As upscale a Japanese restaurant can be, "Saburo's" defined semi-authentic Japanese cuisine in the form of massive sushi rolls and warm saki. It was also associated with shady business, and in this case shady business by form of Mafia families. A table has been designated in a private room, specificially assigned for certain black suited men wearing silk ties and dark eye glasses. Important members have already seated themselves on either side, and negotiations are due once the dealings have arrived in person. A 1966 Continental Lincoln convertible drives up to Saburo's parking, housing a middle-aged man in the driver's side, a paling frightening enforcer in the passenger's side, and a blonde in the back. Once parking is established, the man steps out of the red car and moves around to first let Vicious out, and then rounds the car and pulls out a folded wheelchair from the trunk. Spinning the object around, Charles (the driver) moves towards the backseat and helps move the blonde into the construct. Once she's helped into the chair, it becomes obvious that the blond in question is at least nine months pregnant. She seems due at any moment. Her stomach is round, and she appears uncomfortable with the awkward distribution of weight. "Are you ready, Julia?" The man inquires. She laughs, touching his hand. "If I wasn't, would that even make a difference? Let's just get this over with, Charles." And so Charles wheels in the pregnant woman into the restaurant. Associated with shady business it may be, but it still serves some of the best sushi and sake around, which is why Jake is fond of it. Gang taint doesn't bother her so much, although she has no intention of getting involved with it again. That is none of her business, though--she's just here for a spot of dinner. Seated at the sushi bar, she looks like an ordinary office worker grabbing dinner before heading home, dressed in familiar black slacks and suit jacket with a white button-down shirt and tie, all loosened and untucked for comfort. She wields chopsticks and sake cup with equal fluency, looking mostly uninterested in the goings-on around--though when the pregnant woman is wheeled into the restaurant, she glances up, and raises a brow. Woman looks ready to pop at any moment. Let's just hope that moment isn't now. Across the street, on the top of a roof a man in a red suit jacket keeps a pair of binoculars fixed on those entering and exitting the restaurant, with a slightly crumpled cigarette hanging lightly from his lower lip. He'd been hearing rumors on the street about the establishment's reputation, and tonight was just the night he decided he was going to check out the intel on his own. After all, his lanky thief fingers twitched restlessly with their months of inaction, and the mafia was stupid and impatient. Putting his life on the line with them was more akin to putting one's head into a toothless old lion's mouth. It might smell bad, but there's not much real danger in it. As he continued to watch, noting the arrival of the pregnant woman and her companion through his scope, he lifted those twitching fingers to the cigarette at his lips and took a long drag on it. He'd have to get closer soon, but he might as well look for familiar faces beforehand. "....A foolish question," the silver haired man comments, straightening out his suit jacket shortly after exiting the convertible and allowing Charles to shut down after him. It's all he bothers to say, his nature reticent by preference, though his gaze cuts clear over the convertable as his aide seats Julia. He steps around the convertible, to clear the way. Vicious slides his hands easily into his jacket's pockets, waiting explicitly for Charles to wheel her up, before putting his own hand on one of the holds. "...I'll do it," he protests tersely. "Wait for us in the car." Should it be let at that, Vicious will wheel the pregnant woman into the restaurant, a solemn look darkening his face. From afar, Squall lol reading the background poses, imagining jake dragging squall to a sushi bar. It is with due time after the pregnant woman's arrival that a gleaming black van arrives on the site, almost five minutes exactly. The driver slides the van to a stop in front of the restaurant and the passenger hops casually from the vehicle, holds for a moment, and then raps on the side panel of the van. Two more men exit, then ram the door shut, and the driver is already pulling away when the three elegantly-dressed men enter the Japanese restaurant. Perhaps disconcertingly for a certain shady individual on the rooftops, other men are ascending, dark-clad and grim, not to mention armed. They have not seen any intrepid thieves. And at the restaurant's delivery door, an ice chest is unloaded from a white food service truck and carried inside. Julia seems a little alarmed as Vicious takes Charles' place, but mentally assumes the switch was meant to keep the man behind the wheel in case something should go wrong. She smiles nervously, craning her neck to regard Vicious, "Worried all of the sudden?" She teases privately. "Hnn... Vicious Jr. Vincent for short?" Of course, the teasing only goes so far until members of certain families make appearance. Like a chameleon, her shades change. She appears gentle yet not quite as sweet, fingers locking across the round of her belly as she takes a moment to regard her surrounding. Jake is acknowledged with a closed mouth smile. Two men stand on either side of the private room's entrance, opening the door as both figures enter. A delicate brow raises as she regards the men, one who seems rather green on the job. He seems nervous. Nervous is not good. Julia suddenly doesn't feel good about this. At least there hasn't been sign of cops yet, that she's aware of. Jake's nerves are all but screaming at her that 'HAY BUSINESS IS GOING DOWN DON'T YOU THINK YOU OUGHT TO BE ELSEWHERE'--honestly, men in suits standing in front of a private room? Cars pulling up outside to disgorge passengers who are promptly hustled back? The scent of nervousnessness (metaphorically) wafting from some of the ones guarding the door? In a bar like this? All the questions can really only have one answer. An answer Jake acknowledges, but... at the moment, she just wants her dinner, goddammit. And she has no business with the things going on here, so even if something does go wrong and violence erupts, they won't be shooting /at/ her. It's a risk she'll take for now. Nevertheless, she feels her heartbeat speed up slightly in anticipation of potential disaster, adrenaline making her a little twitchy. Leaning toward the housemate she'd dragged along (the conversation had gone something like 'You need to get the fuck out of here. We're going.' 'No.' 'Yes, we are. Don't make me touch you.' '...'), she murmurs quietly, "I have no fucking idea what's going on, but watch out just in case." And lifts another piece of sushi to her mouth. Though he's toying idly with the pieces of sushi on his own plate, Squall's attention is all on the events transpiring around them. Nothing about this situation is good. Goddammit, he shouldn't have let Jake drag him out of the house. Nothing good ever happens once he steps out the door. Though granted, last time it was trouble that came to /them/. Not even the house is safe! With a sigh, he replies Jake quietly without turning to look at her. "I noticed. Suppose it's too late to just leave?" Squall isn't the sort that enjoys seeking fights, and he has no desire to be around if one breaks out here. Lupin spots the ascending men and winces slightly, "Shit, I guess I'll have to get closer sooner than I thought..." And the wolf's brain begins to work, his eyes scanning the rooftop for places to hide, or at least places to escape to. "Daring, or cautious," he questions himself as he eyes the two avenues of escape open to him, one being the fire-escape he came up on. The daring choice. One which would no doubt put him in view of a plethora of ascending thugs waiting to unload their Chicago Typewriters in his general direction. The other is the roof access door. Locked, no doubt, as most are. It would take some time to pick the lock, but it's something Lupin is comfortable with, and once inside the building? Well. There's more than one stairwell. Avoiding bullets is easier that way. So he decides on the roof's door, dropping his still lit butt from his mouth, and pulling his tools from a pocket in his coat, "Time to show this lock why the ladies call me 'Mr. Magic Fingers'" The three men from the van shift slightly as the front door closes behind them, the leftmost man trading places with the center man. The man now in the center is only of average height, a couple inches short of six feet, pale- skinned and dark-haired, altogether unremarkable in appearance, his long coat draping to his knees. The other two are dressed similarly. As they make their way through the restaurant, all of them are sharp, watchful, but not obviously uneasy. They had for the private room directly. The men arrived on the roofs begin to sweep them briskly for plants. (No, not Plants. Nobody is expecting Knives this time.) Lupin's fingers had better magic him out of there pretty quickly. Vicious doesn't return the glance given. Instead, his answer comes in shades of a languid hiss as he relaxes, entering the restaurant. "You can call it a feeling I have," he explains simply. He does catch Julia's gaze passing over the woman and her moody-looking friend, a gaze he matches with his own cold look. Faintly distasteful, you'd say if it concerned you. Briefly thumbing a soft glint by the leftmost handhold of the chair near a small black pack, Vicious maneuvers Julia to their more private table. "Are you growing soft on me?" Vicious asks in response, a vague tint of black humor crossing his voice like so much of a snowflake in a hot wind before fixing it forward. To their new arrivals. A greeting, in this case, isn't offered. "Did you bring it?" he asks curtly. There's a white vehicle parked across the street from the restaurant, a well taken care of Impala, complete with windows tinted as black as night and elegant silver rims. The car alone seems somewhat out of place amidst Little Japan, what with its numerous ricers and import cars of choice. Tonight, however, is a little different. The car is parked across the street, the occupant within unseen for the most part. Within the Impala the driver sits, a cigarette perched at the edge of his dry lips, the lit end lighting up the man's face along with the dull, baby blue light from the interior console. Yes, the car is running. No, the driver doesn't care. The window cracks a bit, smoke exiting from the inside along with the loud cry of classic rock as Robert Plant sings another tired old song. Sharp green eyes are focused entirely on the door, closely observing who enters and who leaves, a mental note, best saved for later. For now he'll enjoy this song until it ends. ...and it does, the car's engine cutting off. With an exhale the door clicks open, the man rising from within to without, cigarette dangling from his lips. Tired eyes survey the area once before he slams the door shut behind him, arming the alarm before he simply leans back against the door. He's just waiting, a tiny smirk on his lips. Julia laughs in response to the other man's comment, tilting her head. She lets it rest on the right handle attached to the chair as she speaks in smooth collection, grey eyes raising to regard Vincent's cold visage which - for the most part - doesn't seem to affect her, "Can't a girl enjoy a few brief moments of being a mother?" She sighs, and regards the private table curiously. Features stiffen visibly, though a sly smile parts red painted lips, hands still braced over her belly. "It's on its way," One of the other men respond, exercising a dulled gaze on Vicious and shifting it to Julia's engorged belly. "Shall we evaluate it?" At first, she's slow to comply. But instead of waiting for Vicious' approval, Julia begins to slip off the oversized dress - revealing a simple sports bra and a massive plastic bag containing white powder. Delicate fingers knead the knot, picking it apart and opening the bag, waiting for the other man to test the purchase. "Hnn..." He mutters, moving around to dip two fingers into the bag - testing the texture and tasting it. Pulling out a razor from his pocket, he collects a quarter sized amount and places it on the table, drawing a long line of which is snorted. There is a nod of approval to his other men, and they wait for the weapons to arrive. "Well, we probably could. But if we did at this point, after not even finishing our food, we might be considered police plants." And they probably would not receive a good reception, needless to say. "Hard to say--depends on how paranoid they are, and how certain they are of their secrecy. I'd rather not risk it, myself. If something does happen, we can leave then--and a little after-dinner scuffle is all in good fun. 'Sides, the food's damn good, and it'd be a fucking shame to leave it just like this. Eat up." She pokes him in the shoulder with her chopsticks before lifting the sake cup to her lips. "That's expensive shit there, you'd better appreciate it--especially since you made me buy it for dragging you out." Both valid points. Things have progressed quickly. It's already at the stage where leaving is decidedly unwise. Squall resists the urge to turn around, instead glancing ahead at a mirror hung on the wall in order to see behind him. "Better to ignore it," he concludes-- which is the course of action he'd prefer to take anyway-- before he is summarily poked to finish his food. "I know," he grumbles tersely, but chooses not to argue further: instead concentrating on his chopsticks. He does have one thing to say, however: "I'm starting to get the impression you like a fight." *CLICK* Well, fortunately for Lupin, the lock being no match for his dextrous digits. Though, that's not to say he hasn't been spotted. In fact with these mobsters doing what they do best (read: mobbing) they may have just seen their 'plant' escape. The loud sound of the roof door slamming behind him doesn't do much to help the situation. Nor does that discarded cigarette, still faintly giving off its craggy red glow in the low light of the night. Not that that matters too much, as Lupin slides down the metal banister of the staircase inside the building, throwing his arms behind his head and grinning as it takes him down a floor. Good for Lupin? He escaped certain death. Bad for Lupin? He's going to need to keep escaping it probably, all while figuring out a plan to see if whatever they're guarding is worth filching. "I need to get me some sidekicks," he laments. Speaking of the weapons, here come the three men from the van, and immediately behind them a pair of men dressed in employee garb, one wearing a chef outfit, carrying the ice chest with them. The man in the middle, Wes, makes no motions or body language to introduce himself to the situation, merely casts a cool glance over the private room, and glances at the man in the chef's outfit, who flips open the ice chest to reveal... fresh fugu on ice! The whole layer of ice and fish is lifted from the chest, revealing a white plastic bottom, which is then lifted out of the way, revealing dully-gleaming black guns, two identical rifles and two identical pistols. "As agreed, law enforcment-grade M4s and G18Cs," Wes says coolly. "The rest are on-site." Habitual caution keeps him from detailing their precise location yet. The man who did the testing has already given Wes "the Nod." Outside, the man who caught the slam of the door is instantly on the radio to the other two men on the rooftops, one of whom immediately begins to examine the street below. The man who heard Lupin steps into the stairwell, but declines to pursue farther. She's tall, mysterious, and wearing an Asian inspired dress that show off rather long, stocking-clad legs. Ruby painted lips leave their mark on the cigarette she smokes, held between deft fingers.The wide-brimmed hat doesn't entirely match the dress, but keeps a mass of dark greenish curls under control. Her dark shades also hide the two slightly differently coloured eyes as they scan the restaurant slowly. With vision more acute than the average man, or woman for that matter, Spike watches the room. Body language, the fall of clothes over hidden weapons, seemingly casual glances towards the private room. Very little of it escapes him. The talk of a man on a roof comes in over the earpiece he wears, but he mostly ignores it. So that /is/ Vicious' girlfriend, he thinks. Huh. Spike rolls his shoulders, trying to get his boobs to sit comfortably. "Hn." Vicious looks over the first man coldly as he samples their haul. It wasn't something he was going to give assent to--that's the level of decision he'd expect Julia to have her own mind about. His job is very clear and it's.. honestly, one of the few things he's concerned with. He looks towards the arriving men and nods, briskly. "I hope they are." Only faintly amused by the choice in transport. He'll take first one pistol and begin to strip it carefully and quietly, inspecting that the weapon has no obvious signs of damage or wear. He checks the weapon for identifiable serial numbers with an official air, brisk movements before the weapon apparently meets his approval, one stray glance tossed to Julia before he moves on to the rifle. This one is going to receive a swifter, but still observant inspection. Frankly, a rifle is not something one can give a thurough and clandestine inspection to easily. Luckily, they have a private table, so Vicious does allow a bit of his interest to take hold. "It seems everything's in order," he settles, placing the weapon back into the white case. That's.. about when he spots Spike, out the corner of his eye. You don't know how hard it is for Vicious to remain cold and dispassionate in the face of that... that woman. Regardless, he continues. "Now, you've seen what we've brought. Once you tell us where we need to make the pickup, we'll clear it on our end." Thereupon the switch will be made. He carefully refrains on commenting on the mysterious chick's legs. Outside, five cars pull up at the front and park askewed. No questions are asked by standing pedestrians, in fact most bystanders glance at the cool metallic gleam of mixed ferraris and hondas before wisely walking away. From the back, seven other cars circle the perimeter, dark tinted windows catching the sun and reflecting the world around them. The car doors open, stepping out Asian gentlemen in slick suits with protruding lumps betraying weapons concealed in expensive, tailored jackets. The Yakuza members begin to approach the restaurant. Meanwhile, inside... Julia carefully studies her surroundings, head languidly turning as grey eyes touch upon the details of various mafia members and especially peeking out the corner of her eye to regard a certain tall woman wearing a large hat. Before she can closely inspect the person, Julia's line of vision follows Vicious and the cocaine which has just been lifted off her legs by the opposite mafia members. A sigh of relief is taken, hands kneading the numb flesh of her bare thighs from thirty pounds of drugs. One hand innocently draws to her side, fingering the army action colt as a deceptive smile splits red lips, eyes twitching between her lover, the tall woman outside, the other mafia members, and that green boy who can't stop nervously touching the handle of his semi. The faster this is over, the better. Glancing out the window, Jake sighs to herself, and looks over at Squall. More trouble approaching, but leaving is still a really bad idea. Turning and looking at the private table also seems like a bad idea, so she just hitches her shoulders to reassure herself of the weight of the guns in the armpit holsters and glances a few times at the mirror to get an idea of what's going on in the general vicinity of the private table. Standing, she tells Squall, and any in the vicinity who don't care about overhearing, "I'm heading to the bathroom, be back." Turning toward the back, she begins to make her way toward the restroom. Better to be on her feet. Further down in the building he'd chosen, Lupin looks up the stairs he came for a moment, before looking down at the other way. He leans against the wall and skims around where he's at. A multifloored asian marketplace. Super. Doubly super for the fact that it's after hours, and this floor of chinese laundromats isn't going to help him get out of the building any faster. His hands go to his hips, and he looks around once more, before deciding on a course of action, by going further down the stairs. "Groceries? Ahhhhh dammit." He really screwed up his plan tonight, so he decides on the only logical course of action, slinking around the market and stealing some sweet bean cakes, before heading back up to the laundromats and taking a nap in one of the large clothing bins. Maybe next time, Lupin. Maybe next time. "At the rear entrance, the delivery entrance, you will find a white truck that says 'Sagaiya Food Services.' Drive it away and be content." Wes doesn't twitch, shuffle, or touch his weapons. When the sound of a radio comes from his clothing, if anything he grows more still. "Sir," says the radio, "Incoming cardplayers; front and back. Please advise." Wes looks at Julia and Vicious, the lack of expression on his face very dangerous. "I hope those are no guests of yours," he says calmly. "Because I'm about to kill them." Outside, the men on the rooftops hold their rifles ready but not yet aimed, to avoid the betraying glint of glass. Waiting, with discipline, for the order to strike. Spike did warn Vicious he'd be in disguise. He smiles just a bit when he spots the white-haired man struggling to contain his reaction. His eyes go back to the restaurant, and it is slightly mroe than idle curiosity when he sees a woman heading to the washroom, who happens to be carrying weapons. He's always wanted to see a ladies restroom. See if it's true about the couches. Spike studiously does not look towards the private room as he stands up, leaving his cigarette burning, and tries to walk like a woman towards the bathroom. Vicious was warned about /a/ disguise, not this disguise. It's not exactly the same thing, and it's probably going to result in a mention over a drink or two later. Vicious is very careful not to betray his knowledge, however. His attention, apparently, is focused on the deal underway moreso than anything else. There's.. a kind of intense look in his eyes, indiscriminate, but searching Wes for just a moment. Still and unconcerned, he reaches in his pocket for a cell phone. Speed dial 1 and the speaker lifts to his ear. "Charles. Around the back. Sagaiya truck." He shuts the phone without a second more to waste, tucking it back into his pocket with a thumb. He looks up at Wes briefly, before frowning. "... If I had friends coming, they wouldn't get caught." He gives Charles no further warning. It's not necessary, as far as he's concerned. Instead, he continues as planned, drawing the bag off the back of the wheelchair and tossing it to Wes' men with one hand. Just in case you didn't bring one of your own. "Consider it a gesture of goodwill." That said, he'll give his lady just the /slightest/ of nods. It's a very clear signal. Get ready to leave. Pools of greying blue regard Vicious, fixed on his face until the nod is presented as final suggestion to future actions. Julia has already pulled herself off the wheelchair, hand touching her personalized gun braced against her outer thigh. Only way to get to the back is by leaving the private room. And from what she's hearing in this exchange between her lover and Wes, things may turn out to be quite rocky. It just takes one gunshot. "I'll cover your back." She says simply to Vicious. Slowly, Julia pulls herself out, thin figure and bounds of golden hair hard to make out along dark walls painted with antiquity. She follows the wall towards the bathrooms, sliding into the Men's Washroom across from the women's bathroom. This, of course, startles a bystander named 'John' who was just finishing his business. Julia pulls back the safety and gives John a long look up and down, before she focuses outside. She's on the floor, one long leg propping the door open as both hands aim the army action... The first Yakuza members enters by means of the entrance itself, warning enough for the Restaurant management to duck behind various tables and chairs, as well as frequenters to find cover in the midst of what will be a blood bath. Julia counts them as they flood in... one... two... three... At least thirty up front, probably more in the back. It doesn't take long until the Rookie Greenback Mafia Member Julia was inspecting earlier makes the dumb mistake of pulling a trigger. BANG It just takes one bullet, then the Yakuza members begin to shoot. Cringing, the woman aims for a man's chest and ends up hitting him in the head instead. Jake actually makes it to the bathroom unmolested. Hypersensitive with the awareness of impending danger, she notes the woman coming after her--but without any motion, can't really do anything first. She just takes the opportunity to use the bathroom first. She finishes washing her hands just as the dark-haired "woman" enters. Drying her hands, she leans her hip against the sink's edge and pulls out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from a pocket, taking a second to light up before nodding neutrally at the woman--nice legs there--before starting to head out-- Which is about when the bullets start flying. Jerking back instinctively as a bullet thuds into the door not two inches from her head, she slams the door shut. Dropping to one knee, she reaches up to crack the door open again a touch and peer out, reaching under her coat for one of her SIG-Sauers. Staring into Wes's eyes is like looking at lifelike marbles; they convey very little aliveness. He meets Vicious gaze calmly, while one of his men catches the bag and rapidly puts the cocaine away, then straps the bag on. Wes reaches up to his coat and presses a button. "Show them just how much of a losing hand they really are. Also, arrange a hot pickup." The radio clicks twice in acknowledgement and goes silent. Wes reaches under his coat calmly and draws a large-frame Glock, extending it as he turns, firing the moment the picture forms. The 10mm round punches straight through the first man it hits. Outside, the three men on the rooftops divide their fields of fire professionally and turn on their fiber-optic night sights. They begin to fire on those who haven't entered the building yet; men closest to the restaurant door first, working outwards. The rounds are subsonic, the M4 rifles suppressed, and the men very skilled. It sure smells nice in here, is Spike's first thought. Then a bit of a thrill at being in a place that was always so forbidden. Spike stands in front of the mirror, examining and admiring his disguise. He purses his lips a few times. Lipstick feels weird, but does wonders for his face. The look he gives Jake is a bit more friendly than the ones most women likely give her. He keeps facing the mirror when the bullets start, watching Jake's reflection. He should be out there helping out, but he has to worry about her first. Jamming a hand down inside his cleavage, Spike withdraws his Jericho as he pulls off his shades. Eyes and barrel both turn to lock on Jake. "You should probably stay in here," he says, in a very unladly like voice. For the most part it's been dead beyond the doors of the bar. There's little going on from Caprarelli's vantage point, save for the occasional awkward look at passers by. All in all, the officer does little more than lean against his car, smoking idly on his lit cigarette--well, what remains of it. Watching, and waiting. Something's bound to happen. It's only a matter of time. Time which, of course, comes. Sudden and without warning are the sudden fall of people near the restaurant as they're struck from unseen and relatively unheard gunman, prompting the seeming lazy Lorenzo into action, so to speak. He doesn't move hastily; instead he simply ambles from his car to someone else's car, then moves around it for cover, dipping a hand into his beige trench coat. The other goes to a cellphone at his hip, which he opens and places a call. Just as informed, shit's going down and otherwise hitting the fan. There's no sense in putting up with this bullshit solo. Once the call's made the officer incognito peeks up from the boot of the car, peering at his surroundings. Obviously there's rooftop-bound gunmen, if they ca easily peck people off like that. Where are they? That he's uncertain of. For now he simply watches and waits...for backup. Squall has no idea what the hell is going on here, but he is very much aware that his current position is extremely insecure. Rising, he walks towards the back of the place, in the vague direction of where he last saw Jake: but he only gets three-quarters of the way before people start busting in through the door. He doesn't look back or make a sound. All he does is step considerably faster, snicking a pair of derelict long knives from the bar as he goes: and he makes it behind the end of the bar before the shooting breaks out. Glancing out from behind the bar, he marks the ladies' restroom door, about ten feet distant. Then, ignoring the cowering sushi chefs huddled with him behind the bar, he starts wiping the blades off methodically on an apron hanging behind the bar: keeping an eye out as he smears octopus bits off the blades. Gross. These babies had been slicing the sashimi. Exchanging one last glance at Wes, Vicious has a baleful smirk for Julia addressing him, fingering the edge of the wheelchair's handhold, gripping that gold point and pulling it with a soft click. He nods, simply. "We're going forward, first." Keep their flank open. Shiiiink. The kashira of a blade reveals itself, then a sinuous, gleaming, razor sharp length of curved steel. Vicious' blade, nameless to all but him, was concealed by the bag in the wheelchair the whole time. Given he never took care to personally conceal the sword on his way in, it speaks wonders about just how long he's actually been planning to go in personally. Vicious braces an expensive shoe on the back of the wheelchair, going low to the ground to keep from getting shot when the bullets start flying. An instant later, a wheelchair comes flying out from the private area towards the Yakuza members, Vicious hot on its tail. His intent is to drive the wheelchair forward like a battering ram, following in it's wake with coat flying to cut anything unfortunate enough to be knocked off balance by it. Wes can follow if he likes, but Vicious isn't counting on it. He's clearly aiming to lead Julia over to the woman's bathroom. Sadly enough, this brings him closer over to Squall's position. One by one, a few Yakuza members are picked off by the mafia's troops. Stray bullets split in every which direction, attempting to pick off the armed individuals staying at the roof. Several men manage to flood into the room, quickly sizing up their opponents before thick hands pick out small knives and throw them apty into the shoulders and chests of Mafia men spilling out of the private room. Julia shoves thick golden curls over her shoulder as she picks off the men one by one. Quickly she dodges behind the frame of the bathroom's door, Yakuza bullets flecking a door and adorning the smooth oak with a rather unaesthetic pattern. She has to get to the convertible. She has to get to the convertible. "This your first time, being caught in a storm like this?" Julia slowly asks 'John', who is panic struck cowering in a corner. She breathes slowly, in and out. "I'm glad you are as scared as I am." The foot kicks the door open, watching the wheelchair fly through the air - various bullets and knives puncturing the mechanical object. One of Julia's crosshair'd bullets touch the shoulder of a man aiming a shotgun in the direction of Vicious, leaving him immobile and staring into the face of a pale madman. If he had time to speak, he would say he saw death. And death does not weild a scythe. Julia rolls towards Women's restroom once the door gives out, trying to shove her shoulder in while she can. Here's hoping she can get in, or that the door doesn't end up hitting Jake or Spike in the face. In her peripheral vision, the suspicions of all-too-familiar motion pulls her attention away from the door. Her left hand, already on the grip of her gun, moves just a touch faster with an immediate (well, more immediate than the bullets whizzing by outside) danger at hand, whipping out and cocking as she points it up and toward the "woman" at the same time as Spike levels his at her. Her gaze is still mostly turned outside, toward the crack between door and doorframe, but the moment he speaks her head whips back toward Spike, mouth falling open and cigarette falling to smolder on the ground unheeded. "The fuck?" She recovers a second later, eyes narrowing, and she smirks. "And you needed a gun to tell me this... why? Look, um, 'lady,' I have no argument with you, and no argument with anyone outside, either. I was just eating here." Before another move can be made, the door slams open as Julia barrels through it--and Jake, crouched by the edge, catches it full on the face. "FUCK! OW! SHIT! Fucking piece of dipshit ass what the fuck!" She rolls back, one hand clutching her face, and the other squeezing off a shot at what she can only assume is someone trying to attack her. Wes fires his Glock on the move, the jacketed bullets striking precisely with every smooth pull of the trigger. He has sixteen bullets to start with; the number reduces rapidly and lethally, his shots quite uncanny. A short knife tumbles end over end towards his head, and he takes his hand from his gun to bat it aside in a blurred motion. The two men who came in with him perform similarly, if not quite as well. Outside, the rooftop shooters take brief cover, adjust their positions, and resume laying down fire. One of them lets out a muffled noise when a shot grazes him, dropping below the lip of the roof and checking himself. Why? "Because it matches my outfit," Spike answers, as if the woman should have known that without asking. He doesn't look so much like a woman now, standing up straight with feet spread apart, gun pointed casually and unflinching in the face of her weapon. Spike's other hand whips off his hat, frisbee-tossing it aside. The look in his eyes daring her, daring her to do it, to...get nailed in the face. Spike crouches just a bit when the bullet goes off, and fires a few shots of his own. He swings his gun to the side before doing so, shooting through the open door at two of the Yakuza coming on Julia and Vicious' tail. Both go down, one taken out by a shot to the arm, the other quite dead, a portion of his lower jaw missing. "Don't!" Spike yells, the words mostly directed for his whitehaired partner, though they apply to his girl too. "She's a civilian." With a pair of guns. Just trust him. Squall tenses when Vicious and Julia head over his way. One blade flips into a reverse grip, and the other slips to be held by its blade. But when the two detour instead to the women's bathroom, he blinks and looks nonplussed. What the hell is going on in there, anyway? Some part of him is supremely apathetic to what happens as long as it doesn't bother him. The rest of him feels responsible for Jake. Cursing his conscience, he breaks from his cover to the still-open door not far distant: using what cover he can. He loses a knife in the process, leaving it embedded in the shoulder of a guy he noticed drawing a bead on him. He ducks behind the low-rising T-partition between the bathroom doors, looking through the open women's door for a glimpse of Jake, and calls her name sharply: painfully aware of the precariousness of his current position. See, pointing a gun at the silver haired man and killing him are not mutually exclusive tasks. Generally, to keep your life, one has to point the weapon at him and fire, to give him a more pressing problem than killing you. And occaisionally even that doesn't work. As the mafia groups make their own ways out of the restaurant, Vicious slides low and to the side, a man's throat being cut clear open as he falls over the wheelchair, the entire mass forming a kind of macabre bullet sink for Vicious to hide behind. However, even it erodes underneath yakuza gunfire, which leaves Vicious to move to the side in a fast advancing creep. He's creeping low to the ground. Almost impossibly low. At least, well, until someone manages to get a shotgun bead on him. For an instant, Vicious is displeased. That instant passes as one of Julia's bullets grazes that man's shoulder and disrupts his aim during the next. It's the last instant he has to enjoy life. Shaking blood off his sword, Vicious gets a quick scan around of the perimeter First the shotgun hits the floor, then the man hits the floor as Vicious cuts his feet out from under him at the ankles, the momentum slamming him roughly in a harsh splatter against the wall next to the restroom. Then the man's blood hits the floor as he cuts his throat with all the expediency of his passing. At the sound of gunfire even in the bathroom, Vicious moves in in an instant after--and to the side of--Julia as she gets shot. Squall will probably see Vicious come very close to maiming Jake in a gruesome fashion, with a very robust glare of spite and hate to garnish. However--at Spike's bidding alone does his blade still. The bloodied swordpoint lowers, about two feet away from being plunged right through Jake's face. "Hhh, why's she carrying a gun, then?" Vicious murmurs before looking towards Julia, something /vaguely/ resembling concern crossing his face in the brief respite. The bullet skims her arm, puncturing flesh and muscle but Julia is lucky it doesn't shatter bone. Regardless, it hurts. Julia's first reaction is to aim the nickel-plated colt at Jake's clutched face. There is a quick change in aim as a stray knife that flies in from the outside. Julia props the door with her back as she fires Bang bang, baby shot him down. What she needs right now is a compact explosive. Blood, warm and sticky, mats Julia's sportsbra. It hurts like a bitch, but she won't look. She's not prepared to assess the physical damage produced by Jake's blind shot. Instead, bits of blue regard the civilian briefly, following the line of the taller, familiar looking drag queen's leg- "... Spike?" No time to ask who what or when, not when you have three Japanese men sending a message in the form of shotgun blasts. "We need to get to my convertible. In order to do that, we need to get to the back." Any ideas, Spike? Vicious? Strange woman who probably just wants to go home? One two three cross-haired bullets and the weapon is empty, hand slipping into her utility belt and picking out a clip, replacing empty with fresh. Once Vicious is inside, Julia lines herself against the wall - collecting a handful of tissues beside the sink, pressing white paper into the wound with a wince. A brief nod replies silently to Vicious' brief concern, glancing outside. "... Ten more out there. There has to be more in the back." And indeed there are. One of the Yakuza Members, we will call him Mr. Pink, pulls out a katana from his sheath. There is one look granted to Squall, the look that says 'What are you doing here young man?' before the blade goes down on him. Likewise, Lorenzo is treated in the same respect. Suspicious drivers holding onto the wheels of their cars, regarding Lorenzo carefully... Something is wrong. However, the Yakuza are sending a message. One member states this a bit more clearly, descending from the second floor, weapon without silencer directed at Wes, "Let this be a message to you. You do not enter our territory..." Briefly, his attention is diverted as a knife slices in the air, catching a the green-backed Mafia member to the direct left inbetween the eyes. "... it is disrespectul and unfitting." The roll onto her back is continued to flip her right up and over onto her feet again, her other hand dropping from a bruised and bloody face to dart toward the other gun concealed beneath her coat, drawing and cocking it in the same motion as she points it toward the newcomers, landing on Vicious as being the more dangerous of the two. The other remains pointed toward Spike. ...shit, she doesn't have enough arms to cover them all. If they decide to be unfriendly, this is going to turn out distinctly unwell. Blinking, she takes a second to assess the damage to her face. Her left eye is feeling a bit puffy from being hit by the door's edge, but it was saved from being completely hit by her browridge and cheekbone, which are scraped and bleeding. The beginnings of some spectacular bruising follow down the rest of her face, but at least she can still see with both eyes. ... Why the hell is the bathroom such a popular spot?! And who the hell are these--wait, isn't that the pregnant woman? Just as pregnant as the green-haired woman was a woman, apparently. "I could ask why the hell you're carrying a sword to a gun fight, too," Jake points out, words snapped with some force. She doesn't apologize for shooting Julia, either--she's not exactly feeling all that charitable or nice at the moment. As it appears that they're not entirely unfriendly, though, she relaxes slightly, lowering the guns briefly. At least until she hears Squall calling her name. "Leonhart!" she calls back. She mostly refuses to call him by his first name, it's just ridiculous. "In here--shit." Spying Mr. Pink slicing down at Squall, Jake kicks open the door a touch wider and shoots through it, rendering Mr. Pink Mr. Red, as his throat vanishes in a red mist. "Get in here, I'll cover you." And hopefully there's room. "There's a window here," she jerks her head up at the small window near the ceiling, "but I don't think everyone can squeeze through it. There should be a way out back through the kitchen, but /getting/ there is the issue. I'm thinking going out through the front would be really fucking stupid." "Next time, send a nasty fax," Wes tells the threatening Yakuza, tossing his gun upwards in the air, the slide locked backwards. Empty, anyway. As it's flicking up in the air, away from his hand, the opposite and flicks across his sleeve. A paper shuriken, a toy in most hands but capable of performing like the real thing for Wes, flies straight and true for the mouthy Yakuza's throat. His men continue to carve a path to the front door, just as Jake thinks would be a bad idea. One of the two men who came in with him is hit in the upper arm, the other is unhurt. Well, this has become quite a mess. Still ever the uninvolved, Lorenzo's place in this entire ordeal has been behind the boot of someone else's car. It's not like he's about to use his car as a shield--hell no. He still has payments to make on it, and a detective's salary isn't exactly that grand. In any case, the officer has a gun drawn, armed and readied while he continues to do little more than observe. Any minute... For the most part he goes unnoticed; most people are concerned with others, such as Jake and Squall inside, as well as each other. However, the look he's given by a few Yakuza near by is enough to draw a grin across his lips, his expression relatively smug. Why? There's sirens approaching in the distance. The sirens get louder as they barrel into the area, their presence enough to rouse any concerns those on the wrong side of the fence may have. Midgard's finest--those coming--and Midgard's most amazing--present company--are here to rain down on any parade the deal may have had and put their unwanted boot in crime's face. Not that Lorenzo particularly CARES, mind. He just wants to get paid. Besides, a certain family might appreciate this favor. Cars pour in from everywhich direction, blocking potential escape routes as officers pour out of the driver and passenger side doors like a swarm of locusts. Lorenzo? He cautiously and carefully skitters to the nearest squad car, to give the officer a detailed report from what perspective he had, among other things. It would seem over half of Midgard's PD has arrived...as well as a van of SWAT. "Because it matches her outfit!" Spike shouts in consternation, running in the opposite direction from the bathroom door. He hops up lightly onto the sink, kicking off the inappropriate shoes he's wearing and balancing on his bare feet. He uses the butt of his gun to smash open the window, footsteps outside halting and cries in Japanese rising as the shattered pane gets noticed by those outside. "Vicious!" Spike calls out, to get his partner's attention. Spike stuffs both hands down his dress, pulling out the two grenades stuffed there, leaving him as flat chested as the Vice Squad. One, with pin still in place, arcs towards Vicious. The other drops ou the window, its pin clutched in Spike's fingers. The explosion outside shakes the wall of the building and sends the last broken pieces of glass flying inwards from the frame, bits getting stuck in Spike's hair. Oh look, a sword! You know, Squall has a sword, too. And he's really wishing that he had it with him right now. The ten-inch yanagi ba will have to suffice. Previously unseen by the Yakuza attacking him because of its position held at Squall's right side, it moves swiftly to intercept the descending blade. The reason for this young man's perplexing calm in the face of armed yakuza becomes evident when his smaller weapon twists the katana to one side and finds the sword-wielding arm's extended wrist in an instant. He's about to do more when Jake's bullet removes the guy's throat; and there's a pause of only an instant before Squall obeys Jake's directive, slipping into the women's bathroom. He largely ignores the other three people present, though Spike gets a doubletake. Coming up next to Jake, he tells her quietly, "Last time I'm going anywhere with you." It's a joke. Really. He notices the grenades when one flies in front of his face, and he needs only one look at Spike before he's backing himself and Jake away from the blast radius. Vicious steps forward closer to Jake's gun range for a moment, cracking a ghost of a smile. "You probably don't want me to show you," he comments. Now, he's not in the most forgiving of moods either, but, well. This sort of thing isn't new for him. Well. Sadly, Vicious seems to be profiled as the dangerous looking one. Of course between hot girl, hot man in girl's clothes, and well dressed man with bloody katana, that's probably not much of a contest. At least, until the hot man whips grenades from his bosom and begins to chuck them around. Vicious catches the one tossed to him. Looking past Squall for a moment and out the bathroom door. That other girl was right. Finding a way back to the kitchens would be a problem. But. "When the road is blocked, pave it over." One gesture up in the air and bak out through the door with his sword hand, the katana held reverse. At about that same moment, Vicious pulls the pin on his own grenade and throws it outside. Distraction? You bet. A very loud, very explosive, floor shaking distraction. Might want to watch out, Wes. For what it's worth, Vicious at least seems to make sure he doesn't throw it /at/ Wes. Vicious doesn't care about a lot of things. But. Call that a professional courtesy too. It has suddenly become a party in the women's bathroom very, very quickly. As Spike takes a moment to pull out the grenades from the inner folds of his dress, three bullets stray inside as the door opens, following Squall. Do they hit Squall or Spike? At the moment, Julia doesn't have time to pay attention, spinning out as she hits the trigger once twice thrice. Bam bam bam, the color red touches antique walls and spoils expensive suits. She shuts the door behind, frowning at the sound of sirens screaming in the air. "We've got company..." Stating the obvious is buying time according to Julia. The policemen are quick to file inside, though the reactions by Yakuza members are varied. Some shoot, and are shot back. Others commit a brief, painless suicide by aiming the muzzles of their glocks into the temple of their heads, while few actually face the floor and place their hands behind their backs. A few mafia members are also caught in a similar predicament, though smarty accept their arrest as opposed to a timely death. "Come out with your hands up!" Julia sinks into a crouch, eyes touching Jake and Squall for a moment, swallowing as she says very slowly. "You two need to stay inside. Hide in the stalls until the police search this washroom." She doesn't need innocent blood spilled in the favor of evil dealings. Briefly, she regards the grenade braced in her lover's hand. The gun is cocked, sinew of her legs bunched and a hand delicately touching the floor as she readies her run. Julia breaths through her teeth and finally jumps as the Grenade archs over her head and into the madness of police and various living gang members scrawled outside. There is a heavy bang and short protests. "Now!" Shouted, Julia picks her weight off the ground and runs for her life, expecting Spike and Vicious to double as backup as she spirals through the shorthall and into the kitchen. Heels slide on tile, a hand bracing the table to regain balance disrupted by adrenaline, shoving a cook into his assistant as she forces the door leading to the back alley open. Gun raised, she is almost about to pick out a Yakuza until she realizes that he (among the mafia) is fleeing. There, near the delivery truck, is her convertible. Charles is already fastened inside the truck itself, Julia hops into the car by bracing her hand over the door and throwing her weight over open frame. Click... click... Vroom. With experience only granted to those who love a thrill, Julia spins the car in a sharp 180 with her gun still a tote, waiting for Spike and Vicious before she makes the getaway. Noting Julia's safe return, Charles drives off with the truck - crashing through gates and plowing through cops as it runs to its destination. [OOC] Lorenzo says, "yeehaw!" [OOC] Lorenzo gives <333s round and shuffles. thanks for letting me come, jules [OOC] Lorenzo says, "Laters, gise!" Lorenzo has disconnected. [OOC] Vicious comes back in to kill the innocents just because [OOC] Vicious stab Jake [OOC] Vicious stab Squall [OOC] Vicious leave again [OOC] Squall gets up like Cloud and punts Vicious into the Lifestream C_C [OOC] Vicious comes back with a bigger sword and glowing eyes and more insane [OOC] Squall says, "you'll thank me later when you reincarnate as a god-- yes." [OOC] Vicious score thanks dude [OOC] Squall then unleashes the fangirls on vicious [OOC] Squall says, "and the doujinshi" [OOC] Vicious nooooooooooooooooooooooooooo [OOC] Jake says, "pwnt" [OOC] Squall victoly [OOC] Vicious leans over [OOC] Vicious .. stabs Jake a little [OOC] Vicious just--experimentally [OOC] Wes nods thoughtfully, also stabs Jake. [OOC] Vicious just sticks the sword in a few inches, not a lot [OOC] Vicious just checking the oil level on Jake a bit. Juust to see if the vinegar's where it needs to be Jake grins tightly at Squall, and despite a purpling eye, her other eye is gleaming bright with exhilaration. "What, this isn't fun for you?" As Vicious steps closer, Jake eyes him up and down for a second, grin still firmly in place. "Wouldn't I? But now's a really damn stupid time to do it." In the next moment, she gets pushed back to a slightly safer position, as bits of broken glass fly back from the blast outside. Nodding at Squall in thanks, she pushes one of her guns into his hands. "I hope you know how to use this." The sound of sirens catches her attention, and she grimaces. "Shit." Last thing she needs is to be apprehended by the police. She might have a hard time explaining why she's packing, especially since she doesn't actually have a license for concealed carry. (She just hasn't had the time to get it yet. Really.) Not to mention the hours of wasted time in waiting for them to clear the area and being questioned... she'd rather not deal with it. Julia's suggestion is met with a frown, and a terse, "Fuck that." She doesn't bother explaining herself to the other woman, though; and when the grenade goes off, she's bolting out the door, rolling low first before coming up into a crouch and running as low as she can to avoid blind shots at normal shooting height. She'll just have to trust that Squall is doing likewise--though if he wanted, he could probably stay to be questioned. Though there might be the question of transportation, then. The dash from bathroom to kitchen entrance is short, Jake hot on the heels of the other blonde. Their endpoints are definitely not the same, though, as they emerge into the alley and peel off. Her car, unfortunately, is parked some distance away--parking is not kind here. There's enough cover about for her to hide behind, though, and sneak her way over the alley where she'd parked it, using the noise and hubbub of the gangsters' escape to make her own quieter one. Ducked behind cover, Wes receives a radio report and takes a moment to marvel at the sudden dedication of the MPD and their charging directly into what is very obviously a lethal field of fire with multiple sharpshooters. Then he marvels--vituperously, into the radio--that his men couldn't be bothered to do anything to impede their progress, despite having the means to do so. Finally, he issues orders. "Evade. Have the van a street north." The men outside leave. They don't have enough bullets to kill half of the MPD, and that would be a bit much, even for them; they hadn't expected so many to show up within two minutes of trouble happening. "Jones. White. We're cutting straight out; use the Japs for a shield from the cops. Smoke the kitchen, flash when we hit the back, cut through the alley and north." He reclaims and reloads his pistol, holsters it, and wraps a napkin around his left wrist for no obvious reason while one of his men throws a smoke grenade into the kitchen. A regular grenade, lobbed from the bathroom, bounces off Wes's cover and to the kitchen, where it explodes. Then Wes and his two good men move, with terrifying speed and surety. The smoke bomb goes off in the kitchen, and as Wes turns the corner, his hand moves and there's a whisper-thin sword in it that had previously been lying along the length of his back. They don't even try to keep the Yakuza all down, or even take them all down in the first place; the three of them are just there one moment, swords and guns flashing, and then they've moved on the next, with a flashbang pitched out the back door ahead of them. And then they're gone in mere instants, down one of their pre-planned escape route. Much of the rest of their men didn't get out, but their sentences can always be bought. Spike is on the heels of the other two women, wincing and skipping a bit across the broken glass in the bathroom floor. That's going to sting later. Quick shots with little aim are fired into the restaurant directed upwards. Cover fire as they make their dash to the kitchen. Spike hops a table and hurdles over a cook who decided t cower in a ball rather than flee. With a quick look to make sure Vicious is still with him, Spike hops into the back seat of the car, gun at the ready and staring somewhat sullenly at the blonde hair in front of him. Telling him what to do. Looking grumpy Spike eats silently from the food he managed to grab on the way out. She's exhilirated. This kind of setting gives her an /adrenaline rush/. He stares at her a moment as she asks that question, before replying tersely, "I wouldn't say 'fun,' exactly." Though he might affect his grim and unamused demeanor, in truth he isn't immune to the rush of combat, either. He just doesn't actively seek it out like a thrill ride. Know how to use it? Squall can use anything shy of most heavy artillery. "You wouldn't believe," is his wry reply, before he is likewise alaerted by the sirens. Squall isn't exactly licensed to carry either-- he isn't even legally able to /buy/ a handgun, for that matter-- and so his thoughts run rather similarly to Jake's. He really doesn't feel like getting questioned for hours upon hours. To that end, he's quick to follow in Jake's wake: trailing her closely all the way to her car. One thing is certain: it'll be a rather awkward car ride home. Vicious scoffs at Jake ironically. One explosion later, he bursts out of the bathroom, his sword held behind him in the sudden cacophony as.. what appears to be the /majority/ of the mafia and rude but innocent bystanders all flooding through the kitchen on the heels of one another, sway from the suits and the police. In the dense smoke cover afforded by the grenade and the smoke bombs their patron has so thoughtfully donated to their escape, it's probably likely they probably can't even see one another. Vicious moves through the kitchen down the side of the cooking tables and bearing right out the exit, finding enough time apparently to batter the gun out of the hand of a Yakuza agent he almost runs into out on his way through the exit. That man's head makes a very lovely sound at it's thrown at a wall at full force. He's still right behind Spike as he bears around and leaps over the passenger's side door. "Have I mentioned," the enforcer remarks coldly, wiping the blood off his sword with an embroidered cloth, "how lovely you looked in that shade of lipstick, Spike?" To his lover in the driver's seat, he is considerably more terse, "Let's go." Hurry hurry hurry. Black shades already hide grey eyes, red mouth narrowed as nails tap sharply into her wheel. One... two.... three... Spike slides in first, followed by Vicious. She watches the rear window, regarding the dead and dying. Despite all the stress, Julia can't help but laugh out loud at the man's remark concerning Spike's taste in lipstick, and she can't help but respond with a- "You'll have to give me makeup tips once we make it out." She grins, tossing her hair over a shoulder with one sharp flick. A heeled foot slams into the gas pedal, manuevering the car over and around. She follows the delivery truck briefly, but only long enough until an intersection shows Julia the road back to the penthouse. Having two friends in her car is nostalgic, and the feeling is a mix of thrill and wonderful.