Chapter 7- Ultimatums Delivered in Anger

Mark Kirkland walked into his older brother's office in the Organization Headquarters. There was still a dull, aching pain in his face from where Eric O'Malley had broken his nose, and he had decided to seek out his brother's advice on the subject. After all, John should have been used to dealing with the absolute batshit insanity of the Irish in general, and the O'Malleys in particular, by now.

When Mark entered the room, John was hunched over his desk, filling out reports and looking unnaturally cheerful about the mind numbing task.

"Hey, John." Mark said, and the older man looked up.

"Halately! What can I do you for?" John waved a hand towards the only seat in the room not covered in paper. "Come on and sit down!"

"I need some advice," Mark said as he sat down. "How do you deal with all the batshit crazy Irishmen who think you're some kind of pervert?"

John's grin widened. "This about a girl?"

"Well… sort of, I guess. Really, it's-"

John didn't give Mark a chance to finish his sentence . "Well, if the problem is that the girl's family don't approve of you, then your best bet is to seem as non-threatening as possible so that her dad doesn't think you're taking advantage of his daughter." He grinned further, making him look like even more of an idiot. "That help at all?"

"Well, the problem's not really that-"

"John fuckin' Kirkland, where the Hell are ye?" an angry voice thundered.

John's grin shifted from being one of unhelpful condescension to one of idiotic delight. "Sounds like Shannon's here!"

"Yeah," Mark said, "and it sounds like she wants to kill you."

"Nah, she wouldn't do that!"

There was the sound of angry footsteps, then the office door flew open and Shannon O'Malley stomped in. She was a year older than Mark and five feet, six inches of barely contained fire, as she leveled an accusing finger at John as her eyes blazed blue. She ignored Mark completely, but that suited him just fine, as she had broken his wrist when he was ten and she was eleven years old.

"John," Shannon said dangerously, "d'ye know where ye were meant ta be las' noight a' seven…?"

"Umm… I was working at seven…"

"Oi know ye were bloody workin'!" Shannon shouted. "Oi asked where ye were meant ta be!"

John got up from his chair and walked over to the furious girl. "'M sorry, pet… did we have plans…?"

She punched him in the shoulder hard enough that John looked at her with big, hurt eyes. "Shannon…!"

She punched him again and snapped, "Aye, we had bloody plans…!"

John hugged her softly and ran his fingers through her hair. "'M sorry…"

She glared up at him. "Ye be'er be."

He nodded, stroking her hair and murmuring comfortingly until Shannon wrapped her arms around his neck.

"Yer an idiot," she said, "an' if ye e'er stand me up again, Oi'm leavin' ye."

John nodded and kissed her forehead. Mark knew that Shannon had threatened to leave John five times before this, and never done it. At this point, not even John took the threat seriously.

"Can I take you out tomorrow to make it up to you…?"

She nodded. "But yer gonna be there on toime, got't?"

"'Course I am."

Shannon hugged him tightly, and John kept petting her hair, seeming to have forgotten about Mark completely. The younger Kirkland got up and left. It looked like he was going to have to find someone else to help with his own O'Malley problem.

O.O.O.O

Padraic O'Malley spun a nine-iron golf club dangerously in his right hand as the car that he shared with Will Kirkland and a driver whose name he didn't know pulled into a parking space outside a building in Chinatown.

Will was loading a .357 Magnum revolver in the other seat when the car parked. "Keep the engine running," the Englishman told the driver, who nodded.

"Let's git this shit done," Padraic grunted as he stowed the golf club in his overcoat and climbed out of the car. Will stowed the pistol in the back of his belt and followed his partner into the building.

Padraic and Will went up to the fifth floor of the building, to the reception area of a shipping company that acted as a front for the Peninsular Point triads. They were there to deliver a message about the consequences of fucking around with the Organization- namely, that they were dire. "Is a Mr. Chen here?" Will asked the receptionist.

"Yes, sir. Do you have an appointment?"

"Aye," Padraic said, "John Kelly, eleven o' clock."

The receptionist nodded. "He's expecting you, Mr. Kelly. And this would be-?"

Padraic cut the receptionist off with a nod. "He's wi' me." The two then walked down the hall to Mr. Chen's office and went in.

Chen was a middle-aged, bespectacled Chinese man sitting behind a large wooden desk. When Padraic and Will came in, he steepled his fingers and leaned forward in his chair. "What can I do for you, gentlemen?" he asked.

"Ed, shut the door," Padraic said. As Will drew his gun and did so, Chen frowned deeply and stood.

"What are you-"

"Oi'd advoise ye ta shut up," Padraic said. "Ye got thick doors. Oak, aye? Don' answer tha'. Howe'er… ye'll hafta have some way ter communicate wi' yer people outsoide. Ed, frisk 'im."

Will nodded and searched the Chinese man, pistol to his head, and reported, "He's clean, John."

"Check the desk."

"Er… aye, he's got a dictophone that's been recording everything that's been said since we came in, looks like."

"Chuck't out the window." As Will complied with his instructions, Padraic took the golf club out of his coat and pointed it at Chen. "Alroight, Mr. Chen, we got us a problem a' which ye'nd yers lay a' the root. Ye know whit tha' may be?"

Chen remained impassive, and Padraic walked over to him and swung the nine iron in a short arc, catching Chen in the tight kneecap with a painful-sounding 'crack.' Chen cried out in pain and his knee buckled, leaving him to lean on his desk to stay upright. Padraic twirled the club.

"Yer causin' us problems, Mr. Chen."

"We're sorry that we have to do this," Will said. "If you make it easy for us, we'll make it as easy as we can for you."

"Or don', an' we'll make ye as dead as we kin," Padraic snapped.

Chen glared through the pain at his assailants. "What do you want?"

"Stay outta the Nor'east Corner, an' keep yer bloody mitts offa the ships our people operate," Padraic said darkly, brandishing his golf club in the Chinese man's face. "Or, as Oi said, don', an' ye'll be gittin' another visit, an' it'll be from someone a lot less friendly than me, got tha'?"

Chen gritted his teeth and nodded angrily. "I understand."

Will grinned. "Great! Sit down, Mr. Chen."

"What?"

"Do't, damn ye!" Padraic roared, and the startled man collapsed into his chair. Padraic took a length of twine from his coat and tossed it to Will. "Secure 'im."

"Sorry about this, Mr. Chen," the Englishman said, tying Chen to his chair with knots tight enough to hold him, but loose enough that he could work his hands and feet free after a while.

"Ed, gimme the Magnum," Padraic said.

"What?" Will asked in genuine surprise.

"Yer gun. Give't here."

Will hesitantly handed Padraic the pistol, and the Irishman cocked it and pointed it at Chen's head. "Oi wanna make somethin' very clear t'ye. Fuck with us again, an' not on'y will we kill ye, we will woipe out yer whole damn family, root an' stem. D'Oi make meself understood?"

"Yes," Chen spat.

"Good." Padraic uncocked the pistol and handed it back to Will. "We're gone." The two left the office, with Will giving a friendly goodbye to the receptionist as they left and got back into the car.

"Go," Padraic said. The driver pulled out of the space and took the car back towards Headquarters, leaving Chinatown behind.