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<blockquote data-quote="talien" data-source="post: 5076489" data-attributes="member: 3285">Unit 23: Part 1 – Twenty ThreeSnowdog and his Indian accountant stepped out of the limo in front of a warehouse. &quot;Are you sure this is the place?&quot; Guppy asked nervously.&nbsp; It'd been awhile since he'd been out in the field.&nbsp; He had been running tech support from behind a desk, recognition from Majestic that he wasn't really up to the kind of stress demanded by a field op. Located in Chicago's 23rd District, they stood before a disused warehouse amongst an entire wasteland of abandoned and run down industrial units. It was exactly what it is intended to be – a quiet makeshift spot away from traffic where illegitimate business could be conducted.&quot;Unit 23, 2323 E. Schiller Street,&quot; said Snowdog, actually Caprice in his street rapper persona.&nbsp; &quot;Dis is it, yo.&quot;&nbsp; Guppy nodded and, taking a deep breath, they sauntered their way into the warehouse. White plastic chairs and a few tables were what constituted an &quot;auction space.&quot;&nbsp; They all faced an empty table, which had nothing on it. Beyond a generator humming in the background, and some lighting and sound equipment, there wasn't much.The other participants filtered in. Most were dodgy art dealers, collectors or agents thereof and all of them were a little nervous in the circumstances&quot;What the hell is this?&quot; snarled a scruffy-looking young man, dressed in torn jeans and t-shirt, a black leather jacket adorned with studs, and heavy boots.&nbsp; His bleached blond hair was spiked, echoing the studded leather dog-collar padlocked around his neck. He stood accusingly in the aisle between the two separate columns of plastic white chairs. &quot;Some kind of tag sale?&nbsp; 'Cause it sure as f*&amp;k doesn't look like an auction to me.&quot;He was flanked by a Jamaican man with long dreadlocks.&nbsp; He wore steel-capped Doc Marten's boots, multi-strapped and zippered bondage trousers, a torn red T-shirt, and a ragged pair of formal coat tails adorned with badges, chains, and hand-painted slogans. &quot;Baz?&quot; Guppy panicked. &quot;Somebody we should know?&quot; asked Caprice out of the corner of his mouth.&quot;Elliot and Johnson!&quot; Guppy repeated for emphasis, his whispered conversation thankfully masked by the hum of the generator.&nbsp; &quot;Baz Elliott!&nbsp; He's the lead guitarist for The Rising!&quot;&quot;So?&quot;&quot;Spider Holloway is their band leader.&nbsp; He was friends with Agent Blade.&nbsp; If he recognizes us, our cover's blown!&quot;&quot;Relax,&quot; said Caprice as Snowdog.&nbsp; &quot;I got this.&quot;&nbsp; He stood up to face Baz and his companion, staring straight at him. Baz blinked.&nbsp; &quot;Snowdog?&nbsp; Is that Snowdog?&quot; He elbowed Dave in the ribs.&nbsp; &quot;Check this out, we've got a celebrity in the house!&quot; They snickered.Caprice snorted.&nbsp; &quot; $#!+, sit down fool. Only adults allowed.&quot;Baz looked like he was going to say something else but he was interrupted by the roar of motorcycle engines.&nbsp; Caprice didn't give him the chance and just sat down, his back to Baz, in an act of disdain.&nbsp; Guppy slowly joined him.&quot;See?&quot; said Caprice, stretching out his arms behind his head, &quot;they got no clue.&quot;Guppy shook his head.&nbsp; &quot;I hope you're right. Don't forget why we're here -- the Portuguese book.&quot;The bay door was thrown open at the rear of the unit. Several choppers thrummed in, flanking a white panel van.&nbsp; The van pulled slowly up to the table and out of the passenger's seat popped a man in an ill-fitting white suit.&nbsp; &quot;Satan's Sadists?&quot; shouted Baz.&nbsp; &quot;I thought this was legit!&quot;Some of the other clientele took up Baz's complaint.&nbsp; &quot;My name is Victor Milliard and I'll be your auctioneer for this evening and I can assure you this auction is legit,&quot; said the greasy man in the white suit.&nbsp; He nodded at the other bikers.&nbsp; Weapons were cocked.&nbsp; &quot;Trust me.&quot;The crowd stopped complaining.&quot;We've got a couple items for your bidding pleasure. First up is…&quot; he nodded to a big burly biker with a length of chain around his fat gut. The biker turned the page on a big flipchart.&nbsp; It was a photo taken of an item, blown up several times so that everyone could see it even from a distance.&nbsp; &quot;A Haitian Voodoo Doll!&quot;&quot;Kinkos,&quot; muttered Guppy.&quot;From circa 1800!&nbsp; Constructed of straw and cloth, this voodoo doll is rumored to have caused the death of an unscrupulous French plantation owner!&nbsp; Starting bid, nine thousand five hundred dollars!&quot;&quot;Ten thousand!&quot; shouted some guy with his hair slicked to one side.&quot;Ten thousand!&quot; Milliard's squeaky voice became a high-pitched whine as his speech accelerated. &quot;Do I hear more! Do I hear more? Eleven thousand?&nbsp; Done! Twelve thousand, do I hear more?&nbsp; Twelve thousand? Twelve thousand!&quot;Bidding had spiraled up to over one hundred thousand dollars. Guppy shifted in his seat.&quot;One hundred and fifty thousand to the Indian fellow! Do I hear more?&quot;&quot;What?&quot; gasped Guppy.&nbsp; &quot;Wait!&nbsp; I didn’t…&quot;&quot;Going once…going twice…One hundred sixty thousand to the gentleman with the nose ring.&nbsp; Going once, going twice…Sold for one hundred and sixty thousand dollars!&quot;Guppy wiped the sweat from his forehead.&nbsp; Caprice nodded at him.&nbsp; &quot;Yo.&nbsp; Try not to fidget too much.&quot;&quot;Next up is a Celtic walking stick, also known as a shillelagh. Carved with runic symbols. Starting bid, two thousand dollars.&quot;Baz lifted his hand, topping the bidding at two hundred thousand.&nbsp; Caprice scratched his nose.&quot;Snowdog! And Snowdog jumps into the fray with a bid of two hundred and fifty thousand! Do I hear two seventy five?&nbsp; Is the Rising done for?&quot; Milliard knew how to bait his audience.Baz swore. After a brief argument with Dave, he glared at Caprice and raised his hand.&quot;Two seventy five to The Rising!&nbsp; Do I hear three?&nbsp; Do I hear three?&nbsp; Two seventy five going once…going twice.&quot;Caprice coughed.&quot;Three hundred thousand to Snowdog! Going once…&quot;Baz swore again, louder this time.&nbsp; Milliard was smart enough to not take the swear as a bid. &quot;Going twice…sold to Snowdog!&quot;Guppy looked at Caprice in horror.&nbsp; &quot;You just bought…do you realize how much you just promised to pay?&quot;&quot;Sure did,&quot; said Caprice.&quot;But…&quot; Guppy leaned close. &quot;We don't have that kind of money! In fact, we don't have any money!&quot;&quot;S'all good, dog,&quot; said Caprice casually.&nbsp; &quot;It'll all work out, you'll see.&quot;&quot;Next up, the Focloro Verdadeiro, a Portuguese book written by Armando Vasco de Moraes in 1875. Fine quality leather binding, limited run – it's the only copy.&nbsp; Rumored to be a translation of an ancient Chinese ritual. Bidding starts at two hundred thousand.&quot;&quot;That's our book!&quot; said Guppy.Baz raised his hand.&nbsp; &quot;Two ten.&quot;&quot;Two ten!&nbsp; I have two ten!&nbsp; Do I hear two twenty?&quot; Caprice scratched the back of his head. &quot;Two twenty! Do I hear two thirty? Two thirty?&quot;&quot;Two thirty five,&quot; snarled Baz.&quot;Two thirty five?&nbsp; The Rising vs. Snowdog, battle of the bands!&nbsp; Will The Rising get revenge? Let's find out folks…two thirty five going once…going twice…&quot;Guppy nearly jumped out of his seat.&nbsp; &quot;But…&quot;&quot;Be cool,&quot; hissed Caprice.&quot;Sold, to Baz Elliot of The Rising!&quot;&quot;That's the whole reason we're here!&quot; whispered Guppy frantically.&nbsp; &quot;Naw, the reason we're here is to find the book.&nbsp; We know they got it.&nbsp; This ain't the way to get it from them.&quot;&quot;How will we know when's the right time?&quot; asked Guppy.Smoke bombs exploded around them as shadowy figures dressed in black darted out of the far reaches of the warehouse.Caprice stood up, dusting some lint off his shoulder.&nbsp; &quot;Now's the right time.&quot;</blockquote>

[QUOTE="talien, post: 5076489, member: 3285"] [b]Unit 23: Part 1 – Twenty Three[/b] Snowdog and his Indian accountant stepped out of the limo in front of a warehouse. "Are you sure this is the place?" Guppy asked nervously. It'd been awhile since he'd been out in the field. He had been running tech support from behind a desk, recognition from Majestic that he wasn't really up to the kind of stress demanded by a field op. Located in Chicago's 23rd District, they stood before a disused warehouse amongst an entire wasteland of abandoned and run down industrial units. It was exactly what it is intended to be – a quiet makeshift spot away from traffic where illegitimate business could be conducted. "Unit 23, 2323 E. Schiller Street," said Snowdog, actually Caprice in his street rapper persona. "Dis is it, yo." Guppy nodded and, taking a deep breath, they sauntered their way into the warehouse. White plastic chairs and a few tables were what constituted an "auction space." They all faced an empty table, which had nothing on it. Beyond a generator humming in the background, and some lighting and sound equipment, there wasn't much. The other participants filtered in. Most were dodgy art dealers, collectors or agents thereof and all of them were a little nervous in the circumstances "What the hell is this?" snarled a scruffy-looking young man, dressed in torn jeans and t-shirt, a black leather jacket adorned with studs, and heavy boots. His bleached blond hair was spiked, echoing the studded leather dog-collar padlocked around his neck. He stood accusingly in the aisle between the two separate columns of plastic white chairs. "Some kind of tag sale? 'Cause it sure as f*&k doesn't look like an auction to me." He was flanked by a Jamaican man with long dreadlocks. He wore steel-capped Doc Marten's boots, multi-strapped and zippered bondage trousers, a torn red T-shirt, and a ragged pair of formal coat tails adorned with badges, chains, and hand-painted slogans. "Baz?" Guppy panicked. "Somebody we should know?" asked Caprice out of the corner of his mouth. "Elliot and Johnson!" Guppy repeated for emphasis, his whispered conversation thankfully masked by the hum of the generator. "Baz Elliott! He's the lead guitarist for The Rising!" "So?" "Spider Holloway is their band leader. He was friends with Agent Blade. If he recognizes us, our cover's blown!" "Relax," said Caprice as Snowdog. "I got this." He stood up to face Baz and his companion, staring straight at him. Baz blinked. "Snowdog? Is that Snowdog?" He elbowed Dave in the ribs. "Check this out, we've got a celebrity in the house!" They snickered. Caprice snorted. " $#!+, sit down fool. Only adults allowed." Baz looked like he was going to say something else but he was interrupted by the roar of motorcycle engines. Caprice didn't give him the chance and just sat down, his back to Baz, in an act of disdain. Guppy slowly joined him. "See?" said Caprice, stretching out his arms behind his head, "they got no clue." Guppy shook his head. "I hope you're right. Don't forget why we're here -- the Portuguese book." The bay door was thrown open at the rear of the unit. Several choppers thrummed in, flanking a white panel van. The van pulled slowly up to the table and out of the passenger's seat popped a man in an ill-fitting white suit. "Satan's Sadists?" shouted Baz. "I thought this was legit!" Some of the other clientele took up Baz's complaint. "My name is Victor Milliard and I'll be your auctioneer for this evening and I can assure you this auction is legit," said the greasy man in the white suit. He nodded at the other bikers. Weapons were cocked. "Trust me." The crowd stopped complaining. "We've got a couple items for your bidding pleasure. First up is…" he nodded to a big burly biker with a length of chain around his fat gut. The biker turned the page on a big flipchart. It was a photo taken of an item, blown up several times so that everyone could see it even from a distance. "A Haitian Voodoo Doll!" "Kinkos," muttered Guppy. "From circa 1800! Constructed of straw and cloth, this voodoo doll is rumored to have caused the death of an unscrupulous French plantation owner! Starting bid, nine thousand five hundred dollars!" "Ten thousand!" shouted some guy with his hair slicked to one side. "Ten thousand!" Milliard's squeaky voice became a high-pitched whine as his speech accelerated. "Do I hear more! Do I hear more? Eleven thousand? Done! Twelve thousand, do I hear more? Twelve thousand? Twelve thousand!" Bidding had spiraled up to over one hundred thousand dollars. Guppy shifted in his seat. "One hundred and fifty thousand to the Indian fellow! Do I hear more?" "What?" gasped Guppy. "Wait! I didn’t…" "Going once…going twice…One hundred sixty thousand to the gentleman with the nose ring. Going once, going twice…Sold for one hundred and sixty thousand dollars!" Guppy wiped the sweat from his forehead. Caprice nodded at him. "Yo. Try not to fidget too much." "Next up is a Celtic walking stick, also known as a shillelagh. Carved with runic symbols. Starting bid, two thousand dollars." Baz lifted his hand, topping the bidding at two hundred thousand. Caprice scratched his nose. "Snowdog! And Snowdog jumps into the fray with a bid of two hundred and fifty thousand! Do I hear two seventy five? Is the Rising done for?" Milliard knew how to bait his audience. Baz swore. After a brief argument with Dave, he glared at Caprice and raised his hand. "Two seventy five to The Rising! Do I hear three? Do I hear three? Two seventy five going once…going twice." Caprice coughed. "Three hundred thousand to Snowdog! Going once…" Baz swore again, louder this time. Milliard was smart enough to not take the swear as a bid. "Going twice…sold to Snowdog!" Guppy looked at Caprice in horror. "You just bought…do you realize how much you just promised to pay?" "Sure did," said Caprice. "But…" Guppy leaned close. "We don't have that kind of money! In fact, we don't have any money!" "S'all good, dog," said Caprice casually. "It'll all work out, you'll see." "Next up, the Focloro Verdadeiro, a Portuguese book written by Armando Vasco de Moraes in 1875. Fine quality leather binding, limited run – it's the only copy. Rumored to be a translation of an ancient Chinese ritual. Bidding starts at two hundred thousand." "That's our book!" said Guppy. Baz raised his hand. "Two ten." "Two ten! I have two ten! Do I hear two twenty?" Caprice scratched the back of his head. "Two twenty! Do I hear two thirty? Two thirty?" "Two thirty five," snarled Baz. "Two thirty five? The Rising vs. Snowdog, battle of the bands! Will The Rising get revenge? Let's find out folks…two thirty five going once…going twice…" Guppy nearly jumped out of his seat. "But…" "Be cool," hissed Caprice. "Sold, to Baz Elliot of The Rising!" "That's the whole reason we're here!" whispered Guppy frantically. "Naw, the reason we're here is to find the book. We know they got it. This ain't the way to get it from them." "How will we know when's the right time?" asked Guppy. Smoke bombs exploded around them as shadowy figures dressed in black darted out of the far reaches of the warehouse. Caprice stood up, dusting some lint off his shoulder. "Now's the right time." [/QUOTE]

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