Doyle cursed under his breath as he and his entourage made their way toward their destination in the dampness of the morning fog. If it was one thing that he absolutely despised about the city, it was the constant fog.
Ulareg was a seaside city, and as such during this time of year, it was often that the warm rays of the sun would cast its heat upon the cool surface of the ocean in the early morning hours - creating the dense and thick mist that would envelope the city like a heavy blanket.
On the upside, the mist gave Doyle a freedom of movement. Rival gangs would often post spies in his territory, and he would often do the same towards them. If a gang leader in the city was on the move and away from their headquarters, it usually meant that something big was up.
Low visibility meant that he and his small group could drift through the streets and back-alleyways without any worry of being spotted. Anyone who drifted close enough in these conditions to accurately identify Doyle or anyone in his group would be swiftly dealt with, regardless if they were spies or not.
The fog would probably be lifted by the time he was making his way back, but his business would have concluded by then. By that point, it wouldn't matter.
Yes, his business. He grinned to himself thinking about the upcoming meeting. Trying to set things up without anyone outside his close circle finding out had been difficult. If he was able to pull off his current plan, the balance of power between the gangs in the city would be thrown off balance by a large margin, leaving him room to hoist himself and his underlings into control of large swaths of the city.
"The rest of the gang leaders have been thinking too small," he mused to himself. "There's a whole wide world out there, and we've just been wasting time and resources fighting over small scraps of it."
"What these others don't get is that it comes down to timing and opportunity," he thought, looking momentarily down at his beefy fists. "Brute force can get you far, but there's an upper limit of what you can achieve. Knowing when and where to strike is just as important as how hard you can hit. It's why I've survived as a leader this long."
He felt the flutter of excitement rise up in his belly. The anticipation of what a successful meeting could mean flashed across his thoughts and he had to force himself to tamp it down.
"The other reason why I survived this long was focusing on the present situation. Focusing on "what ifs" and fantasy scenarios makes people greedy and unrealistic. I need to concentrate on what I know for sure."
The group finally drew near to a large warehouse building near the docks. In an instant, black clad bodies melted out of the mist and intercepted them, placing themselves between Doyle's group and the warehouse.
The sudden arrival by this new group surprised Doyle and his men, who responded with cursing and laying hands on their weapons in caution. The dark clothed men did the same and the two groups remained facing each other in a standoff for a few moments.
A whistle came from the warehouse and a new figure stepped through the fog. Doyle could see this new arrival was also clad in black, but unlike the fresh faced soldiers, he looked a little older and wore a wide moustache.
"Doyle?" The moustached man asked, his voice the gruff tone of an old campaigner.
"He reminds me of an old veteran that used to hang around the streets," Doyle thought. "He's gotta be the one in charge of the guards." Doyle took his hand off the pommel of his weapon and stepped forward. "That's me."
The veteran seemed to scan Doyle with dark eyes for a few moments before nodding. "I'm sorry, we've been expecting you." The man paused a moment, seeming to search for the right words to say next. "You should have been better treated. My men have seen a little bit of trouble lately and are a little on edge."
It was at this point that Doyle noticed that several of the black clad men before him seemed to be favoring one leg over the other, some of them wearing bandages on their lower limbs. He raised an eyebrow.
"Perhaps it would be better if we spoke inside," the mustached man said, indicating that Doyle should follow him towards the warehouse.
"Sure," Doyle said. He started to walk forward and indicated that his entourage should do the same. Doyle stopped in his tracks when he noticed the dark clad soldiers begin to draw their weapons in earnest.
The veteran held up a hand again, "Sorry, just you Doyle. That's how this is going to have to be."
The thought of waltzing by himself into the stronghold of a group of people he knew little about did not sit well with Doyle. Supplicating himself straight off to the demands of this group could also be construed as a sign of weakness.
Doyle turned and motioned to Zery to step up next to him. The tall woman did so, matching his height.
"This is my second in command. Where I go, she goes. No exceptions," he said, crossing his arms.
The veteran seemed to consider this for a few moments. "Alright, come on then."
Doyle relaxed a little at the concession. He hoped that the allowance meant that things would not be once sided during negotiations.
"Not that I'd allow them to just run me over," he thought. He knew that he had to be careful though. If he pushed too far, this group might find it more appealing to approach a different gang and the jig would be up. The city would be thrown in to chaos if word got out.
The veteran led them inside the warehouse to a small office that sat off to the side. Inside was a small office desk with a plush chair - two less comfortable chairs sat on opposite side near the door. Entering, the veteran motioned for Doyle and Zery to sit down.
Much to Doyle's surprise, the veteran moved around the desk and sat down, steepling his fingers.
Doyle cleared his throat and then spoke, "I thought I'd be talking to your boss."
The veteran laughed, moving one of his hands to comb his moustache. "I am Markus."