the operation and the first time he met the napoleonic Albert Corer.

Mexico was having trouble with their highway system. A group of sombraro wearing bandits were holding up people commuting to the big cities. The Mexican governmentt being who they are, they asked for help, from none other then Lady Liberty. Who do you think they decided to send? None other then the greenhorn Jack McAlister Carlyle and the tougher then bootleather and twice as bitter Albert Dallebert Corer.

"A bunch of mexicans? That's a good one, Jack, that's a good one.It'll take more then a bunch of Frito Banditos to put me in the ground. I managed to trigger a small rockslide that took out most of the *******s. I used my Greener on the others." Albert was a proud and strong man. He had fought particularly hard when they began to fire Jack, but even the little man with the big voice could make the company keepp Jack around.

"Is something wrong, Albert?" Jack asked, as he opened his truck's door and climbed into the cab.

"No, nothing's wrong, I just figured, I have some extra money here and we have a lot of catching up to do. I can mail ya a plane ticket express." Albert said and Jack got the distinct feeling something wasn't right.

It was for that reason that Jack replied "Alright, we have some talking to do, don't we? I'm staying here in Billings Montana at The Come On Inn, room 37."

"Alright, by tomorrow night we'll be in a nightclub livin' it up." Albert replied "Well Jack, I gotta go. My buisness just walked through the door, you know my apartment, see ya tomorrow, buddy."

Just like his dispatcher, Albert hung up in a hurry too, odd behavior for the onry guy. Very odd indeed.

Name: Salvatore "Sal" Lucchesi

Date Of Birth: February 4th, 1981 (29 YOA)

Experience: Several years dodging mafia bullets, and shooting back.

Appearance: Height 5'10, weight variable, 170-180, and spiky black hair. Often seen wearing dark, weathered clothing. Has an Italian flag tattooed on his left shoulder.

Weapons of Choice: AK-47, sawed-off shotgun.

Hometown: NYC

Bio: Sal was born and raised in the less savory parts of New York City, and is no stranger to crime. He entered the world of organized crime shortly after (barely) graduating from high school. Eventually, a drug deal gone wrong put him on the local mafia's bad side. Miraculously, he mastered the art of evading them well enough so that he survived ever since. A self-described "ghetto guerilla", he was employed by a large drug cartel for his skill in wearing down enemies (and authorities) while evading capture.

Jack's car pulled up alongside other officers, most with sidearms drawn and pointing at a second story window above the Fisherman's Line bait and tackle shop. Several civilians were watching in their pickups about 70 yards away. Some of their trucks had their weapon off the gun rack.
A sergeant with a bullet-proof vest was shouting through a megaphone the usual commands.
Kirby parked his car with the passenger-side towards the building, got out, and looked at what everyone else was. There was a man, Chinese and not exactly clean-cut, pointing a gun at a child's head. A child, for god's sake.
He, too, pointed his weapon at the man. In his peripheral vision, he saw another officer in the window next to the Chinese man.

What he saw next was astounding.

((Thanks for joining guys! Nice sheets!))

Jack made a dismissive pfft! sound, as he pulled into they yaard, where he was supposed to leave his trailer. As he turnede the corner, to begin backing his trailer up, an old cur dog ran right in front of his bumper and Jack slammed on the brakes.

The lumper on the loading docks had laughed, when he presented Rowdy with three 200 count boxes of women's stockings. The forklift driver had said "We can't do anything with em'."

Now, in the Greebler's Transport yard, two hundred hose flew from where Rowdy had stacked them in the upper bunk and covered his dash. Jack gathered the flying hoseiry into their box and sat it on his passenger seat.

Jack dropped the trailer in the dirt lot and then, ripping a piece of cardboard from one of the boxes, scrawled bold letters in permanent marker "Come and Get It."

Pulling his truck up to the main office, in front of Mark's window, Jack unloaded 600 pantyhose, in tall boxes and sat them in front of his dispatcher's window. He sat the sign on top of the monument to women's stockings and got back into his truck.

All three hundred and fifty pounds of Mark, his dispatcher lumbered out his office and started yelling at Jack. His words were inaudible, when Rowdy turned on Baby and set her to rolling, towards his hotel room.

Sal had ambitious plans for the day. He had just heard that the police were occupied with something involving a Chinese man. That was all he cared to listen to.

In theory, this divert their attention slightly, and hopefully reduce the number of available officers. An advantage to anyone trying to avoid them, the likes of Sal.

The cartel had told him little of their plan, only that they would receive a large sum of money, should the operation be completed successfully. Sal's role was to transport some materials across town, and drop them off at a specified location.

He loaded several crates filled with what he assumed to be drugs and illegal weapons into the back of his rusty old pickup truck, and covered them with a tarp in the hopes of avoiding attention.

He started the truck, and heard the nostalgic sound of it's engine. He hoped he wouldn't be caught, but in case he had to fend off any police or mafia, he was well-prepared. He had a glock and a sawed-off shotgun stashed under the seat, and an uzi concealed under the dashboard.

With everything set to go, he set off on his course.

The officer on the window sill drew his weapon, and when the hostage-taker looked away, fired a single round into the Chinese man's head. He fell to the ground. The officer swung around, and fired another shot inside the room. A much louder shot was heard, and the officer fell backwards as his bulletproof vest took the blow of the bullet. The sergeant win a megaphone barely caught him.
All the officers, including Kirby, rushed into the market building, guns drawn.

Officer Wendall kicked a door down as Constable Wilson led a party into the basement, Sergeant Jackson checked out back while Officer Jack Kirby took point up the stairs.
*The negotiations worked, I guess.* Jack thought.
He kicked the door down, and felt a punch tothe stomach.

At exactly 8 PM, the day after Jack had left his dispatcher's wife a present, in the form of pantyhose for life, the United Airlines flight touched down in New York City. Jack, showing the correct paperwork and his CIA identification, was able to take his Automag onto the plane, but he had to put it in his luggage.

His luggage was a small suitcase. In it was a single shirt, a pair of jeans and his pistol.

To Jack's shagrin, he was forced to take public transit. He didn't have enough cash onhim for a rental car. The whole time he rode on the bus, being pushed about by an obnoxious black woman with a generous, to put it politely, beer gut, he cursed Mark.

The closest the bus route got to Albert's loft apartment was ten blocks and, to add to Jack's dismay, there was no subway running there. He cursed his dispatcher again.

Jack wheeled his luggage behind him, as he trooped through the crowded streets of New York City. When Jack looked up, he got vertigo badly and he was forced to look back down or risk falling over backwards. He was constantly shoved back and forth between people, all headed, god only knew where.

It was not until 9:30 at night, when Jack finally got to the apartment building which housed his old friend. Jack was rather skeptical on why he was in New York City, to see a man he hadn't talked with in three years. Is the agency going to kill me? After all this time? Jack thought, as he pushed the door to the building open Nah! he told himself Why would they do that?

Still, his inner dread caused him to step quickly into the hallway and pull his Automag from his suitcase. He slipped the shoulder holster on over his white T shirt and pulled his coat back on. The weight of the high powered pistol under his arm reassured him.

Jack picked up his suitcase one handed and hauled it up the stairsto the top floor. Albert's apartment was cozy, but was rather crowded. Albert Corer was a packrat of epic proportions. Anything he had eveer laid hishands on, was bound to be shoved somewhere in the loft.

Putting his suitcase to the side of the doorway, Jack knocked on the door three times. To his horror, it swung wide open, revealing the carnage.

Kirby woke up on a hospital gurney, wires going into god knows where, and a pump going up and down on hisleft side. Sergeant Megaphone was sitting in a chair to his right, finishing a crossword puzzle and laughing at a Ziggy comic.
"Ow, ow, and more ow. Whatever happened to bulletproof vests nowadays?" Jack murmed under the drugs.
"Day-um," Megaphone said, "Thought you'd never get up. Some Chink shot you in the stomach. Killed the kid, too. Darn shame."
"Jesus. Why did it happen?"
"Drug deal gone wrong. Father shot in the head, mother had a chainsaw sticking out of her. Honestly, I'm glad the kid doesn't have to live with that."
"God."
"Yeah. The hell did this town get so violent, anyway? Listen, you gonna get reasigned to someplace where you'll live longer."
"Where?"
"I don't know. If it's in America, I'll personally smuggle you a bottle of Tequila. If it's a big city, I'll-- I don't know what I'd do."
"Why?"
"Because that means this place is worse than NYC or Chicago. Do you know how bad that is?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I do. I need- I need some sleep."
And that's just what he did.

Sal made it to his destination without much trouble. He pulled into the alley that had been designated. Dismounting from his truck, he was greeted by a man in a trench coat.

"Good to see the shipment arrived", said the man.

"Yeah, good thing. Any idea what's in these crates?" Sal asked.

"I don't even know. Probably the usual, drugs and stuff."

"Must be pretty important if they won't tell anybody."

"We'll have the truck unloaded in a minute. Here's a tip." He handed Sal a $100 bill.

"Gee, thanks" said Sal. "You must have a pretty good ring going to tip so well". 2 more men appeared, and unloaded the truck.

"It's a pleasure doing business with you", said the man in the trench coat. "Now get outta here before the cops show find you."

"Arrivederci", Sal said, and got into his truck. He went on his way back to his apartment.

Jack stood by the window, awake and free of tubes, staring at the incredibly cold Northwest territory. Minutes- no, hours ago he was shot in the intestinal track, with the bullet having to be left in due to a possible cut artery if they removed it. And now there he was, leaving his town for the first time since being a truck driver. And now, every time he looked at his oh-so familiar town, he noticed and made notes of everything, to make sure he could remember it.
From the patrol car going around the corner to the idiot in the Cadillac running a red light, from the large hotel to the small shops, he wanted to take it all in, for one last time.
He hoped it wasn't New York.

Derek was sittingt on his couch. He smelt of whiskey, due to his weekend drinking binge. His plasma screen TV was on, playing his blu-ray DVD of The Godfather Pt. II.

He got off the couch and went to the bathroom. He looked in the mirror at himself. His scarred face, his black goatee, his messed up hair. He looked like a pile of crap. Only attractice thing about him was that he was obsessed with making sure his teeth were clean and white. He wore a black beater, a dark blue pair of jeans, and some black socks. He grabbed his tooth brush and began to work.

He flossed afterwards, used some mouthwash, gargled, spit in the sink, then popped in a piece of watermelon flavored gum into his mouth for good measure. He went into his bedroom, which was as messy as the rest of his house. His room smelt of tobacco and beer, a box of cigars was at his desk along with his Lupara and labtop, and clothes covered the floor. His girlfriend, Erin, was sleeping peacefully on the king sized bed.

Derek smiled. The only good thing about exile from LA was that he met the girl of his dreas here. A girl he could quit the scene for, settle down, and try to get a normal job. He lived a good life, due to the massive amount of money he brought in due to being a dealer and hit man. He still rode with the boys and he worked as a manager of a local gym. Life was getting better for him.

Derek payed attention to getting changed now. He went in his closet, grabbed an Iron Maiden t-shirt, his dark brown hiking boots, and his leather jacket, and put them on. He went on walks at night to clear his head, feel better. He grabbed his belt and put it on, while grabbing his 90two and putting it in his pants, and then hiding it under his t-shirt. He grabbed his keys and left the cozy apartment. He opened the door, closed it, locked it, and then turned around to see a man stunned in place. "Hey you, what you doin' in Al's apartment?" Derek said to the man.

An endtable was upturned in the middle of the hallway, which led into Albert's "Man Cave". A copy of this year's Swimsuit Edition of Sports Illustrated had been on the table and now laid open on the floor a bikini-less woman covered herself with as little as possible.

When Jack saw the bullethole in the wall, at the end of the hall, he pulled his Automag and flatened himself against the wall inside the loft. He looked at it more carefully, Jack could tell that the bullet had been fired from a silenced pistol, baffle silencers, while completely muffle the sound of gunfire, decrease accuracy and impact speed. It had been a heavy caliber weapon that fired into the wall, Jack could tell by the size of the hole in Albert's wall.

Stepping over the endtable, Jack immediatly turnede to his right, where he remembered Albert's kitchen to be. At the time of the attack on Albert's loft, he had been in the process of making a sandwich, Jack smelled, a tuna salad sandwich. The food was knocked onto the floor, tuna salad strewn from hell-to-breakfast.

As Jack proceeded through the kitchen, he could see the events that had taken place here unfold in his mind. A smattering of blood on the kitchen countertop, the bullethole in the wall and the tuna on the tiled floor of the kitchen.

Albert had been making dinner, the tuna salad, when he was leaving the kitchen, the attackers burst into the apartment. They rushed him and he had hit one of them with the tuna sandwich, bloodying his nose. They had fired a shot at him, but it had missed, it went into the wall. Albert collapsed his table across the hall and fled.

As Jack stepped out of the kitchen, he heard a man yell "Hey you, what you doin' in Al's apartment?"

Whirling, Jack retreated into the kitchen, taking cover behind the refridgerator door. He popped his head out into the hall, his Automag probing towards the man "Who the hell are you!?!"

Derek pulled out his 90two and pointed it at the man. "I thought Al was quiet today. Well, your sloppy. First you kill Al, now your gonna kill me. Well, Al may have gotten soft, but pull that damn trigger and I'll blow your damn brains out," he said.

He looked at the man and his piece. An automag. "You also either have a good gun salesman or your a former FBI. And yes, I know about Al's past life. Good friend of mine. He drinks a little bit much. Never believed he was FBI. Guess he was right," he said.

Jack walked down the frigid streets of Yellowknife to his apartment. His relocation package should pay for his hospital stay. Again, he remembered everything in his town: the florists across the street, the hospital he just stayed at, his father's cabin a few miles out of town, the lak--

Then, someone dressed as The Fonz bumped into him, rather violently, Jack noticed.
"Hey," Kirb said, "Watch where you're frickin' goin! I'm a police officer, for god's sake!"
"Watch where you're at," Fonzie said, "I should be doin' much worse considering how you handle this town!"

Jack walked away, thinking about what the police were doing wrong. He had a week before reloc, maybe he'd look into it.

A medium built man was holding a gun on him from the hallway. He had Jack cornered, nowhere to run. He had discovered Jack, not the other way around. Not a good place to be, Jack thought.

He entertained the prospect of jumping through the hallway and into a door, but he wasn't sure what was on the other side, he could jump through, only to find he had hopped into a pantry or a closet.

It's best to try and reason with the heavily scarred man.

Jack heard the word, FBI and almost died laughing. Then he heard about this friend's recent vices, he grumbled inwardly.

"He must have been really drunk, he wasn't FBI." Jack called over to the man.