Hell's Kitchen - Manhattan, NYC"Say that again, Sidney?" Tamara asked, leaning up in her loft chair and giving the man, a fellow captain in the Irish West Side Mob, a laser glare. Inside the loft residence of hers' sat the captains who collectively ran the Westies for their boss, but Tamara was
primus inter pares (first among equals) among them, the Senior Captain in the Westies and thus the number three in their organization. While part of it was due to her father being consigliere to the Westies boss Donnie Spillane, most of it was due to how good she was at her chosen profession and unlike their Italian counterparts, where women (and since 2014 or thereabouts, mutants) was shunned from their ranks, the Irish welcomed both into ranks and she knew of at least one mutant who was sitting amongst them at that very moment.
It made them stronger than their Sicilian counterparts but also more vulnerable to outside pressures, pressures that Tamara Lyell kept in check like a pressure lid at full tautness...which meant that when trouble did come up, it was serious. "What happened, Sidney?" Tamara asked, resting her chin in her hand, waiting for a response.
"Everything was going just like we spoke of earlier," the captain said, nervous and fidgety in his chair, not saying anything more than that to start. Tamara didn't have to ask him to explain; everyone in that loft residence
knew just about every alphabet federal agency - especially the FBI and GAMA - were likely trying to surveil them and anything that didn't have to be said, they didn't say it. "Go on," Tamara said.
"We gather up the mutants trying to escape the Men in Black," referring to the Westies' term for GAMA agents, official and otherwise, " and get to Pier 69 for the ferry across when all of a sudden, just as we get them on the ferry and away from Manhattan over to New Jersey, all of a sudden here comes a shitstorm of boats - Coast Guard, NYPD, Feds - just swooping down on them. All we could do on the shore was watch," Sidney said, weary and desparent of voice. "They also tried to grab us as well, but we got out. They didn't, though," he added, his voice trailing away.
"Hmmm, indeed," Tamara replied, pondering for a moment what to do. "Come with me, Sidney," she said, nodding towards an unfinished work area in the loft they were all in. As they walked away, she signaled behind her back for Sarah, her twin sibling an another Irish Captain, to send a few of her guys up, "I got another job for you, a special one." Motioning for him to enter the loft area, she quietly slipped out of her black leather jacket a long switchblade, keeping it tight against her body. "What job did you have in mind--" Sidney started to ask.
Suddenly, and with violence of movement, Tamara flicked open the switchblade and drove it square into Sidney's neck, twisting it around as she spun him around to avoid the blood spurting away from him. "You've failed me for the last time, Sidney McCowen," Tamara said in a low contemptuous contralto, giving the knife one last twist. Reaching inside his shirt, she felt what she thought was a wire and pulled it off the dying man's chest; looking for the microphone she said, "Oh GAMA? Did you send me a rat? Well, if you did, I'm sending him back to you, a little bloodied and at room temperature. Oh," she paused, stepping back as the now-dead captain fell to the side, "next time you go interfering with my business, it'll be an agent I send back to you. Have a nice day," tossing the wire down on the plastic sheathing underneath the dead mobster.
Hearing the door open, she looked over and saw a couple of Sarah's soldiers enter. "Wrap this piece of garbage up," pointing down at the dead man, "deliver him to that garbage dump down in the Meatpacking District," referring to a location the West Siders' knew was home to several federal offices in that part of Manhattan, including a small GAMA contingent. "Just toss it out in front of their door and then scram. Meanwhile," turning back to rejoin the others, "I've got business to attend to...."