Thread: Walking the Line (Razgriz and Beautiful_Disgrace)

The young man had no idea. No idea that she was the largest thorn in the criminal underworld's side. All of them like her were...These so-called 'vigilantes'. Praised highly by the public and the Internet for their stepping up to fight crime, and labeled villains by the police and government agencies. Hunted even turned out the 'authorities' weren't too keen on having people fight their battles for them. And while it was true there should exist a form of unified security, the truth was any force like that was a reactionary force. A group meant to contain the situation and stop it from getting worse. Not the proactive approach the vigilantes took. Regardless, whoever came here to respond to the hail of gunshots would find themselves quite the mess though any sort of containment would be replaced by mostly identifying corpses and writing a report. And as the young man strode towards his doom, the last thing he saw was the barrel of the gun almost mashed against his skull. The last thing he felt was the sharp kick of the muzzle blast, the hot lead slug cutting through his forehead like butter, the blood and matter spray adding a fresh layer to the already red-splattered woman before him. There was no struggle, no hesitation his momentum simply carried him forward, bumping off the girl's shoulder and falling to the ground. Dead on impact. Just shy of a dozen gangsters. Slaughtered in less than three hundred and sixty seconds. Blood streaked the cold cement like a masterpiece, the bodies on the ground a macabre human portrait of mortality. And after that last piece of brass collided, its distinctive sound resonating through the emptiness, all that lingered in the air was a deafening silence. On the table before the assailant lay 8 guns guns 3 Beretta M92s, 2 Glock 17s, an FN57 and a P226. Unable to be drawn before they could even be used. The other three guns lay in the hands of their former masters a CZ-75, an HK MP5, and the best prize of the bunch - ironically in the hands of the man she killed last - a Colt M1911. Also the only one out of ammunition...Still though, it would be a good haul, especially given that most of the other ammunition was well-unused and ripe for the picking. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- A few hours later, the police had the scene surrounded. Damn criminals, always made the job difficult someone must have gotten paid off to leave early or something, because they were no guards on duty. At all. Which meant no witnesses. And the dead gangbangers wouldn't be telling any stories. Except that the one who killed was also responsible for three similar incidents in the past month. And god only knew how many went unreported. Just as the crime scene investigators were finishing up gathering the spent brass and dusting for fingerprints wherever they might find them, a well-dressed man soon approached the scene, his sport coat fluttering in the slight breeze. This was Detective Michael Stanson, lead investigator and member of the Illinois Gang Task Force. Having served quite a few years, it was difficult to get him riled when it came to dead sleazebags. But this person taking a personal contract on these gangsters was starting to give him a headache. Christ...How many this time? Michael asked, stepping under the police tape after showing his badge to the officer in charge of securing the scene. Eleven, detective. Same MO GSWs at close range in varying locations. One poor bastard took one in the junk. Made a hell of a mess. The detective just pinched the bridge of his nose and added, Anything useful? At all? Nothing we can see so far. CSI's wrapping up things here, but you can poke around now. See if they missed anything. said the policeman Stanson gave him a nod and walked to one of the columns in the warehouse where one of the bodies laid against, his head and neck having been repositioned by the investigators to show the Vice Lords ink on his jugular A five-pointed crown. One of their many insignias they adopted from other gangs they assimilated. The only evidence he saw was the single gunshot to the center of the head, and nothing else stood out for him.