05-26-2014, 10:23 PM
Hood stepped away from the counter at Kofe Khauz, and sat down at a table next to a window, a simple newspaper in his hands and flipped up before his face. Of course, he wasn't reading the paper; it was all the usual drivel city papers wrote about. Lots of bold headlines about the situation in DV. The 'CCD special operations' team that had attacked that fucking Muslim holy man. Something about an African merc company saving a reporter; that barely registered. It was a two paragraph side note, a 'glimmer of good' in a dark situation, just weird enough to warrant paper space.
None of that mattered though. He didn't give two flying fucks about DV or the CCD at the end of the day. He lived comfortably in the CCD; the system was just corrupt enough that he could make it by without much effort on his part, but it's the politics were of little interest to him. Really, everything he did to protect himself was overkill, mostly just to keep himself sharp and occupied.
Hence why he sat at a shitty chain coffee shop open far later then a cafe needed to be (it was already 0100hrs), staring at a newspaper. Bloody archaic things for 2045, but he had some sentimentality about him; spies had been using newspapers to hide in plain sight for over a hundred years.
One thing that had changed about being a spy was the toys you got to play with. Gone were the days of sitting in a car scoping a place out, or having to get yourself a room across the road to watch through the windows. And found were the days of drones, and thermal imagery that could see through concrete walls, unique isotope tracking, and so much more. Of course he didn't have access to all the toys he used to, but the black market was a bustling thing even in Moscow (or especially in Moscow), and he had enough disposable income to have assembled a very satisfying toy collection.
As for the why he was sitting in a cafe drinking mediocre overly expensive sludge so late at night...Hood very much liked having a clean back yard. Folks causing trouble in his yard caused trouble for him. And, much like any alpha predator, he had a very large yard. Most organized crime was smart enough to not cause any real trouble. Most of what he dealt with was the small time stuff; street gangs and trouble causing punks.
Hood's Landwarriors displayed images from a half dozen hidden cameras; they were cheap, store-bought toys mounted with far from cheap cameras and transmitters, which had been seeded around one of many run-down Soviet-era apartment blocks that dotted the area. It had taken a full day to get those cameras into place; the cheap toys were far better then what he had grown up with in the '20s, but still nothing compared to what he had used in the military.
A far more expensive toy drone circled the building. He'd planted signal-rebroadcasters in the area so they could reach him inside the cafe. Being as it was night, the larger toy drone went unnoticed. Which was good, because he had no interest in letting some gangster punk putting a bullet through the very expensive thermal imager that was mounted to it. It gave him an interesting view of the building's interior.
He lowered the paper long enough to accept a slice of Prague cake from the very Goth-inspired woman working the counter. A barista, he believed they were called. Cute, but far too young for him to bother with.
Within the building, there were dozens of heat signatures. Most were in bed at so late an hour. Some willingly, but most hadn't that luxury. On the third floor of the long, ugly concrete apartment building, twenty five bodies, some disturbingly small, were in a prone stance, as if in beds. More likely, they were tied to a spike hammered into the concrete floor.
Six other heat signatures, adults and likely men, were the only other ones on the same floor as the twenty five. Some were in the same rooms, laying with their prisoners, or hovering over them and touching. The rest sat in a room near the stairwell (there were no elevators), in a circle. Probably around a table, talking or eating.
Occasionally, they had visitors; customers, paying on the cheap to help break in the new product. Other times, it was more of the gangster shits, delivering food, water, and drugs to keep the prisoners high. They took their turns with the prisoners too.
It was just one of the many things that happened in Moscow unnoticed by those around them. The other people in that building; they lived there went about their days, and ignored what was happening on the third floor. They went to work, they went out with friends, and they ignored the sounds. Because that was just the safest thing to do. Why stick your neck out for someone else?
And why stick your neck out for people that didn't exist? The twenty five were, he was fairly certain, all children of illegal immigrants. There were thousands of them in the city; tens of thousands if not more, really. He had no idea; no one did. They were the ultimate prey for the sex trade. Untraceable, uncounted, and missed only by those who could not seek the help of police.
Hood had no intentions of sticking his own neck out. He didn't seek to save those prisoners. Not for free. He simply couldn't risk it; he was sitting on an Atharim safehouse. He was, technically, an illegal immigrant himself, but with the connections and skill to craft a new identity and go unnoticed. He worked for a very successful private security company. He had plenty of reasons not to get involved. And reasons to make sure these shitheads left his lawn.
If they slipped up and brought in the police, it was the sort of thing that could lead to some very unwanted interest in the Zamoskvorechye district. So he had to make sure they moved. And in a way that didn't draw their interest to himself.
So he would watch them, learn their patterns, then bump a few of them off here and there. All over the city. And leave some hints that maybe they should get out of the sex-trade. Or at least out of Zamoskvorechye. They'd think it was a rival organization, and if he had the desired effect, they would move. And he could go back to spending his nights having a beer.
The building in question was large; seven stories, although those above the third had no electricity. It had no water. It's sister building across the parking lot was a pile of neatly dozed rubble with grass and trees growing out of it. It had been knocked down twenty years ago and nothing had ever followed.
Six men resided on the third floor with their twenty five abducted kids and teenagers, and they were armed to the teeth...not that it mattered, if they weren't holding their weapons. They had no expectations of trouble, and had been in place for a few weeks already without any problems.
It was their third group, not that they shipped finished product out in regular batches; more a matter of when a few were ready, and a few new ones would be brought in. Some of the teens had been there two weeks already. Some died; it was normal and expected, and they hadn't had any trouble disposing of the bodies yet.
Beyond the six men though, was a van parked a few blocks away. Four more had the unfortunate job of sitting in that van in twelve hour shifts. They were the back-up should the safehouse be bumped, although they spent most of their time bitching about the cold and sleeping when they could manage it. Beneath their van sat another cheap RC toy, a truck, to which Hood had attached a listening device. He had no interest in watching them, but it would help to know what they were talking about; they had direct comms with the men in the safehouse, giving him an idea of what they were talking about.
So far, it had mostly been about owed debts and which of the kids was the best fuck. Should the opportunity present itself, a few of these men would die very terrible deaths. It would help insinuate that maybe the rest of them should find new lines of work. Hood cut off a slice of his Prague cake and gave it a try.
A long moment to savour the taste, then he nodded approvingly and gave an appreciative gesture towards the barista; she had suggested it, after all.
None of that mattered though. He didn't give two flying fucks about DV or the CCD at the end of the day. He lived comfortably in the CCD; the system was just corrupt enough that he could make it by without much effort on his part, but it's the politics were of little interest to him. Really, everything he did to protect himself was overkill, mostly just to keep himself sharp and occupied.
Hence why he sat at a shitty chain coffee shop open far later then a cafe needed to be (it was already 0100hrs), staring at a newspaper. Bloody archaic things for 2045, but he had some sentimentality about him; spies had been using newspapers to hide in plain sight for over a hundred years.
One thing that had changed about being a spy was the toys you got to play with. Gone were the days of sitting in a car scoping a place out, or having to get yourself a room across the road to watch through the windows. And found were the days of drones, and thermal imagery that could see through concrete walls, unique isotope tracking, and so much more. Of course he didn't have access to all the toys he used to, but the black market was a bustling thing even in Moscow (or especially in Moscow), and he had enough disposable income to have assembled a very satisfying toy collection.
As for the why he was sitting in a cafe drinking mediocre overly expensive sludge so late at night...Hood very much liked having a clean back yard. Folks causing trouble in his yard caused trouble for him. And, much like any alpha predator, he had a very large yard. Most organized crime was smart enough to not cause any real trouble. Most of what he dealt with was the small time stuff; street gangs and trouble causing punks.
Hood's Landwarriors displayed images from a half dozen hidden cameras; they were cheap, store-bought toys mounted with far from cheap cameras and transmitters, which had been seeded around one of many run-down Soviet-era apartment blocks that dotted the area. It had taken a full day to get those cameras into place; the cheap toys were far better then what he had grown up with in the '20s, but still nothing compared to what he had used in the military.
A far more expensive toy drone circled the building. He'd planted signal-rebroadcasters in the area so they could reach him inside the cafe. Being as it was night, the larger toy drone went unnoticed. Which was good, because he had no interest in letting some gangster punk putting a bullet through the very expensive thermal imager that was mounted to it. It gave him an interesting view of the building's interior.
He lowered the paper long enough to accept a slice of Prague cake from the very Goth-inspired woman working the counter. A barista, he believed they were called. Cute, but far too young for him to bother with.
Within the building, there were dozens of heat signatures. Most were in bed at so late an hour. Some willingly, but most hadn't that luxury. On the third floor of the long, ugly concrete apartment building, twenty five bodies, some disturbingly small, were in a prone stance, as if in beds. More likely, they were tied to a spike hammered into the concrete floor.
Six other heat signatures, adults and likely men, were the only other ones on the same floor as the twenty five. Some were in the same rooms, laying with their prisoners, or hovering over them and touching. The rest sat in a room near the stairwell (there were no elevators), in a circle. Probably around a table, talking or eating.
Occasionally, they had visitors; customers, paying on the cheap to help break in the new product. Other times, it was more of the gangster shits, delivering food, water, and drugs to keep the prisoners high. They took their turns with the prisoners too.
It was just one of the many things that happened in Moscow unnoticed by those around them. The other people in that building; they lived there went about their days, and ignored what was happening on the third floor. They went to work, they went out with friends, and they ignored the sounds. Because that was just the safest thing to do. Why stick your neck out for someone else?
And why stick your neck out for people that didn't exist? The twenty five were, he was fairly certain, all children of illegal immigrants. There were thousands of them in the city; tens of thousands if not more, really. He had no idea; no one did. They were the ultimate prey for the sex trade. Untraceable, uncounted, and missed only by those who could not seek the help of police.
Hood had no intentions of sticking his own neck out. He didn't seek to save those prisoners. Not for free. He simply couldn't risk it; he was sitting on an Atharim safehouse. He was, technically, an illegal immigrant himself, but with the connections and skill to craft a new identity and go unnoticed. He worked for a very successful private security company. He had plenty of reasons not to get involved. And reasons to make sure these shitheads left his lawn.
If they slipped up and brought in the police, it was the sort of thing that could lead to some very unwanted interest in the Zamoskvorechye district. So he had to make sure they moved. And in a way that didn't draw their interest to himself.
So he would watch them, learn their patterns, then bump a few of them off here and there. All over the city. And leave some hints that maybe they should get out of the sex-trade. Or at least out of Zamoskvorechye. They'd think it was a rival organization, and if he had the desired effect, they would move. And he could go back to spending his nights having a beer.
The building in question was large; seven stories, although those above the third had no electricity. It had no water. It's sister building across the parking lot was a pile of neatly dozed rubble with grass and trees growing out of it. It had been knocked down twenty years ago and nothing had ever followed.
Six men resided on the third floor with their twenty five abducted kids and teenagers, and they were armed to the teeth...not that it mattered, if they weren't holding their weapons. They had no expectations of trouble, and had been in place for a few weeks already without any problems.
It was their third group, not that they shipped finished product out in regular batches; more a matter of when a few were ready, and a few new ones would be brought in. Some of the teens had been there two weeks already. Some died; it was normal and expected, and they hadn't had any trouble disposing of the bodies yet.
Beyond the six men though, was a van parked a few blocks away. Four more had the unfortunate job of sitting in that van in twelve hour shifts. They were the back-up should the safehouse be bumped, although they spent most of their time bitching about the cold and sleeping when they could manage it. Beneath their van sat another cheap RC toy, a truck, to which Hood had attached a listening device. He had no interest in watching them, but it would help to know what they were talking about; they had direct comms with the men in the safehouse, giving him an idea of what they were talking about.
So far, it had mostly been about owed debts and which of the kids was the best fuck. Should the opportunity present itself, a few of these men would die very terrible deaths. It would help insinuate that maybe the rest of them should find new lines of work. Hood cut off a slice of his Prague cake and gave it a try.
A long moment to savour the taste, then he nodded approvingly and gave an appreciative gesture towards the barista; she had suggested it, after all.