\ Haven:Mist and Shadow Logs/Seanie Encounter 1
Logs

Seanie Encounter 1

"I'm on my way, Laurel," Seanie growls into his phone, nearly crushing the device in his meaty grip as he hangs up and pockets it. His rugged features reflect a protective fury, likely incited by the contents of the phone call. Wiping sweat off his brow with the back of his hand, he begins to make his way towards the Academy, his gaze bleak and wrathful.

You think; "Fucking serial killer. Goddamn airheaded Laurel."

On his way, but Seanie isn't going to get there. At least, not right now. As he moves down Fleet Street, there's a sudden movement, and a group of seven men step out, guns drawn and brandished on Seanie. "Wilson," a hoarse voice growls, and a burly black man, equally Seanie's height and weight if not more so steps forward and cocking his gun again, loudly, while the other thugs wait behind. "King's got business with you. Come quiet, right?"

The fine hairs on the back of Seanie's neck prickle as he rounds the corner of Paine and Fleet, but the apprehensive hunch comes too late to be of much use: a vicious snarl contorting Sean's full lips when the group of little more than half a dozen men spring out from the intersection's shadowy sidewalk. He immediately goes to draw his own weapon, but the distinctive noise of a gun being cocked freezes him in place. "Fuck," he hisses under his breath.

You think; "King? Desmond fucking King?"

"You can fight it out, Wilson. But we all know Sanctuary's got hold on us. We'll end up winning and you'll come along anyway, like it or not, so how's about you come quiet and we just have a little talk?" the enforcer snarls as Seanie's hand reaches for his gun. "It's just a few little questions and better you answer them then we ask your sister or your woman about it, mmm?" The man gestures with his gun to a nearby SUV. "Let's go."

The mention of Adriana and Laurel earn a renewed snarl from Seanie, even as he grits his teeth and reluctantly ducks into the backseat of the SUV.

The doors close and click locked. Only the largest of the gun-wielding thugs joins Seanie in the SUV's backseat. From the front, however, another dark-skinned man turns to look back. It's not Desmond King, but Seanie would very likely recognize the man as one of King's top enforcers. "The Association's crossing lines," the man growls. "You were warned, Wilson. You want King back in Haven teaching lessons?"

"Crossing lines," Seanie repeats scornfully. His face is shadowed in the backseat, though the flicker of passing cars' headlights do allow for the occasional glimpse of the hulking man's full lips, turned down at the corners in a deprecating sneer. "You're going to have to be more specific, negro."

The man's hand cocks back, threatening a punch into Seanie's face in the confined quarters. The gun nearby shakes, as if to remind Seanie that this isn't his territory. "Not tolerating your disrespect, Wilson," the enforcer from the front seat warns. "Sanctuary might keep you alive, but we can put a bullet in your face all the same." There's a pause, a heartbeat, then two, then three, before the one holding a gun on Seanie says, "Or into that pretty Arkwright. Always wanted to get my hands on her... hear her scream."

Seaie doesn't so much as flinch at the threatening fist, instead carefully schooling his rugged features into an impassive mask. The second mention of Adriana elicits a tightening of his jaw, a muscle beginning a slowburning tic. His fists clench at his sides, fingernails cutting into his palms as he struggles to control his pending rage. "You're going to have to be more specific," he repeats finally, breathing shallowly through his nostrils.

"Drugs, Wilson. Got word one of your people's crossing borders into Boston to sell that Hype. King's been awful gracious, leaving this shithole to you and your family to run, but you keep that up and there's going to be trouble," the man warns from the front seat. "The kind of trouble you and yours aren't prepared to handle, you know? King's had to teach them vampires a lesson already and he did it single handed. Think you can stand against him -and- us?"

"I don't know," Seanie comments casually. Under the cover of the shadows, his hand is in his pocket, using memory to navigate the touch screen to the 'voice memo' application, where he fumbles for the record button. He raises his voice to disguise the little 'ting' that confirms his success. "You heard the news recently? Vinnie and I've been busy."

"Even your enforcer's not a match for King and the rest of us," the man says, seeming pretty calm despite the drop of the known gangster's name. "Busy, are you? Well. Unless you're going to send this Vinnie into Boston to sell your Hype, I suggest you keep your sellers on this side of the gang line." The man with the gun beside Seanie reaches down beneath the seat for a duffel bag which he lifts, setting on his lap. "Unless you're prepared to offer King one hell of a deal to keep this from happening again." The bag's tossed into Seanie's lap, and even in the fairly dark confines of the SUV, the black canvas is tacky, sticky with something drying.

Seanie's hand withdraws from his pocket, wariness glinting in his bleak dark eyes as he gives the bag a wary look. "The fuck's this?" he demands to know, his tone harsh with irritation. It's obvious he's growing restless, more and more agitated the longer he's kept within the suffocating atmosphere of the car. Or perhaps he's losing his ability to control himself around King's croonies. Whichever the case, it's certainly something, evident in the way he kicks the bag away from him, aiming a snarl at the front seat.

There's a dull, meaty thunk where the bag hits the ground, and the faint, unpleasant scent of dried blood. "You know exactly what it is, Wilson," the black man holding a gun on Seanie snarls. "So now that you know we're serious about this shit, what's your real intention, sending sellers into Boston? You crowding King's territory, or is there something bigger going on?"

Nostrils flaring, Seanie slumps back in his seat, resolving his expression back into its previous stoic setting. Only the keenest of eyes will be able to see how furious he really is, the barely contained rage shimmering beneath his rugged features. "I'll take care of it," he says at last, his voice a strained growl.

"I suppose Mr. King's probably willing to take that as an apology, for now," the driver says. There's a sigh, and then he turns, the locks on the SUV popping open. "Don't make us come back, Wilson. It won't be anywhere near as nice a chat."

"Yeah, fuck you too," Seanie mumbles under his breath, all but tearing the door off its hinges as he climbs out of the car, moving with a surprising swiftness for a man of his size. The door slams shut behind him, an alarming crack appearing in the glass of the window.

"Oh, Wilson," The man in the front calls, rolling down the window to watch Seanie storming away. "You tell that pretty woman of yours hey from me, will you? She's welcome to set foot in Boston any time she likes. We'll make her real comfortable." These men may well be trying to push Seanie past his limits. But where are the other six that were there originally? They don't appear to be nearby, now.

You say, in a strained, thick Bostonian growl, "Fuck. You. Touch her and I don't give a damn about King, I'll rip you apart."

The man laughs. "Pussy," he insults Seanie. But then the car's revving into gear, and ready to pull away from Seanie where he stands, raging. If he plans to stop the vehicle now, he'll have to act fast.

And that's it. The last of Seanie's self-control snaps and he turns on a heel, intercepting the vehicle with a snarling bellow. His hands come out to grip the grill of the SUV, ready to sling the car and its contents round and round in a display of inhuman strength. The front wheels already lift a dangerous inch or two off the ground, spinning uselessly.

While not enough to swing the car, Seanie's strength is certainly enough to stop that SUV from speeding away. And this, in turn, sees the driver cursing up a storm. The cracked back window is knocked out by the butt of a gun, and the man that had sheperded Seanie in originally aims out at him.

Seanie sneers at the driver, using all his strength to try and upend the vehicle on its roof. The appearance of the gun does cause him to duck, however, using the front end of the SUV as cover.

The gun fires and then fires again, but the bullets miss Seanie, who seems to be able to keep the SUV between himself and his target. The carriage strains and creaks, two wheels lifting, then toppling but it doesn't quite fall. The driver, in a moment of panic, slams the thing into reverse, trying to peel backward down Fleet Street and away from the raging man.

"Yeah, fucking run, you fucking niggers!" Seanie screams furiously, slamming down a fist on the vehicle's hood, with enough force to inflict quite a nasty dent. He lets the SUV crash back onto all fours. Then he's backing away, taking cover behind one of the nearby buildings in case another flurry of bullets sprays out as the vehicle retreats.

A smart move on Seanie's part, for the bullets do fly. The crippled SUV manages to get far enough away from Seanie to pull a U-turn and speed off down the road, though the man in the backseat continues to fire until he's well out of range. Seanie manages to escape unscathed, save, perhaps, for strain injuries and a bruised fist, once his adrenaline dies back down. Still, suddenly, that black canvas duffel bag is tossed from the SUV and a voice calls back over the roar of the damaged vehicle, "Stay the fuck out of Boston, Wilson!"

"Keep your fucking corpse!" is Seanie's shouted retort, as he crouches behind his cover. He waits until the gunfire ceases to creep out from behind the buildings, his own gun out and cocked as he scans his surroundings for any lingering danger. Upon seeing the area is clear, he stalks towards the duffel bag, grimacing as he reaches down to open it.

It's not a corpse. It's a battered, bloody head that looks up from the duffel that Seanie opens. Clearly, the person it once belonged to had been tortured pretty severely, before death. Likely, to send exactly this message to Seanie and the Association. It's one of the newer dealers, someone who may well have not known about the lines in the sand drawn between the Wilsons and King. Or, perhaps it really was something more than that, the way the now-gone goons have suspected.

Seanie curses under his breath, picking up the duffel bag and its repulsive contents. He pulls out his phone, stopping the recording and saving it to go over later. His thumb navigates to his speeddials, selecting Vinnie's name and number and waiting for the dial tone.

The phone rings. But wherever the thugs are who had originally backed up King's men, there's no sign of them now. Seanie seems to be alone on Fleet street, save for those passersby who give the angry man and his grisly duffel bag odd looks. Of course, it's Seanie. Nobody's about to question, and they scurry on by quickly.