((OOC: This is a story that I intend to publish in three parts, and I intend to be part of a series))

Darkhawk764 sat at a table in the corner at a little coffee shop in St. Louis, sipping steaming hot coffee from a white mug. Despite the heat, he wore a long black duster that covered the Colt Police Positive revolver hanging from his belt in a holster. He looked up at the clock on the wall as it ticked, the minute hand crawling towards 3:00 as he waited for his meeting with Rico. Droplets of sweat dripped down his face; damnable heat.

The door finally opened and in walked his family's right hand man, RicoSwave, carrying a suitcase and wearing a finely-cut Italian suit. He took a seat across from Darkhawk, ordering a coffee from the waitress.

"I got a call today from Mr. McKennon. He said that the order was coming up the Mississippi as we spoke. It should land at Thieves' Harbor next weekend. Will you be able to make the pickup?" asked Rico without pretense.

"Yes sir, I got my schedule this weekend. My only problem is McKennon; isn't he from Delaware City?" replied Darkhawk, taking another sip from his cup.

Rico shook his head, pausing before he replied as he accepted his coffee and stirred in milk, sugar, and a generous helping of alcohol from a flask.

"He is, but I trust him. Not everyone from Delaware City is a trait-" started Rico, but he was cut off when Darkhawk looked out the large window.

A black, nondescript Ford Model A pulled up in front of the window, stopping. Three men stepped out, armed with Thompson submachine guns. They took aim at the pair sitting at the table.

((OOC: To be continued))

((OOC: Part Two))

Darkhawk instinctively reacted, pushing Rico to the ground and knocking the square table into its side. The sound of breaking pottery was masked by gunshots as the gunmen opened up. The window shattered from the barrage of bullets, ripping through the table. Darkhawk had covered Rico's body with his to protect him from the bullets; a right hand man is much more important than a regular mafioso. For what seemed like an hour, the air was full with hot, burning lead when, suddenly, it stopped. A metallic clang sounded as the assassins' clips fell to the ground. Darkhawk ripped his .38 from its holster, rising up and taking aim across the table for cover.

Three shots left his revolver immediately, the first two slamming into the first gunner's chest, the third ripping into his skull. He turned his sights on the second gunman, unleashing two bullets into his target, leaving one for the third assassin. He had turned again when a jagged line of burning pain hit his arm. Adrenaline drove him as he fired the last shot; a lucky shot that ripped into the last gunman's hand, forcing him to drop the gun and retreat.

Darkhawk stood, offering his hand to Rico, to help him up. He looked down and saw blood spilling from a gunshot wound in his arm. His vision swam slightly as he reached over to the table, ripping off a piece of tablecloth. He tied it tightly around the wound as he already started trying to come up with his story to tell the doctors at the hospital.