The highway was silent. Morning had been ushered in like an unwanted spectator, the sun creeping up on the horizon, glowing in pride of its return. The damp road reflected the light in silent recognition, drops of water the only remnants of the night's gale. The road on which the via lay hugged a rocky cliff that looked over the Charle Sound. The water smashed against the crock, its spray rising high, always just short of the cliff's edge, like a child jumping for candy. And then a slight hum took the air, growing slowly in intensity. To dots of light could be seen in the distance, illuminating the morning air, drops of moisture sparkling in the air. It was a car - something that it made evident as it hurtled down the road, the engine announcing the arrival with a masculine roar. The stylish automobile - a Rolls Royce - made its way along the coastal highway at alarming speed, a deliberate touch to its handling.
Inside the vehicle sat a man, perhaps in his mid-forties, with a slightly unshaved grimace gracing his features. A mess of graying hair sat atop his head, subject to obvious neglect, flicking about sloppily due to the breeze provided by the half-open window. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, and his eyes glanced about, as though expecting an undesired visit from someone. It would be hard for an onlooker to imagine what could possibly visit him then though, as he was going well over eighty miles an hour on a road that didn't see to be all that accessible.
His cloudy eyes snapped their attention to an approaching sign - black with white lettering - that read quite clearly, in two languages, "Twenty Miles to Port Charle". It was as he passed that sign that a ringing filled the car. One of his hands fumbled in his pockets for something, and after several moments emerged with a slick black cell phone, flicking it open with slight hesitation. The man brought it to his ear and in a deep voice, with an unidentifiable accent, spoke;
"Hello?"
"Jack,"
"Yes?"
"Jack, where are you?"
"Who is this?"
"It's me Jack, Vinny. Where the hell are you?"
"I'm near Port Charle."
"You should've been there yesterday, Jack."
"I-I got caught up."
"Well don't get caught up, Jack. I want you at the warehouse by noon."
The mans fingers flipped the phone closed and put it back into his jacket pocket, shaking a little. They then returned to the steering wheel, guiding the vehicle along a steady and rather treacherous turn. The car shot along the road and into the distance, a misty spray following the wheels...
Two hours later...
The cobblestone street had begun to dry off from the previous nights rain, and was visited upon occasionally by a bicycle or car - but for the most part it was empty. Tucked in between a row of shabby, old houses and a large, ugly warehouse, Harley Lane was not the most appealing of streets - at least in comparison to the backdrop of Port Charle. The old city's classy, renaissance feel did nothing to make the unlit street look better. A tin can lay idly in the gutter, much like the unemployed population of that part of town. Laundry was strung on a tightly tied line across two houses, waving tiredly in the wind.
It was only such an atmosphere that made a beautiful Rolls Royce look out of place as it drove down the narrow lane, its engine humming slightly. A small pair of eyes accompanied by a child's round cheeks and light hair protruded from a window to gawk. As the vehicle rolled by, the head disappeared, followed by faint shouting from inside the same house.
The car came to a stop on the warehouse side of the street, parallel to a side door. The industrial, brick building didn't posses any beckoning feel to it, and the door looked more like another brick than an entrance. It was almost surprising when the car's occupier got out and opened it. Of course, much fuss was made of finding the key in the man's jacket pockets, followed by a fidgeting with the door's lock. But yes, when it opened into darkness, it was almost uncharacteristic of the wall. And when the man disappeared into its depths, and the black door shut, all was returned to normal.
Inside the building, light was a rarity. Besides a small room towards the back, no lights were on, and even that yellow glow didn't shed much on the rest. The ceiling shot upwards a good twenty feet, and the room could've easily been three hundred feet long, two hundred wide. It was filled sloppily with wooden crates, all mysteriously unlabeled. They were stacked on top of each other, forming pyramids, two by two lines, single-box towers - as if it was some contemporary art exhibit. A rustic, musty feel inhabited the structure's depth - and the man who had just stepped in looked right at home.
He withdrew a long, white cigarette from his pocket and lit it with homely comfort, sparking another bit of light in the dark warehouse. Once he was finished putting away his little lighter, he began to make short, purposeful strides across the floor towards the back, lit room. Once he arrived at the door, he stepped in side, but took a moment to hesitate - preparing, if you will. And then he turned the knob.
He stepped into a bright room, his eyes as squinting as they adjusted. But soon he could see that it was a small room, obviously an office of some sort, with a board of notices, two cluttered tables, a phone...and a desk. And behind that desk sat a plump, balding man who slept with his head tilted back. A trail of saliva was damping his wrinkled white shirt - one that begged for a tie.
"Vincent!" the standing man said strongly, but with a lack of confidence in his oily voice. The sleeping man awoke, startled.
"Wh-wa?" he asked stupidly, looking about. His eyes found the man and brightened with recognition.
"Jack, you finally made it."
"Yeah."
"Well our captain is coming any minute.They want the gold there by noon next week. As he said 'gold' he jerked his head to the piles of boxes.
"Aye,"
Jacks gaze make a voyage around the office, taking it in. It fell momentarily upon a shining metallic object next to Vincent's chair, on his desk. It was a revolver. Vincent followed the gaze and gave a hearty chuckle.
"That's the 'just in case'," he said with a large smile that revealed numerous yellow teeth.
Jack nodded, his brown furrowing nervously...
((The idea of this thread is that a foreign government is purchasing Quoveri's best gold on the black market and shipping it out of the country illegally. Jack and Vincent are two freelancers hired by this foreign government to do so. If you post, you can roleplay your nation's involvement in the operation. Please make your posts reasonably well lengthed. ))
