saltinespike

Opening Note

I'm normally a script writer, so this story may seem choppy, as I am used to writing scenes, but it goes scene-by-scene in chronological order. Enjoy!


Warning!

The following story contains strong language, graphic violence, and some adult situations. Reader discretion is advised.


Summary

Bounty hunter Shawn Dillard is arrested and thrown into prison for murdering three people. He loses his job, his family, his life. When a prison war hits, Shawn takes a huge risk and escapes. He visits old "clients" of his, in hopes of joining with the ranks of criminals.

saltinespike

saltinespike

saltinespike

War

Vincent Moretti slaps his grandfather, Joseph, hard across the face. They are nose to nose, and Vincent has his long index finger pointing at Joseph’s face accusingly. Joseph is slumped back into an office chair; his facial expressions show a mixture of shock and fear. Vincent has the old man pinned by grasping his chair by either armrest; he speaks with a threatening tone. “Don’t you ever call murder on me again, you hear? I loved my father, more than my own son. If you ever gamble mumbling that again, I’ll slit your throat in your sleep.”

“Get away from me, you sick fuck!” Vincent slaps him again, drawing blood this time. He throws the chair to the ground, causing a loud thud. “I think you’d better go to bed, before I decide to kill you now.”

---

Cigarette smoke pollutes the crisp morning air. Mario Galfini inhales the last of it and flicks it at cement of the sidewalk, where it finds its ranks with many other littered cigarette buds. He wears a dark red button up, with rolled up sleeves, and open at the peak of the chest, revealing a volume of chest hair. Below his black leather belt dwells unwrinkled khakis, above unscathed leather shoes. The man’s hair is greased back. His two eyebrows nearly unite, but manage to stay distant by a faded comb of peach fuzz. His right hand grips a wooden baseball bat and his back presses against a brick wall.

A younger man, of about 30, walks proudly along the same sidewalk, dressed in a new suit. Despite his arrogant stance, his eyes dart around constantly, searching for danger. All he can see is normal life in this Chicago ghetto, nothing excessively threatening, except for him. A mysterious man, about a decade older than him, leans against a store wall holding a tattered bat. Apart from the bat, his clothes stand out the most. This man has a shiny nickel to his name, it’s obvious. He’s out of place. The younger beau’s heart pace quickens, and his nervousness shows, for he tightens up his coat and hastens his step. He passes the mystery man, and lets himself relax for a second.

He is pulled backward and heaved into the dirty enclosure of the backstreets. His climb up is interrupted by a slug to the back. He is kicked twice after his drop, once in the gut and once in the chest. Galfini boosts him up and slams him against the wall. He looks around in a daze, trying to regain sense of things. Things become clearer: he realizes what is happening; a large man is wheezing nasty breath in his face.

“You tell Moretti death is near,” Mario speaks with a Brooklyn accent, “are we clear?”

The younger man yelps at a sudden twist in his leg. After a few gasps, he speaks. “Who do you work for?”

“Tell him… Giordano.” With that, he releases the man, and hastily retrieves his bat. The victim still stood there, trying to catch his breath. Galfini presses his palm into his chest and whacks his knee out.

“AGHHH! Fuck!” Mario heads for the streets once more, ignoring the cries of the mark. “You son of a bitch! You’re dead, you hear me?! Fucking cocksucker!”

---

A loud buzzer sings, leaving an irritating ring in Shawn Dillard’s ear. A dark “R00591242” is printed on his white tee shirt, assembled with black pants and hand-me-down shoes; his wrists and ankles are shackled. He steps through the rusted doorway and into a large room. Cells align each side, for three stories, all occupied. The inmates seem half interested, at most. They arrive at a blank cell. As Shawn organizes his small bundle, the guard informs him of what he shall do. “Getcha shit unpacked, and I’ll bring ya to the cafeteria,” a few seconds pass, “and the warden told me to give ya this. He says to read it immediately.”

The tension is dangerous, but only Shawn Dillard knows how vulnerable the guard is. He reaches for the paper and pulls, but the guard keeps his grip. He soon lets go, to where Shawn slowly opens it, keeping the paper intact. It reads:

“Shawn Dillard,

Welcome to Marion Penitentiary. You should be locked up in a Special Housing Unit, but I’ve been informed by your employer to keep you away from there. Watch yourself. Give this letter to the guard in front of you immediately after reading this.

The Warden”

He breathes in, marking his completion of the letter. He hands the flap of paper to the guard and flashes him a fake smile. The guard tucks it into his back pocket. “Come on now, boy. Time for lunch.”


---

“I s’pose I should give you a rundown of how things work around here. This prison has been dubbed “Alcatraz” since it’s opening, and for a damn good reason. There ain’t no fuckin’ around here, boy. Everyone here means serious business, which is why you gotta watch yourself. These inmates ain’t here for measly theft. Us guards don’t fuck around, neither. Daily cell checks, random frisks, and at least two cameras watching you at all times is how we do things. Don’t start no fights; don’t raise hell with the guards. Do as you’re told, and you’ll get along good here in prison. Now if you ain’t got no questions, boy, go eatcha lunch. You got ten minutes left.”

The guard leaves before the new inmate can get any questions off. He looks around the room he’s in. The extensive capacity is painted white on all its sides, its only features are rows of steel tables and a drawn out lunch line; its seats are sold out by inmates who wear the same uniform as him. The inmates look violent and viperous. They’re scattered as loners, a large white gang, a larger black gang, and a few small groups of seemingly new friends. Shawn finds a lone seat and eats his meal, fighting eye contact with the inmates.

---

“I want to know all of the goddamn details right now.” Vincent angrily puffed on a cigarette, which he only did under intense pressure. “I’m fucking waiting!”

“Well, sir, he’s stable. He’ll live, but he doesn’t want to continue working for us.” Vincent, Charles, two Consiglieres, and a Capo loiter in Vincent’s dim office. The tension is brutal, and all of those inferior to the godfather are intimidated. They glare at him, then at each other, trying to think of something to say.

“Oh, he won’t continue working for us, I promise you that. Those nurses are gonna be undertakers soon enough. YOU WANNA KNOW WHY?! BECAUSE HE’S FUCKING DEAD!!!” He grabs his rolling chair and launches it at the wall. “FUCK!!!” Once again, silence. “Giordano wants to fuck with me, I’ll fuck him right back. He’s declared war on this family.” He gasps from the intensity of his yelling. “He’s got a war.”

---

A large room buzzes with activity; men and women dressed formally scatter amongst themselves, rushing to different computers or offices, most with papers gripped in their hands. Fax machines whir, computers seem to kindle the already light room, the employees yell over each other. It is chaotic. It is the Chicago FBI Headquarters.

An office door opens, and a young man, Mark Hammond, rushes in. Another man sits behind a desk, tearing his bloodshot eyes away from his glowing computer. He looks at the subordinate, surprised at the outburst. Mark lays a peach folder onto the desk. Catching his breath, he explains. “Breakthrough! Louis Jackson: heavyset black male, 28 years old, and heavily associated with Shawn Dillard. I heard one of their recorded conversations and tracked it to this man. He doesn’t have any major offenses, but he’s managed to live middle-class without ever attaining an official job. I’m thinking conspiracy to commit robbery, battery, kidnapping, even murder. That’s what we put Dillard away for, right?”

George Beyer, the middle-aged man behind the desk, reviews the papers, pondering his employee’s theory. “Hmmm. You said you heard them speaking?” Hammond nods. “What about?”

“Vincent Moretti, sir.” Beyer drops the papers and adjusts his position within his chair.

“Acquire a search warrant for the residence of Louis Jackson… for conspiracy to commit murder.” He hands Mark the folder he came in with, dismissing him to leave afterward.

---

“Watchoo in for, white boy?” Daryl Adam questions as he pushes downward in harmony with Shawn. The killer ignores the question at first, dismissing him as a loudmouth prick, but the gangster had been pleading all day, to the brink of exploding, so he answers.

“Triple homicide.” Blood Money, as Daryl liked to be called, continues on the job, unmoved by his partner’s crime. He grabs a hunk of metal in unison with Shawn and places it under the monstrous machine. They once again push down together. Shawn looks at the man, finally giving in to conversation. “You?”

“Got caught doin’ a drive-by. I’m in for 25 to life. Doin’ this shit.” They haul another heap of metal into the machine. “Only thing I got to look forward to… this damn machine.”

“I’m not so sure. Might be some shit going down soon enough. Gotta finish a deal, with some people pretty high up there. Gonna be chaos. Just a heads up.” Blood Money’s eyes widen; he stares gape-jawed at Dillard.

“You don’t mean a,” he starts to whisper, “prison war.” After a nod, Daryl loses his temper. “Nigga, are you crazy? This shit is high security; you can’t make it through these damn walls!”

“Already bought the plane ticket to Chicago and I can’t miss my flight.”

“Shit, they say black people is crazy. Yo’ honkey ass is gonna get shot. You know that, right? Yo’ ass is fittin’ ta get shot. That’s all I gotsta say about that.”

“Last piece.” They once again heave the metal onto the platform and press down, tossing the remaining shape with the others. “Alright, I’m going to bed. Watch ya back, and have a good night, brother.”

---

The only light in the whole room is that of the glowing computer screen. Louis Jackson reads the screen, and then hits the back button. After checking the clock, he closes out of the job-finding website and shuts his computer down. He is simply not qualified for anything, not to mention he’s never had an official job.
‘Why’d Shawn have to get caught?’ he thinks. ‘He never got caught before. Minute he gets into dealings with the mafia, he gets his ass thrown in jail. Shit.’
With a sigh, Louis climbs into his queen bed alone, as always. He bows his head to the Death Row Records picture on the wall and pulls the covers over his shoulder. “Night Shoog. Pac. Dre. Snoop. Lights out!”

He claps his hands twice, which makes the room pitch black.

---

Shawn sits with multiple Italians during lunch. When they reject him, he drops Moretti’s name, to which they reply “sit down”.

“Now listen, I don’t know about you, but I do not plan to spend the next 20 years in here. I plan to escape, but I need help. I can only take so many armed guards at once… handcuffed and shackled. A small explosion will happen in Cell Block F in two days, so if any of you are in there, get transferred. That blast will be enough to distract a good 70% of the guards, to which we will escape our cells. I will be working out with two guards watching me. The commotion should rid me of one guard and the other I will stab to death with a shank I have between my groin and my thigh. I will only have shackles, which I will unlock with the dead guard’s keys. Depending on security, I may be able to make it to the control tower, but if not, one of you will need to. Unleashing all prisoners will cause maximum confusion, enabling us at least 15 minutes to escape, before the appropriate reinforcements show up. So at least five of you need to take your break on July 2, 2008, two days, between 6:00 and 7:30 AM.”

The guards whistle strictly at 1:00 PM, sending the inmates back to their cells. Shawn goes to work shortly after, planning to inform Blood Money a different story, knowing he will inform the Warden. ‘Perfect’.

---

“Aye, poppy, how you doin’? Lookin’ for a little company?” the Hispanic hooker seductively inquires. She just got off work, it seems, as she is standing outside of a strip club. After the subtle transaction, she requests her client finds somewhere subtle, as she does not want the police snooping. As the slightly obese man searches, the prostitute whips out her cell phone and texts “Working overtime. :]” to an unknown number.

A woman waiting outside receives the text. She shivers in the night, wrapping up in her fur coat tightly. Her eyes are very bloodshot; it seems she is waiting for her ride. She whips her phone out and chuckles lightly at the text. “Live it up, bitch. :]”

A limo pulls in front of the woman after she pockets the phone. The driver climbs out and looks at the woman, relieved. “You know, you’re brothers are very upset at your presence here. If you would please get in, Miss Christine.”

“I could give a fuck what they think. They do not control me, Giles. If you would please take me to me to the main gates, that would be fine.” She climbs in, jumping at the sudden change in climate. The interior is very formal, equipped with a television and champagne.

“But Miss, they requested I drop you off at the Don’s house. Vincent is waiting,” Giles nervously announces.

“Listen, bring me to the gate or I get out right now.”

Her driver starts the grand vehicle and pulls out of the small parking lot. “Gates it is.”

---

Two uniformed men impatiently bang at the front door of the Jackson residence. Louis wakes up, checking his alarm clock. “Five AM? Too early to answer the door. You can fuck off.” With that, he falls back asleep, but the men insist and keep on, ringing the doorbell multiple times.

Louis angrily climbs out of bed and nudges to the front door, wearing only white underwear. He opens it. There is a moment of silence, where the pair stare at Louis, and vice versa. “The fuck you want?” he questions, irritated. They hold up their badges, and simply reveal “FBI”.

“We have a signed warrant for your arrest. If you would please come with us…”

“Could I take a piss first?” he questions, planning to escape.

“No, come with us, now.” They yank him into the black car and speed off, leaving the intermediate home unoccupied.

“Best hope I don’t piss in yo’ car. Bitch.”

---

Christine fiddles in her purse for her house keys, hoping she can get in before her brother can – too late. Right as she opens the front door, Vincent closes it. “What the hell is wrong with you? A stripper? You can’t be serious!”

“Yes, well, if you can’t deal, you can fuck off.” She tries once again to open her door but it is slammed shut again by Vincent.

“That is a fucking disgrace. We have a reputation to uphold, as a family.”

“As a family, Vince, or as a mafia? I’m not a part of your god damn gang, shithead. I do what I want. I’m a big girl. So like I said, fuck off.”

“What the hell is your problem? Is it money? If you need money, we have tons of it. Name your price. Fucking Christ, Christine, look at yourself. You look like a hooker.”

“Maybe I like to party. Maybe I like to get away from this private fucking neighborhood. Don’t tell me I can’t go, because I fucking can. You have no control over me. I’m not Charles, I’m not Frank, I’m not Bobby, and I’m not any of your damn street men.”

“You’re my sister!” She tries for the door again, and it opens, but Vincent steps in. “It tears me apart to see you like this, all hyped up on drugs and sex, I hate it. Not to mention how vulnerable you are out there, alone in the ghetto. Who knows what could happen. I want you to stay safe.”

“Goodbye, Vince, I’m going to bed.” She shoves him out and slams her door, locking it afterward. Vincent sighs and starts heading back to the family mansion, the Don’s house.

---

“Listen, all I want to know is who Dillard was working for. Then you’re free to go.” As George Beyer’s patience decreased, his desire to beat the answer out of the criminal in front of him increased. “We get the answer either way. We have an entire investigative team at your house searching for evidence that you committed murder, also, seeing as I have sufficient evidence to back that up. I don’t want to put you in prison, I want to put you in jail. I want to put Shawn Dillard in prison… for life. You see how this can spin? You confess everything, and spend five years in jail, or don’t, and spend quite a few more years with Shawn in prison. Now please, tell me.”

“Listen, man, I ain’t gonna talk. That’s the bottom line. Call my lawyer, and we’ll get there.” Beyer sighs, irritable at the criminal’s resistance. He exits the small room and heads for a computer. Mark Hammond stops him.

“There’s been a prison war at Marion, and they’ve called for reinforcements. The prisoners have killed guards and taken their weapons, so they are armed and dangerous.” Mark is nervous to what his superior will do.

“Son of a bitch. Shawn ain’t gonna die, neither. Shit. Well, what can we do? We’re right where we started, except without the access we had to him last time.” Lieutenant Beyer thought for a moment. “Except we have his assistant. Alright, we’re keeping him for information. He said he won’t talk without his lawyer, so I’m headed to give him a call. Bring him down here.”

---

Shawn busts through a door and sprints toward a fence adorned with barbed wire, along with six other inmates. A bullet pierces through the air, meeting an inmate’s leg, making him fall. Shawn ducks down for a moment, almost falling to the ground, but he keeps himself up. The sniper takes another shot, connecting with another man’s shoulder. The sniper is shot by an inmate with a handgun who, in turn, is shot by another sniper at close range.

The men jump onto the fence almost simultaneously, Shawn taking the lead of them all. He takes small cuts from the wire, which cuts his shirt open. He collapses onto the other side, three feet of more barbed wire. He climbs up slowly, doing his best not to get cut deeply. Walking knee-deep, he makes it to the second fence, as others pummel into the hell he just escaped. Scaling the second fence, part of his pant leg is ripped off, ripping a large scar into his leg. He cries out in pain, but manages to make his way over the second fence, falling 10 feet onto the heavenly dirt. A security truck approaches; Shawn pulls out a stolen pistol and aims, shooting the guard between the eyes.

He hijacks the truck, turns it around, and heads for town.

---

A cell phone vibrates on an end table, demanding to be answered. The patron in the bed stirs, waken by the annoying sound. He picks it up and presses “SEND”.

“Hello?” he inquires, very sleepy.

“VINCE!”

“Shawn? What do you want?” He sits up, interested.

“I’m out! Is that plane you sent in town?!”

“You’re out?! Of course you’re out! Yes, it’s there! Ready to fly back to Chicago!”

“Sweet! I should be there tonight! Gotta go. Later.”

Vincent hangs up, jumping out of bed, forgetting to check his clock. He pulls on his casual wear and heads for his office. “CHUCK!!!” He turns the kitchen light on and goes to the phone. “CHUCK!”

“What?!” He climbs down the stairs, confused.

“We found our hit man!”

saltinespike

Negotiations (Part One)

“SHAWN!!!” Christine Moretti sprints toward the handsome assassin, lunging for a hug upon arrival. She plants a bear hug on him, embracing him as if she hadn’t seen him in years.

“Christine,” he laughs, embracing her not nearly as tightly. His eyes are lit up, genuinely happy to see her. “What are you doing here?”

“When I heard you were coming back to Chicago, I told him that I was gonna come, and that he couldn’t tell me otherwise. He’s been having some control issues recently. Come on, get in! Mam’s excited to see you.” Shawn grabs his bag from the interior of the small plane and heads to the limo waiting for him. The two are formally dressed, Shawn getting a change of clothes on his plane ride. “So, hun, how was your flight?” Christine questions, offering Shawn some champagne.

“No thanks. It was… bumpy, but nonetheless heavenly. I just want a hot shower and a relaxing bed. Think you can provide that?” he flirts. Christine blushes and nods, smiling. “Can you turn the television on? I want to see what’s become of the prison break.”

The small screen comes to life when the woman’s finger-painted nail presses the on button.

“Channel 2, please.” They watch together, Christine snuggling against Shawn.

“It is still unknown if any surviving prisoners made it outside of the gates, or who started the war, but an intense investigation is under way,” the news reporter narrates. “While speculative fear haunts many, authorities assure us not to worry. Back to you, David.”

“Yes, for those just tuning in, a violent prison war broke out at Marion Penitentiary at approximately 7:00 this morning, just 300 miles south of Chicago. We will be bringing you reports of this developing story as more news comes. In other news, the increasing gang violence within Chicago troubles mayor Richard Daley, and he claims to have a plan to greatly decrease it. That and more when we return.”

---

Vincent peers through his blinds, hearing the rumble of an engine. He sees the arriving limo, and exits his office, heading to the front door. Christine assists Shawn through the door, showing him to his room.

“Shawn!” Vincent calls, relieved to see his comrade alive in person. Shawn turns around, laughing when he sees Vincent. They greet with a strong handshake. “I’ll let Christine show you to your room. Get cleaned up, and we’ll talk. Good?”

“Oh my God! Shawn!” An elderly woman rushes down the stairs, still in her nightgown, reaching for the man.

“Mam!!! It’s so great to see you!” The two embrace. “How are you and—Joseph! Heyyy!” The other elder makes his way down, also greeting Shawn with a handshake. Charles also enters, quietly. “Charles,” he nods. Charles simply lifts his hand.

“Hello.”

Shawn sighs. “Where’s Gina?”

“Right here,” a small, but dark voice announces. “Hi Shawn.”

“Hey, Gina. How have you been?” Shawn asks gravely.

“I’m surviving… in therapy and the whole nine yards.” She looks down, playing with a golden bracelet engulfing her wrist. “I wish you had made it to the funeral. He missed you. You can say a few words to him if you wish.”

“I surely wish I had, Mrs. Moretti. Paul’s death was very depressing and I can’t imagine how it must be for you.”

“Get cleaned up. We’ll take a little walk.”

---

“It is time to fucking talk, you fat bastard. My patience is running low and I’m on the verge of calling off the investigation. You don’t go anywhere until I get information.”

“I’m not a criminal. I know you didn’t find anything in my house. Now, if you want to take this to court, I can damn well do that, but I guarantee you I will prove innocent. We can negotiate. You release and place me in a witness protection program—“

“No. Not gonna happen. You’re planning. I can see it in your eyes. You can stay here, in FBI’s custody, but that is as far as I can go.”

Louis sighs. “Fine. We can sit here, glaring at each other. I’m a champ at staring contests. We can start now, if you want. I promise you, as long as I am in this building, you won’t hear a word of Shawn Dillard.”

Beyer breathes deeply, containing his temper. “Alright, Mr. Louis Jackson, you’ll stay here until I can find something better to do with you.” He exits, leaving Louis alone with a fierce-looking guard. Mark Hammond waits outside of the door.

“I’m not too sure about this, sir. Dillard knows I’m the one that busted him, and he knows I’m smart enough to bust him again. What if he attacks me? What if he gets someone else to attack me? I can’t even leave the building without being scared for my life. If he’s not in Chicago already, he will be soon enough.”

His boss thinks for a few seconds, brainstorming a solution. “His assistant wants out. Perhaps Shawn will head to his house, searching for him. Maybe we will be able to set up a trap…”

---

“This is no time to be fucking conservative, Leo. When you have the enemy at their knees, you don’t wait for them to retaliate; you squeeze the life out of them before they punch you in the fucking balls! We’ve wasted enough time as it were. We need to capitalize and send all of our men to ‘Moretti Estates’ so they can obliterate the place!” Stuart Giordano punches his brother’s desk, for emphasis. He stands up, swiping papers off of the desk; he leans across to threaten the Don. “You need to pull it together or we will not come out on top. I will not let you ruin pop’s dream and I will not let you ruin the Giordano Family! You can send them or I can,” he bellows, fiercely slamming his hands in front of his brother.

Stuart whips out a pistol from his jacket pocket. “I swear to God, if you do not unleash that order, I will lodge this clip into your fucking skull. Now do it.”

Leonard lightly sighs, ignoring the ferocity of his enraged underboss. “Do you think this is smart, Stuart? Our family would fall apart without me. You’d be killed within the week, supposing you killed the rest of the family in this house. Listen to me—“ Stuart shoots the wall behind Leonard. Leonard sobers up. He stands, meeting the intense gaze of his brother. “Do not push me, Stu.” A few deep breaths pause the discussion. “We have what we need. Moretti’s sister works in a strip club downtown. We do not need to recklessly walk into a contention that will hold meaningless losses. The Moretti Family is bigger than us, Stu. Try to remember that.” With that, Leonard walks around the desk to him. He reaches up to poke his head. “Use your brain…” He approaches the door, opening it afterward. As he closes it, he makes his last remark, “… fool.”

Stuart fires three shots into the sealed door, all of which miss his brother, his boss.

---

Vincent sighs, walking wearily in the bright afternoon sun. “It’s been hell, I’ll tell ya. The Giordano Family is after us, our hit man’s been killed, Christine is on the verge of being a hooker, Ma has attempted to kill herself, twice, and the police are growing on us like fungus or some shit. It’s driving me to the edge, Shawn, I can feel it. I need some assurance.” He slows to a stop and places his hand on Shawn’s shoulder. “We need you, Shawn. You protect this family. You’ve done us great things in the past. I want you to be our hit man. Now, I know it’s a big step up from your former position, and I know you said you didn’t want to get too heavily involved, but we need this. If you do not join, the Moretti Family will suffocate and die.”

“Vince, come on. I’ve done just fine with being an associate. There is no reason I cannot take up the job without changing my title. I explained this, numerous times: I can’t grow too close, not to you, to anyone. I don’t want to be tied to anything anyone else has done and I don’t want anyone tied to me. Although, I can’t help but wonder, what makes you inclined to ask, knowing I’d say no?”

“The FBI is chasing you. You have nowhere else to go. Just about anyone you knew before the arrest would turn you away and you know it. You need shelter, shelter with privacy. This little neighborhood is exclusive, independent from the rest of the world. I love ya to death, but if I have to play dirty to keep you here, I will. Please, Shawn.”

A large Capo escorts a man with a buzz cut up to Vincent. The two ignore the newcomers. Shawn sighs. “I suppose under one condition.”

“Name it.”

“This is strictly to defend, since the Morettis are my second family. I’m not pulling off your dirty work.”

“Agreed,” Vincent cheers, jumping all over the offer. He shakes his hand immediately, thereafter turning to the Capo, Howard Melan. “What? Who is this?”

Before Howard can speak, the outsider introduces himself. “Conor Moran, sir. I’m the son of Quinn Moran, your father’s old hit man, correct?” Vincent nods, confused. “I just came in from Scotland, sir. I am a hit man myself. I was wondering if I could get a proper job within the Moretti Family.”

“That’s, uh, not really the way things work around here, pal. Did you think that because your father was a hit man, we should trust you with a gun?”

“Well, I figured that since you are in absence of a proper hit man, it would be necessary. You do need someone to do your dirty work still, right?” Vincent expresses a guilty look, and looks at Shawn.

“I ain’t doing it.”

“Ugh. Fine. Consider yourself an associate. I suppose you can raid ‘The Deli Fresh’ and collect some money. Be snappy. Go.” The men exit; Shawn and Vincent start marching back to the Don’s house. “Now Shawn, about Christine…”

---

George Beyer paces behind a team of operatives searching purposefully on computers.

“Sir,” Lisa Temple inquires. The superior directly walks over. “Daryl Adams, a fellow inmate of Shawn Dillard, apparently informed another prisoner of the planned escape. His record is available but he hasn’t been found. The interview with the other inmate is going on as we speak. He’s got a record.”

“No shit, baby cakes. He was in prison.” George exits the room, heading for his office. Mark Hammond stops him.

“Louis Jackson doesn’t have a lawyer. He’s screwing with us.”

“For fuck sake,” Beyer screams, angry that the battle he’s fighting is being lost. He shoves his door open, creating a hole in the wall of the room. “That’s fucking great.”

“There is some good news though, sir.”

“Is Shawn Dillard dead?”

“No, but Conor Moran sent us some audio of a brief encounter he had with Vincent Moretti today.”

The Director exhales, trying to let the fresh news cheer him up. “Where can I listen to it?”

“It should be in your inbox, sir.” He glances at his email. The item he’s searching for stands out. It’s title reads “I’m in…”

saltinespike

Negotiations (Part Two)

Stuart spins within the Don’s chair, peacefully smoking a cigar. A body lies limp directly behind him. Daniel Nighs, a Capo, enters the room dressed in a formal business suit. “Mission complete, sir; Jackson is as free as a bird.”

He puffs on his cigar. “No troubles getting out of the building?”

“No, sir. We went through the stairwell and no one thought about it twice. Beyer is still concerned about his relation with Shawn Dillard. They hardly know the name Giordano.”

“Good. Now grab DeLuca and get rid of this son of a bitch.” Daniel walks around the desk gagging on the scent of rotting blood. He tries to hide his eyes from Leonard’s blank stare, but fails. He holds his wrists, slowly dragging him out of the room, leaving a path of damp blood on the carpet. Antonio DeLuca waits outside the door with a stranger.

“Help me with this,” Nighs demands, but Antonio ignores him, continuing into the room. The newcomer is fairly buff, with a distinguished Italian look.

“This is Mikael Rossi,” DeLuca introduces. “The dumb muscle you’re looking for.”

Stuart sniffs in and exhales, eyeing the man he ordered his other Capo to fetch. “Mikael Rossi… how many men have you killed?”

Rossi speaks in a very Italian accent. “I lost count, sir.”

“Good answer. So here’s the deal, Mr. Rossi. If we think you’re fucking around, we kill you. You do as my men say, are we clear on that?” Before Mikael can answer, Stuart exclaims, “Good! Now go away. Follow Antonio’s orders. Make use of yourself. DeLuca! Where’s Mario?!”

The Capo points to the door, signaling that the novice should leave. “I can’t be sure, sir. I haven’t seen him or heard from him. He should be here by—“

The door opens and Mario Galfini hold a flaccid Christine in his arms. Antonio exits the room, heading to help Nighs in the cellar. “Good God, you didn’t kill her already, did you?” Stuart quizzes, standing to examine the stunned stripper. “You’re sure this is her?”

“She was right where you said she would be. She got a phone call from Shawn Dillard, but it was left unanswered.” Stuart nods, expressing his pleasure in his mercenary’s decision. “Where would you like me to put her?”

“Back in the van; me and you are gonna take a little drive.”

---

Daniel’s phone rings; he scans it, answering after shushing Antonio. “Hello?” he questions curiously.

“Where the fuck are you?” George Beyer’s anger can be felt through the call.

“What do you mean? David said he would take over so I left. Why, what’s wrong?”

“Louis Jackson is not fucking here and you were to be the one guarding him! Now, if I find he’s not in this building, I’m gonna tear you a new asshole, do I fucking make myself clear?”

“Crystal, sir, but I promise you—“

“Good!” With that, the Director hangs up. Daniel looks up at his colleague nervously.

“Stu isn’t gonna like this,” he sighs. “We just made ourselves known.”

---

Officer David Hunnington views a memo on the corkboard outside of an office: an all-points bulletin for Louis Jackson. Within the office, his partner Austin Orville and Chief Patrick Collins argue.

“You are making this way bigger than it is. We have a team investigating it, what more to you want?”

“I saw it with my bare eyes, sir. Officer Hunnington is a murderer! I just don’t feel safe, especially having revealed this to you. I could be next, for all I know. I just want a new partner or I’m quitting the force, there’s nothing more to it than that. Please,” he pleads.

“Fine, give me your badge and your gun.”

“But, sir!”

“Listen, Hunnington has already approached me about the matter; says you don’t want to work with him.”

“But—“

“Don’t interrupt me. Now, this is not a democracy. You will do as I say, or you will be fired. You go onto the streets and do the duty you are assigned. There is nothing more to it.” A few tense moments pass by. “Watch your mouth, Orville. You’re running the edge.” Austin storms out, murmuring for his partner to enter the room afterward.

---

Blood Money walks through the Chicago ghetto warily, searching for a nonexistent cab. The only vehicles to pass are the rusted ones belonging to the minorities that are settled within the area. Although he fits in with the commonwealth, he is still very jumpy. He only wishes to make it to the metropolis, where decent eyes could see him.

As cars pass, he becomes more anxious, being a nervous wreck by the time a car full of thugs pulls up beside him. The man in the passenger seat rolls down his window, and the gangster behind him follows suit. “Well, would you look at that; if it isn’t Mr. ‘Big’ Money himself?” he inspects with a wicked smile. “How was prison, Big Money?”

As Daryl begins to speak, he is interrupted. “Shut the fuck up, bitch, rhetorical fuckin’ question. How the fuck is you gonna sell us out, nigga? We was like brothas, then you went to that side and broke yo’ blood promise. You best remember where yo’ fuckin’ name came from, ‘Blood Money’. Stop walkin’, asshole!” Daryl complies and faces the car, which comes to a halt.

“You in deep shit now, son.” He pulls a pistol from under the window and points it at Blood Money aggressively, to which he stumbles over a trashcan. The men in the car laugh at his distress. “Ain’t so tough without an army behind you, are you?” Silence breaks the altercation. “Answer me, motherfucker!” He climbs out of the car and marches to where the intimidated victim is. He shoves the gun into his forehead and kicks him in the gut.

“Pop the trunk,” he calls back to the driver; he complies. “You’re coming with us, you fucking piece of shit. You gonna learn what backstabbing really is. Get up!” Daryl climbs up, shaking. With a gun aimed at his head the whole time, he climbs into the trunk of the car. The leader slams it down, making Blood Money jump. They drive off, heading deeper into the slums.

---

Shawn smiles as a desperate king stutters over his words trying to explain himself. Aaron Jacobson, better known as A-Ron, pleads with the cryptic hit man within his mountainous brothel. “See man, I’m try’na help you! I call my guards off, get The Black Eights off yo ass, protect your woman, and this is how you thank me?”

Shawn fires a warning shot from the pistol he’s holstering and pushes it deeper into the pimp’s chin. “I’m not here to kill you, but I won’t hesitate if you push it. All I want is the money you failed to pay me.”

“Don’t gimme that shit, man, I know you better than you think. You got plenty of money. You wanna snoop around; make sure I’m still loyal. You could fuck off if you gon’ play me like that. I been doin’ just fine with you in prison; lucky I didn’t ship your little bitch off to Miami. Now we can keep in dealings, if you can loosen your asshole up. You so uptight, nigga – tell you what, I’ll give you one of these bitches for a freebie. Pick one.” Shawn loosens his grip on his former client, slowly lowering his gun to his abdomen.

“I didn’t come here for that.” As his anger subsides, Shawn straightens his uniform up, still keeping a cautious grip on his weapon. He hears a rumbling engine approaching from the parking lot – it dies with the turn of a key. “Who is that?” Shawn asks, approaching the front room’s blinds.

“Probably just another client of mine, Shawn, no need to worry.”

“Shit!” Shawn hurriedly busts through a nearby door. Pieces of a business suit scatter across the room. A nude man and woman vigorously hump each other on a bed placed in the center of the confidential area. The woman on top looks around, stopping when she sees the stranger staring at them. “Sorry, uh,” Shawn stumbles. “Keep on.”

The man continues but the prostitute climbs off, much to the customer’s dismay. She wraps herself in a towel and heads to the door, to which Shawn jams it closed. A-Ron looks to the room, disregarding it when he notices it is the room Shawn is in. “Anyways, what did you need?”

“We found a little somethin’ crawlin’ down Ballberry Street, thought he might be of interest to you.” The Black Eights give the superior an evil smile. The hooker finally manages to storm out, half naked. The gangsters turn around, but do not spot Shawn, for he backs into the darkness, closing the door to a crack shortly after. He watches as the men engage in a conversation.

“Oh? Who would that be?” the pimp demands. Shawn squints, trying to make out more detail of the familiar victim.

“Daryl, ‘Blood Money’.” The men present Blood Money, who is bruised and bleeding. DK, the group’s leader, speaks. “Thought you’d fit him with a good punishment, if you know what I mean.”

Moments pass. “No… what you want me to do to him?”

“Well, you into the black market and all, we thought you could, well… be creative.” The men stand nervously downtrodden from the unruly tycoon.

“Well?! Pay up, these shipments ain’t free, nigga!”

They look around, confused, but pay him nonetheless. “You seen Shawn around? Lil’ bitch you got there squealed like a fuckin’ pig. Told us Dillard got out.”

“Why the hell should Shawn Dillard come to me? I actually wanted to talk to you about keepin’ an eye out for him. He’s got some bad blood with me. Anyways, good lookin’ out. I’ll deal with the pusher, but get the fuck outta here. Don’t want anyone to see us around, aight?”

“Sounds good, dude. Be back tomorrow.” With the Eights’ withdrawal, Shawn comes out, smiling at A-Ron.

“Naw, nigga, you ain’t gon’ do jack shit, because if you do, guess who it falls on… me. Keep away from the Black Eights and we don’t got no problems, aight?”

“I got you, man.” Shawn shakes his finger, pleasantly surprised at the pimp’s honesty. He smiles as he exits through the door, after making sure the coast is clear.

“What? You forgot I’m a man of my word? Two weeks in prison and you already forgot. Shawn!” The hit man turns around, halfway out the door. “I don’t wanna see you around here, neither. Don’t wanna start no shit you can’t get out of. If you don’t mind, I got business to take care of.” Shawn shakes his finger once more and departs with a smile on his face, but still somewhat curious at Blood Money’s presence.

---

“Yeah, Shawn will be glad to know you’re here. He said he had to run a few errands.” Vincent spreads out along an elegant couch, drinking wine. Louis sits across from him, leaning forward. He’s desperate, needing information.

“I can’t stay here, man. This will be one of the first places the FBI will look for me. I need to talk to Shawn, now! So if you would please hand me a goddamn phone—“ He is interrupted by a loud buzzer.

“That’s probably him now, wanting to get in the gates.” Louis sighs as Vincent enters the other room. Following a loud thud, Vincent yelps, “GET THE FUCK OUTSIDE, NOW!” His troops nervously scurry about, rushing to find their guns and hurry into the rainy night. They sprint toward the gates half-dressed as Shawn pulls up.

He spots a van pulling away, leaving a beheaded stripper in a ditch in front of the main gates. "FUCK!" Shawn shifts his truck into gear and slams down the gas pedal, recklessly sliding in an attempt to chase the van. The van gains speed as Shawn regains control – he speeds after them, but stops halfway down the street, ruling it hopeless.

He makes a U-turn and heads back to the entrance, where Vincent is gripping his sister’s body, silently weeping. His army stands back, observing the scene. Louis continues to watch as Shawn walks up to his side. They both keep hard faces, seeming unaffected by the tragedy. Louis speaks to Shawn first, “there’s a big mess that needs cleanin’ up.”