Whisky sat in the driver’s seat of the white van a short distance down the road from all the other vans that lined Station St outside of what was once Newport Haven Terminal. Chips was out of the van doing a recon on the crash zone for Boss. Not too far down the road Whisky could see Mark Tanenworth, who was initially supposed to be surveying the area. Boss, however, never trusted his brother and had decided to use Chips and Whisky – who were in the town keeping tabs on Walter Wallace – to investigate.
“What about the mark?” Whisky had asked Boss after receiving his instructions.
“I told you, Mark is useless- you mean Walter. Look don’t call him the mark anymore. Just call him- OK. FUCK! Look the trains are more important than Walter for this one moment. Sure good ole’ Walt is a goldmine but he isn’t bigger than CitaRail. Find out what’s happened because we are going to need a statement on this soon and I don’t have time for your FUCKING OPINION!”
Whisky had thought to disagree. Walter was bigger than the trains; possibly bigger than Citadel itself. He didn’t know how he knew but he knew. More importantly it filled him a great deal of confusion. Despite everything that he felt programmed to do - everything that Chips would do in a heartbeat and that he would have done in half a heartbeat only a few weeks ago - he resisted the duty that made him naturally inclined to report his growing ideals of insubordination.