( @earthymalcolm )
Vincent leaned into the backseat of the Lincoln SUV as it weaved through traffic along the Western Avenue Bridge. He fished his cellphone from the lapel pocket of his jacket as Conrad, his Head of Security, leaned forward to his right. Two missed calls from Matthias, what could he want? Returning the cellphone to his pocket, Vincent gazed through his window upon the Bridge. It stood eerie across the deep waters of the Chicago River, which were illuminated by a string of bright lights that bled into the relative darkness of the Warehouse District. Vincent knew the area well, having taken the bridge to visit his facility on Western and West 55th Street more times than he could count. As they eased beneath the expressway toward McKinley Park, he turned to glance through the rear window and spotted the third SUV in their three-car motorcade. His security team had decided to load it with the conduit drug, K.I.C.K., which they all hoped to offload into one of the busiest pubs on Chicago’s South Side.
“We don’t expect more traffic than the norm tonight, sir,” Conrad said as their motorcade veered right on West 47th Street and pulled over in front of a red-brick warehouse that housed the Aftershock. Vincent gazed upon it in silence, poring over its glass windows and marble portico, which wrapped around the building and opened along a wrought iron ledge that, he presumed, served as a delivery ramp for trucks. Even though he was seated a half-mile away he felt a silent hum of energy radiating from the building, which would have given him pause if he hadn’t read a dossier on Malcolm Galloway twenty-four hours ago. He checked his watch. 8.30 PM.
“What do we know of Galloway’s behavior?” Vincent asked as he opened his door and stood from the SUV. Conrad followed his lead, and soon they were both perched along the sidewalk. Matthew, Conrad’s second in-command, stalked toward them from the first car.
“Surveillance reports Mr. Galloway keeps his nose to the ground and stays to himself,” Conrad scaled the building as he spoke, bracing his arms against the bristling evening breeze, “He played a role in the War but remains neutral in the PRIME, Maverick divide—we don’t suspect he’ll be a problem, sir.”
Vincent nodded before turning toward the third car and beckoned the driver to open the passenger door. Clad in a classic black-tie tuxedo, the young man stood from the driver’s seat and opened the door for Victoria Hargreaves, Vincent’s Executive Assistant. She prowled toward them with a seductive lilt to her step, wearing a skin-tight fishtail gown of crimson satin and glistening black Manolo pumps; her willowy blonde hair was swept into a ponytail. “You look handsome, Mr. Driscoll,” she purred like a southern belle.
“And you look gorgeous, Victoria,” Vincent purred back, leaning forward to bestow a chaste kiss on Victoria’s cheek. As he wrapped his arm around her waist, careful to notice the satin of her gown mirroring the red of his tie, he nodded to Conrad and headed toward the Aftershock. As if on cue, their motorcade purred to life and wove, silently, into the evening traffic. They’d return if the deal went through and offload the goods to the pub, but there they were to remain inconspicuous until then. Conrad and Matthew split up to scale the building, fishing .44 semiautomatic handguns from their holsters.
The Aftershock bolstered a dim, muted lighting that accentuated its earthen exterior. There were stone walls and candle chandeliers, leather seats and wooden tables, fleeting voices and laughter in the background. It smelled of leather and brewery and aged Oakwood, but energy floated around as well and dulled Vincent’s sense of smell as elemental Energy quivered and quaked beneath his three-piece Armani suit and Ferragamo shoes. He lead Victoria toward the bar, where he glimpsed Malcolm Galloway, the Pub’s Owner who also happened to be a Conduit, and a bearer of rare energies. Vincent glanced at his watch, again. 8:42 PM.
“I’ll have a scotch, no ice,” He said, nonchalantly, as Victoria slid onto the barstool beside his. Vincent unbuttoned his suit jacket before taking a seat, “and the lady will have a Manhattan on the rocks.” Vincent turned to smile at Victoria, arching his eyebrow as if he couldn’t believe the Owner also tended the bar. Victoria nudged her head, ever slight, as their host bound toward them. “I take it you’re Malcolm Galloway...?” Vincent asked, turning to Malcolm, making a show of his supposed ignorance—though he knew full-well who he was. “My name is Vincent Driscoll, we have a proposition for you.”
“And a marvelous opportunity for your pub,” Victoria chimed in with a smile; playing her part, revealing a bright smile and high cheekbones, bright blue eyes and a cherubic tone to boot.
