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Gadget

Gadget met with Wrecker and Reggy in an upstairs room where they tracked the development of criminal enterprises. Despite his rough exterior, Reggy had once been a decorated police detective before his world fell apart. His skills had lain dormant until he came to Baltimore for Gadget.

Two large boards dominated the room, cluttered with photos, notes, and strings of different colors connecting key figures and operations. Gadget had never seen such an intricate web of information; detective work wasn’t her forte. Sitting quietly in the back corner was the formidable presence of Special Agent Lisha. The stern expression on her face did little to inspire confidence. At the other end of the room, Wrecker had several dozen firearms laid out, each in various stages of cleaning.

Gadget walked by, eyeing the collection. “You know, Wrecker, a cleaning spell, even a simple cantrip, would do a better job than you.”

Wrecker nodded. “Clean, yeah, but it leaves everything dry. Didn't you listen to Rafe about oiling fire arms? I know you do it. I've watched you clean weapons like you were taught. Of course you're a sword girl. Look at this.” He handed her a long bullet, one used in a .50 caliber. It was larger than anything she had fired before. “That’s an M33 ball round for the M82. A training round, really, but it’ll put a hell of a hole in a meat target. Remember that world with the dinosaurs? This is what Reggy and I used to put down that T-Rex. It’s all we had at the time. Good range, decent stopping power.”

He handed her another round of the same size, this one with a black tip. “This is an M8 armor-piercing round. If I’m shooting a dinosaur, a Kalac, a lizardman, or a human, the M33 will do fine. But this one—this is for buildings, vehicles, and dragons. Both will ruin your day.”

He pulled up another round and a file. “See that groove? Barely a scratch. But at a hundred yards, that could throw the shot off by inches, even for me, especially in a dry barrel. These beasts heat up a barrel fast too. If I’m shooting a car, I want precision, and I don't want it to jam. A scratch inside the barrel? That could shift the impact by a foot or more. And if I’m aiming at a dragon, I want to hit an eye, not graze an ear. So, I check every barrel and every round. A clean spell could do part of the job, but I need to oil them too. I’d rather go over everything myself.”

Gadget nodded and moved on, reminded of the meticulous weapon care drilled into her by Lord David and Rafe. Magic swords required little maintenance, but guns were a different beast.

She turned to Reggy’s boards, noting his dour expression and the mostly unsmoked cigar in his hand. “What am I looking at, Reggy?”

Valera

“The Valera Syndicate. Been around since Prohibition—that’s over a hundred years of crime. Their reach is global. Funny thing is, when I worked in Denver back on my world, we never connected the dots this far but we knew the name and some of these players..

That Sicario they sent after Wreck and I was very cooperative once we showed him a good chunk of magic. Amazing how cooperative fearing the devil can make a hardened killer who's a lapsed catholic. We both turned to orcs in front of him and he pissed himself. He's a good catholic now. We got him talking and he laid out stuff, everything fell into place. He knew names, product flows, and, well… all this.” He waved at the boards. “He led us to several others. We just got back from Panama a couple of days ago, and this is what we’ve pieced together. Lisha looked it over about an hour ago and hasn’t said a word since.”

Gadget glanced at Lisha, who stood and walked over. Uncharacteristically, she lit a cigarette. Wrecker pulled up chairs and set four open bottles of beer on the table. Lisha took one, another rare sight.

“Alright,” Gadget said. “Give me the details.”

Reggy nodded. “The Valera Syndicate is structured around a council of elders. We don’t know if these elders are the regional bosses or if there’s another layer above them, but their reach is massive. More trouble than we can handle. Even Lisha’s agency wouldn’t dare move on this without a total nightmare on their hands.”

Lisha muttered, “Even requesting information or backup could get us all killed. We have to rely on your otherworldly contacts for this mess.” She took a sip of beer.

“Alright, go on,” Gadget said.

“Regional bosses. There are about a dozen or so around the world, our Sicario thinks, but he only knew these Norte` Americano ones. Bear in mind too that this is just one Syndicate. These guys interact with Costa Nostra, Russian Mob, Albanian Mob, Yakuza, M13, Bloods, Crips, biker gangs, Golden Circle, as well as terrorist groups, government intelligence services and law enforcement. Gangs and Cartels of all sizes. Those all have their own operations but this is the one that tried climbing up your personal fuzzy butt.

Victor Kane controls Baltimore, D.C., and the South. Dom Verratti runs New York and New England. Manuel El Carnicero Ruiz operates out of Mexico City. Ricardo El Fantasma Ortega holds Medellín up to Mexico, including the Panama Canal. Santiago Wolf Alvarez commands the West Coast. Most of their money flows through elaborate laundering processes that ultimately ships bulk cash south. The final destination is unknown, once it hits Panama, it vanishes.”

“Kane...", Gadget confirmed, "He ran the Sangre de la Calle and they ran the 43rd Street gang. After the dog fight at the Sangre de la Calle place, Kane set his own guys on you, right?"

Reggy nodded, "Yes. That's how we got our good catholic lad."

She nodded, "You mentioned a plan in your message?”

Lisha snorted. Gadget smirked, unable to help herself. “This should be good. Let’s hear it.”

Reggy finished his beer, and Wrecker handed him a six-ounce pour of Old Crow.

“Kane and Alvarez are moving two shipping containers through the port of Los Angeles in a few days. It’s small compared to their usual operations, but this one’s special—cash, gold, valuable antiques, high-end cars. We’re talking billions in assets. They kind of run a bank for crooks. Not just The Valera but the Costa Nostra, American Yakuza, Golden Circle, a few others, all bank with Valera, so this shipment is connected all over the place. It sails from San Pedro, stops in Ensenada, Manzanillo, Puerto Quetzal, then through the Panama Canal. After that, it changes routes, and we lose it.”

“You thinking of sinking it?” Gadget asked. “That’s a lot of explosives.”

Wrecker grinned. “Nope. We don’t need to sink it. We just need to make it disappear.” Lisha snorted again and Gadget saw where this was going.

“Rafe or Dalt get onboard,” Reggy said. “They shadowwalk the whole ship into another shadow. Middle of the night, international waters, no land in sight. Crew won’t even know something’s wrong til the GPS loses its mind. Knock them out, offload the cargo elsewhere, and drop them off somewhere inconvenient—Dutch Harbor, Kamchatka, Vanuatu. Let the Syndicate figure out how their ship ended up there empty.”

Gadget considered. “Or they could just scrub them.”

Reggy squints his eyes, “Gadg, you know Wrecker and I don’t mind killing bad guys, but some poor sailor? That’s just cruel. Rafe can get them off-world without bloodshed. If the Syndicate decides to take them out later, that’s their problem.”

Lisha exhaled smoke. “Gadget, is this magic bullshit actually doable?”

Gadget nodded. “I’ll call Rafe, but yeah, it’s possible.”

Reggy continued. “Three days until the ship leaves L.A. Once it does, the game is on.”

“What’s the take?”

“Hard to say until Rafe unloads it. We distribute the cash to charities worldwide, let Rafe keep the gold, cars, and anything else useful. The syudden riches among the charities will make the bad guys furious with the Valera. Killing furious.”

“There was something else?”

Reggy and Wrecker exchanged a look. Wrecker spoke. “We’re putting a bullet in Santiago Alvarez ourselves. He’s running a global human trafficking operation out of L.A. Kidnapping, child exploitation films, kiddie pimping. Snuff films. Horrific stuff.. He's a slippery demon and we don't want him to slip out of this. He needs to go.”

Gadget turned to Lisha.

Lisha sighed. “We can’t build a case against him. Too protected, but there’s enough proof of his ‘private parties.’ No one will miss him.”

Gadget nodded. “Approved. I’ll call Rafe. "

Rafe

Rafe felt the familiar tingling in his mind—a Trump call. As always, he braced himself for a potential mental assault before allowing the connection through.

"Who calls?" he asked, his tone calm but inquisitive.

"Gadget," came the reply, her voice laced with urgency. "I've got Reggy, Wrecker, and an Earther named Lisha here. She needs to see a bit of magic. I’ve got a job that requires a touch of talent."

Rafe’s lips curled into a smirk. "Hey, Gadget! Great to hear from you again! Taking good care of my two muscle heads, are ya?" He chuckled. "So, you need some magical expertise. Who did you have in mind?"

"Well, you," Gadget said without hesitation. "Wrecker, Reggy, and I need to be someplace visible for a solid alibi. The job? I need a small cargo ship to disappear."

Rafe raised an eyebrow. "Disappear?" he repeated, intrigued.

"Yeah," Reggy confirmed. "The MV San Cristóbal. It’s a small feeder ship, moving about 300 containers—mostly junk from Los Angeles heading through the Panama Canal. But at least three of those containers belong to a crime cartel we are working over. They’re packed with cash, gold, a few cars, and who knows what else. They’re heading south. We want to sail the ship off-world and unload its cargo. Then it can return near Vladivostok, Nome, or maybe McMurdo Station… Should start a shooting war between the cartels."

Rafe let out a low whistle. "Damn. Really stirring up some shit, huh?" He chuckled. "Okay, I’m in. Any preference on where I offload the goods? And how soon do you need me there? I can find some Shadow-Walking shortcuts to get to LA fast if needed."

Reggy leaned into the Trump connection, his sharp, professional demeanor making him look more like a cop than the rogue operator he was. "We’ll meet you in Los Angeles," he said. "San Pedro, to be exact. That’s where the San Cristóbal is docked. The plan is simple: get on board covertly, let it pick up a container in Mexico, then lead it out into Shadow. You can unload the cargo wherever you want. We get the cash, you keep the gold, the cars, and anything else that catches your fancy. The whole ship is filled with illegal swag, so just dump the rest of the containers in some Shadow with an unloading facility. Then bring the empty ship back. Personally, I like the idea of dropping it off at McMurdo, but that’s just me."

Lisha, who had been silent until now, suddenly spoke up, her voice louder than necessary, as if she were trying to be heard over a bad radio connection. "Are you human? Are you like these two? I don’t care, but this is a weird case for a police operation! We can’t nail these guys legally, so stealing their cargo will have to do!"

Rafe winced at the volume but gave her an easy smile. "No need to yell, Lisha. I hear you just fine. And yes, I’m human… or close enough that no one can tell the difference." He chuckled. "And yes, I’m also like them… and more."

He let that statement hang for a moment before refocusing. "Gadget, how much time do I have to get to LA? And are you thinking solo op, or do you want me to bring a team? I can handle it alone, but a little help always makes things easier."

"Bring whoever you want," Gadget replied. "Time ratio’s in our favor—six hours for you is about a day here. It’ll take that long for Wrecker and Reggy to get to LA. I can’t transport you myself, so we’ll have to work something out."

Dalt

Dalt’s voice cut into the Trump link. "I’ll go now," he said. "Gadget, call me on the King Random trump and pull me through. I’ll travel with Wrecker and Reggy. Should be fun being back in an Earth-world. I’ll bring in Macsen to back up Rafe. We’ll handle the transfers."

"That helps," Wrecker said. "Hey, can we transfer some gear? TSA gets dicey over water bottles and pen knives. An M82 would get us slung into Gitmo, and if they caught us with lightsabers? We’d end up in kolto tanks at Area 51."

"Or Disneyland," Reggy quipped dryly.

Dalt chuckled. "Sure. What do you need an M82 for?"

Reggy’s face darkened. "Part of the plan is icing a guy. A kiddie pimp. Lisha green-lit us sending him onward. And we might go to Comic-Con and want to be packing."

Wrecker grinned. "Orcs with lightsabers, ya know."

Reggy nodded, then added, "You’ll probably want a trump contact to move the container's contents anyway."

Rafe rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Alright. Pass Dalt through. I’ll start sorting things out here, getting my group together. See you all soon. Let’s make this ship vanish."

Moments later Gadget answers a trump call and Prince Dalt of Amber steps through. Looking around he extends hands to Wrecker and Reggy. Gets a brief hug from Gadget. He extends a hand to Lisha who is uncertain at first, then shakes his hand.

Lisha asks, “Are you human like them too?”

Dalt smiles at Lisha, "No. " Turning to the boys, "Wreck, pack your toys. I'll give them to Macsen and he can give them to us in LA. Flying first class, of course?”

Reggy nods, “When you hire the best, you fly the best!”

He nods, “Great, great.” He looked at the boards, noting the people, nodding his head. “Good work. Top notch. This guy is your target?” Patting a picture.

Reggy says, “Ya, Wolf Alverez. West Coast kingpin. I think if we time it right, now with your help, we bring Rafe here and give him a couple hours to get on the road, we send Alverez down, then trump to Baltimore. You should be able to catch up to Rafe at the harbor .”

“ya... but... “, Dalt looks over the board. “You need to have an Alibi?” He looks it over further.

“You need another person for transfers. I've got a guy-girl really; Tesara. Shes been running around Ang Ri for me since a little after I got there.”

Reggy asks, “Don't know her. Why do we need her?”

Dalt says to Reggy, “To secure your alibi beyond a question of a doubt. Macsen & Tesara go to Ludus Daltus where Rafe is. Wrecker, you, and I go to the target in LA, take a car to your shooting perch. After you point Alvarez out to me you guys return to Gadget in Baltimore over her trump and establish your alibi. I call Mac and Rafe and bring them to LA. They take the car and go slip on the boat. Eventually Macsen brings Rafe's people on board by contacting Tesara at the Ludus. I take the shot and clean up there. That puts you and Wrecker in Baltimore with Gadget. Me in LA. Rafe and Macsen at sea. Tesara at my ludus in Ang Ri.

“I join Rafe and Macsen at sea and we sort that out. We may need Macsen and I onboard to facilitate shadow travel and unloading. I'm pretty good at shadowshaving. We'll take the ship someplace with a good time ratio.....Rasak! It has a naval facility-Amber Navy. We can unload the boat there. I can get people there to sort cash out for Gadget & gold for Rafe later. After unloading we take the ship back to someplace confusing....Hong Kong would be good. Its on the Pacific...hmmmm sail it up the Yangtze to Wuhan. We do that part in a nearby unpopulated shadow, bring it in to Wuhan and abandon it leaving port officials to wake up the crew and ask how the hell they got there. Hi-jinks ensue. ”

Reggy whistles, “Damn....That's good...” (Much Higher Warfare for Dalt)

Lisha asks Gadget, “Are these people making sense?”

Gadget says to her, “Remember when I said I was the Apex Predator around here?” Lisha nods. Gadget goes on, “Not while Dalt is on planet. I trust his instincts for warfare.”

She says, “I trust you, Gadget. I'm going to go back to my office and start drinking. Call me when this all is over. I'll establish my own alibi. A good blackout drunk is in order.”

Gadget says, “The band goes on at the Ugly Ferret Saturday at 8pm local time. That's when we start this dance.” Lisha leaves shaking her head.

Dalt says, “We good? I know this is your show, Gadget.”

"Its been a lot more then I expected. I knew I would have to get some local criminals out of the way. In a lot of shadows the Stone Bench Group is run to pieces by gangs. In most Wart's group, a local gang, was a canker on their careers all the way till tragedy. They pushed them into addiction, depression, despair, and suicide despite their musical greatness. I eliminated them almost immediately but group after group filled in the gaps."

Dalt nods, "Nature abhors a vacuum."

"When this syndicate sent an assassin after Wrecker and Reggy it really made cutting off the heads the best way to clear the way for the group. Its far more then i expected to do."

"Things got out of hand? Ya, that makes you an Amberite alright."

Alvarez

rafe on discord

Dalt peered through the scope of his rifle, the crosshairs steady on his target. It had been a long time since he had done this kind of wetwork, but the skills were still there, etched into his muscle memory like scars. The job wasn’t chivalric, but then again, neither was the man he was about to kill. Alvarez had made his own bed, and then, in Dalt’s estimation, he had thoroughly soiled it.

Through the scope, Dalt watched as Alvarez moved through the crowd on the mansion’s sprawling patio. The man was all smiles, his tailored suit gleaming under the soft glow of string lights. Around him, his “stable” of girls—young, nervous, and dressed to impress—began filtering out into the party. Dalt’s jaw tightened as he observed the scene. The guests, a mix of sleazy businessmen and wannabe gangsters, started pawing at the girls, their laughter grating and predatory. Anger simmered in Dalt’s chest, hot and sharp. Alvarez wasn’t going to leave this party alone. Not tonight.

An hour passed, and Dalt had seen enough. He reached for the burner phone he had picked up at the airport, its cheap plastic casing cool against his palm. He dialed 911, his voice calm and measured as he reported hearing gunshots in the area. The operator asked questions, but Dalt hung up before they could trace the call. He didn’t need much time—just enough to sow chaos.

Five minutes later, the first police cars arrived, their sirens wailing in the distance. Dalt smirked faintly. “Better make this quick,” he muttered to himself.

He adjusted his position slightly, the rifle’s stock firm against his shoulder. Through the scope, he lined up his first shot. Alvarez was laughing, a glass of expensive tequila in his hand, oblivious to the danger. Dalt exhaled slowly, his finger tightening on the trigger. The shot rang out, sharp and final. Alvarez’s head snapped back, and he crumpled to the ground, his body collapsing into a table and shattering a bottle of Patrón. The golden liquid pooled around him, mixing with the darker stain spreading beneath his head.

Chaos erupted. Dalt shifted his aim. The man in the yellow shirt was next, his face frozen in shock as he toppled sideways, his drink spilling across the patio. The girl beside him screamed, her hands flying to her mouth. Dalt didn’t linger. He moved to the next target—a man with comically large ears. The round caught him in the side of the head, and he dropped like a sack of flour, his blood splattering across the tiles.

The man in the ugly hat went down next, the bullet punching through his nose and exiting in a grisly spray. Dalt’s focus didn’t waver. He shifted to the man in the garish Hawaiian shirt, who was drunkenly slapping at one of the girls. The shot caught him under the arm, the round tearing through his side and exploding out the other in a shower of blood and tissue. He collapsed, his face a mask of confusion and pain.

By now, the partygoers had realized what was happening. Screams filled the air as they scrambled for cover, some diving into the pool, others bolting for the mansion’s doors. Dalt tracked one man as he sprinted for the safety of the house. He didn’t make it. The bullet caught him in the back, and he sprawled forward, his body slamming into the doorframe before sliding to the ground.

Three guards burst onto the patio, their customized AR-15s gleaming under the lights. They opened fire, but their shots were wild and panicked, peppering the ground far below Dalt’s position. He considered taking them out but decided against it. They were probably guilty of “sampling the merchandise,” as Reggy had put it, but they weren’t worth the nightmares he would have later. Instead, he aimed for their knees. Three precise shots later, the guards were on the ground, howling in pain, their weapons forgotten.

Dalt reloaded calmly, sliding a fresh magazine into the rifle. He shifted his aim past the mansion, targeting the police cars that had begun to converge on the property. A few well-placed shots into their engines and windshields were enough to send them scrambling for cover. That would buy him some time.

He quickly policed his brass, a reflex born of years of training, and then reached into his pocket. His fingers closed around the small, intricately carved card—his trump. He held it up, focusing on the image etched into its surface.

“Tesara,” he said quietly. “Pull me through.”

The air shimmered, and a portal opened before him, its edges crackling with faint energy. On the other side stood Tesara, her expression calm but her eyes sharp with curiosity. Beyond her stretched the alien landscape of Ang Ri, a world unimaginably distant in both space and reality.

Dalt grabbed the good Catholic sicario by the arm. The man was trembling, his face pale and slick with sweat. He had run out of liquid to piss out, and Dalt knew he’d need a stiff drink—or several—once this was over.

Dalt extended his hand to the girl with the colorful short hair who stood on the other side of the gate. Her eyes were wide with fear and wonder, but she took his hand without hesitation. Together, they stepped through the portal, leaving the chaos of the mansion behind.

San Cristobal

C&T