Chelsea Dawn

Fernando and Juan got their guns ready and hidden under their suit jackets as Pierre and Marcel watched approvingly, the women looking on nervously. "Bonne chance, amor", said Violette, giving him a kiss.

"Gracias, Blanca Nieves", he said.

"Remember, come right back here when you are finished. I have the stones ready",, said Marcel, showing them the two brillant greenish-blue stones in the leather bag.

"Si, I just hope we don't have to shoot any body and can make a run for it", said Juan as he checked the chambers of his gun and nodded in satisfaction when he saw all the chambers were full of bullets.

Fernando already knew that his gun was fully loaded as he put on his overcoat and hat, feeling the sort of anticipation he only felt before a big match or when taking a penalty shot. "Vamanos, amigo", he said.

Fernando and Juan went downstairs where Sean waited for them, the small blond Yorkshireman in a similar gray overcoat and porkpie hat. "Oi, you ready? Mr. Watson got that big meeting with all the West London big guys, this is going to be exciting", he said eagerly.

"Exciting is not the term I would use to describe this, Sean. I don't like Johnny's brother and I have a bad feeling about him", said Juan.

"Aye, me too. Dickey don't want his brother selling to Mick, he wants to run the whole thing. But I don't blame Mr. Watson for wanting to sell his share, his missus is about to pop with the bairn and he wants to live a long life and concentrate on Chelsea. Speaking of which, that was a bloody amazing goal you scored, Fernando. Never seen anything like it", said Sean in awe.

"Gracias, it's a trick we have in Spain called a rabona. There's another one people in Brazil use call a folha seca and I could never get the hang of that one, it would be a good thing to learn", said Fernando with a chuckle.

"They play footy in Brazil too, bloody hell", exclaimed Sean.

"They play football everywhere except the US, Sean. Maybe one day the Brazilians and Argentines are going to come across the pond and play here, you never know", said Juan thoughtfully.

"Maybe, that would be interesting. And their birds are supposed to be bloody nice", replied Sean with a laugh.

The trio arrived at the Blue Lion and were admitted, the bodyguards of the other gangsters looking at them warily. "So Johnny, you got your Spanish footballer blokes as your bodyguards then?", teased a fat bald man with a heavy Devon accent.

"Aye, they're good blokes. Juan, Fernando, this is Peter Terry of Plymouth, he runs the Down Stream", said Johnny.

"Hola, Senor Terry", said Fernando.

"Reckon I've never been called Senor before, that's a first. And you guys are bloody good, I bet money on you blokes and I won a hundred pounds", said Peter.

"That's good to know, senor", said Juan.

The trio watched as more gangsters arrived, all of them big burly men in overcoats surrounded by equally big bodyguards. A waiter arrived with a bottle of Scotch and poured everyone a glass before discreetly leaving, a huge fat man in a green porkpie hat getting up and everyone turning his attention to him. "All right, chaps. Let's get down to business", said Jimmy Malone, the head of the West London Mafia.

Juan and Fernando were on edge the whole time, listening to everything and their eyes scanning the room. Dickey seemed calm as he drank his whiskey and hazel eyes were steady, his breathing even as though he were playing poker. The only hint of something nervous was that he would light a cigarette about every twenty minutes with steady hands, but most of the other gangsters smoked as well so this was not something that stood out much.

Fernando sipped his whiskey and saw Dickey reach into his pocket, the large bulge under his coat not a cigarette or a book of matches. He immediately grabbed the other man by the throat and Dickey strugged, the gun falling to the floor as the other gangsters looked on in dismay. "What the fuck are you doing, Dickey? You were reaching for the fucking gun?", bellowed Jimmy.

"Let go of me, you fucking Spanish bastard. You are ruining everything", he growled.

"Ruining what? You don't pull a gun during a meeting", said Peter.

"You are a fucking pussy wanker, Johnny. I can't believe you want to sell out to Mick, I am your brother", said Dickey angrily.

"You can't run the Blue Lion and the Peach House by yourself, Dickey, and you know Mick and me and you are partners. What the fuck were you going to do, shoot me?", asked Johnny sardonically.

Dickey reached for the gun as Fernando tried to hold him back, the other gangsters immediately taking the bun away. "Yeah, you fucking wanker. I am your brother and I helped you build up the Blue Lion and the Peach House, it's because of that bitch Mabel and that brat she's carrying that you want to go straight. Give me the fucking house or I will shoot you", he snarled.

Jimmy grabbed the gun and pistol whipped Dickey as the other man cried out. "You fucking piece of crap, you were going to shoot your own brother. Johnny as the owner has the right to sell out to whom he wants and Mick would be a better owner than you, I don't blame him for wanting to go legit with Chelsea", he said angrily.

Johnny was still shaking as he sat back down, his head nodding up and down like a puppet's on a string. "Get rid of him, he is no brother to me", he said coldly.

He turned to Juan and Fernando and smiled. "You blokes have done a great job protecting me from my wanker of a brother, Juan and Fernando. Go home to your wives, I release you", he said.

"Gracias, Senor Watson", said Fernando as they left the bar.

They quickly made their way back to the flat where the group waited for them, Violette and Christina eagerly hugging their men. "We did it, we stopped Dickey and the other gangsters are going to execute him", said Juan.

"Good, now let's get back", said Marcel.

He took out the stones and they glowed vividly under the dim lights of the kitchen, having them all hold hands and bow their heads. Marcel said the ancient prayer and they closed their eyes as everything went dark and faded to black....