House Call (IC) [Closed]

[N/A]

After dragging a tarp over his armored behemoth of an automobile, The Black Hand staggered up to the front door of the modest single-story Midtown house. He pulled a police-issue lock release gun out of his utility belt and made short work of the locks on the door, stumbling inside. Bracing himself against the walls for support, he made his way to the bedroom. He grabbed the face of the middle-aged man sleeping in the bed, holding his head down against the pillow and clamping his mouth shut with his thick leather glove. The man awoke and nearly leapt out of his own skin in fright. The Black Hand reached over to the nightstand and pulled the chain hanging from under the lampshade, bathing half the bedroom in a dull yellow glow. Gaining a clear and crisp view of the large man clad head-to-toe in black save for the glowing red eyes upon his featureless face did not reduce the man's terror in the slightest. His hand muffled the man's attempts to scream. [bg=#000000]"Quiet."[/bg] At The Black Hand's command, the man immediately froze up. Slowly, The Black Hand relaxed his grip and withdrew his hand. It was at this point that the man noticed all the bullet-holes decorating The Black Hand's torso.

"Jesus Christ, you're bleeding all over the place!"

[bg=#000000]"Doctor Charles Dixon. Formerly a prestigious trauma surgeon...until your secret morphine addiction spilled over into your professional life. A man died because you operated on him while something less than 'sober.' Your misappropriation of medical supplies for personal recreational use was exposed. Your license was revoked, your wife divorced you, and you spent a few years behind bars, before making early parole due to overcrowding. Now you make ends meet by pulling bullets out of mobsters."[/bg]

[N/A]

Dixon wiped a few beads of sweat off his forehead. "You did your homework. Now I'm guessing you have need of my 'services?' You're the guy who's been taking apart the Tonifanni family. I'm guessing that's where you got my name. You got any idea what The Hitter will do to me if he finds out I helped you?"

The Black Hand reached under his cape with both hands, each holding a small object that Dixon couldn't quite make out in the dim light. [bg=#000000]"You have a more immediate concern."[/bg] His left hand tossed a rectangular object into Dixon's lap. Dixon jumped. [bg=#000000]"The carrot."[/bg] Under the lamplight, Dixon could see that it was a pair of neat, crisp bundles of money. $100 bills, specifically. Hesitantly, he picked up one of the bundles and flipped through it. All hundreds. "This is twenty-thousand dollars."

With his right hand, the vigilante slammed another, larger object, about the size and shape of a brick, upon the nightstand. [bg=#000000]"And the stick."[/bg] Before Dixon could react, the vigilante's other hand produced a small metal cylinder. He pressed and held down on a button at the top. A red light on the brick suddenly lit up, and a tiny speaker beeped, drawing Dixon's full attention. A brick of what appeared to be modeling clay sat next to him, but there were several small electronic devices embedded in it, and it was covered with a layer of shrinkwrapped ball bearings. Dixon's eyes grew wide as saucers as the gears turned in his mind.

[bg=#000000]"I have lost a lot of blood. Help me, and you make a lot of money. Let me die, and I take you with me."[/bg]

Dixon swallowed, rubbed his eyes, and nodded. His shoulders slumped forward. He groaned "Follow me."

Under his mask, The Black Hand sighed with relief. [bg=#000000]I don't know what I would've done if he'd called my bluff.[/bg] The ball bearings and the detonator were real. The "plastic explosive," however, really was just modeling clay.