Talk to nicely.

March 17th, 1998.

There was an energy in the foggy air that morning.

The St. Patrick's Day Parade would begin in a few hours,

just outside the Catholic Cathedral in the borough of Little Dublin,

before moving through the Irish neighborhood, then across the Odin's Gate Bridge,

to Grimbe's corporate downtown.

Cops and volunteers had shown up before dawn to close off streets with traffic cones and erect bleachers and a sound system along the main thoroughfare.

Food trucks were already rolling in and setting up,

and the smells of hot coffee and diesel were strong in the air.

But beyond the usual stress and excitement of the annual event,

there was an added tension to the morning preparations.

You see, a great deal of the volunteers that were out and about, with their

reflective vests on and paper cups of whiskyed coffee in their hands, also had pistols, or even

submachine guns, strapped just out of sight. And on the rooftops all along the main road,

those manning the confetti cannons were armed

with more than glittery shamrock confetti in vibrant shades of green, white, and orange.

Through binoculars or the scopes on their sniper rifles, the gangsters watched the entrances

and exits of the shops and homes and the church, looking for any sign of their

new number one enemy, who had, less than 24 hours earlier, been their chief assassin.

News had spread fast through the ranks of Celtic cartel.

Cormack was dead. Smasher was responsible. Now, the silent giant on the prowl.

...