Empire City

Screaming fills the streets of Atlantic City as two cars speed along the boardwalk, barely missing citizens as they run for cover. In the wake of the cars, broken bodies litter the wooden walkway, blood dripping through the cracks onto the white sand beneath.

The chase is taken to the back roads, the sound of screeching tires echoing through the streets and houses. Stopping suddenly at the edge of the forest, the driver of one of the cars leaps out and runs through the dark trees to a warehouse. Following the road, the second car stops in front of the warehouse. The driver and one of the passengers get out, holding the door open for the third. With his fedora covering his eyes, the third man steps out of the Rolls Royce and looks around. “Jimmy, go round him up,” he growls.

“Yes, boss,” Jimmy says, leaving with the other man and entering the warehouse.

The man they called boss walks slowly towards the doors of the warehouse, where the sounds of angry yelling fill the air. There is a loud bang and screaming. He stops.

Jimmy comes running out of the building, supporting the second man. “Boss! Boss! The bastard shot Charlie!”

“Get him in the car and go find the doctor. I’ll clean this up.”

Jimmy nods and ushers Charlie to the car. The man, the boss, is now alone.

He sighs and walks up to the door of the building. Glowing above the door is a single light, giving him a better look inside. The large room is full of crates, containing illegal bottles of Canadian Club Whiskey ready for transport.

The boss pushes the doors wide open. His footsteps echo hollowly through the room as he walks into the room.

“I suggest we play a game of Marco Polo,” he drawls. “You be Polo.”

“Mickey, what have I ever done to you?” a voice yells out from the back corner of the room. “I thought we sorted this out.”

Mickey smirks. “Doyle, you double-crossed me to Gallagher. Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?”

Doyle’s shadow darts across the wall as he runs to a new hiding place. Mickey starts to walk towards the sound of Doyle panting.

Mickey pulls the colt from his holster and cocks it. “Marco.”

“I’m not playing your fucking game, you sick bastard,” Doyle screams. He starts to run again. This time he is running towards Mickey. Mickey watches Doyle’s darkened figure run between the crates ahead of him.

“Oh, but you are, Doyle. You’ve always been playing my game. You see, I own you. You think you would still be alive without me?”

Mickey hears Doyle start running toward the entrance. He turns and walks back. He stands in the shadows overlooking the circle of light where Doyle stands, his hands on his knees, panting. Mickey aims and fires, hitting Doyle in the arm, sending him staggering backwards and falling against a stack of empty crates.

Doyle screams in pain, his face contorting in the orange light. He holds his arm and tries to sit up as
Mickey slowly walks over to him, clicking his tongue and shaking his head.

“You were warned not to fuck me over, Doyle.”

“I did it to save my neck, Mickey. I didn’t know he would get to her.”

Mickey stops in front of Doyle, his gun pointing at Doyle’s head.

Doyle lets out a whimper. “I’m sorry Mickey. I didn’t know he would go after Haley because of it.”

Mickey’s face goes deadpan and he readjusts his aim. “Don’t you dare say her name, you piece of shit. She’s my daughter, not some pawn in Gallagher’s fucking game.”

‘I-I’m sorry Mickey. I-” Doyle’s voice dies as Mickey cocks his gun.

Doyle whimpers. “No, Mickey! Please!”

“Any last words” Mickey says with a sneer.

“P-Polo,” Doyle stammers.

Mickey pulls the trigger, watching as Doyle’s brains paint the crates behind his lifeless body. He leans down and digs around Doyle's pockets for the keys to his car. He drags a crate of whiskey to the door, then unscrews one of the bottles and soaks the packing hay and wood with the alcohol. With a snort, he makes a trail of alcohol back from the door to Doyle’s body, dousing him in the process.

“See you later Doyle,” he says, before flicking a match onto the floor.

He backed away, watching dispassionately as the flames ignite. The flames quickly engulf the crate,
the trail of alcohol, then, at last, Doyle’s remains.

A Cadillac pulls up shortly after the flames start licking up the warehouse walls. Gallagher and one of his thugs get out of the car. Mickey watches as Gallagher takes in the sight, seeing the burning body and the bottles of liquor feeding the flames.

Gallagher lets out a scream and starts kicking the tyres of his car. His thug stands beside him in awe.

Mickey swallows a howl of laughter as he runs back to the road. Emerging back onto the road, he finds Jimmy waiting in his car, Charlie gone.

Jimmy half gets out of the car and calls out, “Boss! Charlie’s with your daughter. He sent me back to get you.”

Mickey jogs over to the car and gets in, “Good thinking.”

Both Jimmy and Mickey swear as they hear the car at the warehouse start up. Mickey’s head whips around to look at Jimmy, “Go! Fucking move it!

Jimmy plants it, the tires of the Rolls screeching, “Where to boss?”

“Charlie’s, where else?”

Nodding, Jimmy moves in his seat. “So, was that Gallagher back at the warehouse, Mick?”

Mickey smirks, “Yeah… Yeah. Nobody, not even Gallagher, fucks with my stuff. And now he knows that.”

Jimmy glances at him, “What did you do, boss?”

“Killed Doyle and torched Gallagher's alcohol shipment,” Mickey says, grinning.

Both men look at each other and laugh, and continue all the way back to the boardwalk.