For most people, the dilapidated warehouse on the outskirts of Paris would not draw any attention. Half an hour from the city centre by train, in a side road named after some random Stone Age researcher, with a few rusty Renault vans lacking wheels in front, it seemed maybe shady, but definitely boring.
Only a few people knew the truth about what was happening behind the surprisingly heavy doors and reinforced walls. Most of them worked here. The other few were deeply scared of it. That was very much the point.
Organized crime required reliable locations. Run-down restaurants and expensive luxury apartments, safe-houses hidden in plain view and villas out in the countryside, unassuming normal living spaces everywhere, places to park cars and stolen ladder trucks and sometimes people. But at the end of the day, if things got gnarly, nothing beat a run-down unassuming warehouse.
So nobody expected to see one sharply-dressed Chloé Bourgeois walked in.
“Hello? Anyone here?”, she shouted, as a dozen CCTV cameras tracked her every move. She came alone, but of course she was not going to stay so; this warehouse was never empty, especially if it seemed that way.
From the shadows, five figures dressed in dark jackets rose, hands very pointedly on their hips, where the outlines of guns were barely visible. This was mostly for show. The real threat that Chloé would never know about before it was too late were the four sniper rifles, trained on her from the moment she’d opened the door, held by operatives hidden way out of sight. All they needed was the go-ahead from their boss.
The boss was sitting in the middle of the warehouse. And she was not pleased to see her visitor.
“What the fuck?”, shouted Lila Rossi. At least according to some sources. Others knew her as Cerise, Volpina or Aglaé, Clara, Chrysalis, Manon, or in one particularly confusing operation, Chat Noir. Either way, she was the mostly undisputed queen of the Paris criminal underground.
“What are you doing here, Chloé?”, she asked, her voice full of bile.
“Urgh, is that how you greet old friends, Lila?”, asked Chloé. “And honestly, this place. You have visiting hours, right? For people who don’t have ways to reach you to schedule a meeting. Well, I’m visiting.”
“I have no such thing”, lied Lila angrily.
“Sure you do. A police informer told me.” Chloé yawned.
“There are no police informers in this organization.”
“Of course there are. Like that guy.”
Chloé pointed at one of the goons. Immediately, eight guns were aimed directly at him.
“What!? No! Guys, she’s lying, I’m not…”
“I’m kidding. Never seen him before in my life”, Chloé yawned, as more gangsters appeared and led the one she’d pointed out to a backroom.