Targets - A Roman Reigns AU Story

1. mission:accomplished

The outskirts of Atlantic City, NJ, 2109 hrs

No one ever ventured towards this part of town. You wouldn't dare. Not if you wanted to leave with your possessions and your body parts intact.

This part of Jersey had such a terrible reputation that it was simply referred to as The Other Side of the Tracks. The abnormally high crime rate, along with the blatant lack of respect for authority by all who lived there, was enough for an outsider to keep a distance. The authorities and the government had long since abandoned any attempts at salvaging what was left of the streets' dignity.

There was a party happening inside the infamous warehouse on the other side of the tracks, a party that was in full swing. But this was not a party with birthday cake, hat and streamers and animal balloons. This was a typical sex, drugs and rock and roll event, and it was strictly by invitation. From the outside, the warehouse looked decent enough for worthwhile use, but the inside was another story, telling a dire tale of guns, drugs, prostitution and all-round illegality. No person of any self-respect showed their face in here. All activities taking place in this run-down warehouse were organized by the sleaziest group of vagabonds in the city. Tonight they converged, spent from a week of hard work and intent on enjoying a weekend of excess and debauchery.

At the topmost floor, loud hip-hop music blared from the stolen speakers set up beside the door. Half-naked girls sauntered around tending to the horny males. Two men oversaw the happenings in this place.

"Ain't nobody in this fuckin' town better than us right now," one of them boasted loudly over the music. He went by the name of Cass, a direct product of The Other Side of the Tracks. He was one of the most intimidating men you could ever see, seven feet tall and dangerous; he was brash and arrogant, calculating and ruthless. Those qualities took him very far indeed, as he was one of the most feared and formidable gangsters in the area.

His best friend and partner in crime, a pocket-sized, mentally unstable drug runner called Enzo, agreed. "The best guys, the best bitches, the best guns and all this cash," he listed, tossing foreign currency notes carelessly down to the ground floor below, grinning as he watched partygoers scramble to fill their pockets. "I mean, what more could you ask for?"

Cass's girlfriend Carmella, Enzo's cousin and a hard-nosed weapon-wielding prostitute, proceeded to yank the big man's face towards hers and engage him in an erotic lip lock. The gigantic man spread himself across the couch and pulled her on top of him, his lips still attacking hers as she tucked her knees around his waist. Enzo eyed them enviously. "Man, I really need me one of those." He sat down and beckoned at a girl, who obediently scurried over to him and took a seat on his lap.

Some old geezer they picked up the night before at another party sat in a corner, drunk as a skunk and high as a kite. He was from out of town, from North Carolina or somewhere like that, and had spent the past few days waxing lyrical, trying to convince Cass and Enzo that he was as badass as they were. Contrary to his braggadocios claims, his tolerance for alcohol was extremely low, as having had just three drinks he was already stoned out of his mind. He raised his bottle in the air in a drunken toast. "Yo, y'all New Yorkers are the best, man," he slurred, pointing at Enzo. His name was Ric or something. They hadn't bothered to find out. "I could drink this shit forever. It tastes really good, really different."

Of course it did. They had the man's drink laced with strong sleeping pills. The gangsters planned to butcher the old man and sell his heart, kidney and other vital organs at black market value to make themselves some cool money. Not that they were going to tell him that...

As Enzo conversed with one of his men, something floated down from above, coming to rest by his feet. It was a white envelope. He picked it up and looked at it. There was no address, it felt empty, and there was an unfamiliar wax seal that fastened the envelope closed at the back.