“This is not going to be a popular move,” Simon cautioned.

“It is precisely because they are untouchable that we need to do this. They’ve grown too comfortable,” Ultor said.

Polias and Ultor sat in the back of a rusty saloon, carefully watching the entrance of ‘The Whistler’s Jig’. The driver and front passenger, Spes and a supermarket manager who went by the name of Servo, had already gone inside and joined several of Ultor’s agents who had been watching the establishment for weeks now.

‘The Whistler’s Jig’ was a well-known and very popular place of respite for every low-life in The Pits. Its proprietor, an ex-enforcer for a disbanded gang called the Cathay Convicts, had achieved such a reputation among the Pit filth that it was considered highly uncouth and in extremely poor taste for anyone, regardless of allegiance, to start a brawl in his bar. The punishment for such crassness was usually death. It was a common joke that a good mobster protected first his boss, then ‘The Whistler’s Jig’, and thirdly his mother, and that the order of those three was somewhat flexible.

As far as territory lines were concerned, The Whistler’s Jig was in The Hub, and therefore inside The Grey Wolf’s territory. However, even among bitter enemies, there was sometimes a need for delegates and envoys, to apply civilized terms to uncivilized proceedings, to meet on neutral ground. As The Hub was where most of the gangs congregated to pay their tribute offerings to The Grey Wolf, The Whistler’s Jig was the perfect place for small-fries to have a few drinks and forget their allegiances for the duration of their stay in The Hub. Sometimes though, like today, more important representatives would have a need to meet with The Grey Wolf or his subordinates. More important representatives, such as those of Malloy.

“It will make it harder to win over some of the smaller gangs, particularly in this area.”

“A small price to pay. No one is under any illusion as to our goals, and I will not have that image tainted just so that a few sniveling knuckle-draggers will find us agreeable. This little breach of conduct will not change too many minds. If local gangs ally with us then it will be because they have accepted our cause and have seen the wisdom of our approach. That, or they choose to embrace change before it tramples them,” Ultor’s tone suggested he did not particularly expect the former.

“Perhaps.”

“Don’t worry so. We’ll win the battles we need to,” Ultor smiled, “Well, my brother, time waits for no man.”

Ultor left the car in one fluid motion and walked casually to the entrance of the inn.

Polias was less enthusiastic. He rested an elbow on the roof of the vehicle and watched his brother advance in the misty rain before making to follow. Ultor looked like a specter in the haze. Against recommendations, Ultor chose to walk around without anything to cover his now almost entirely grey-white hair. One look at his rheumy, filmed eye and he would be instantly recognized. Simon feared for his brother, thinking him a brash fool for not taking even basic precautions. The only small comfort was that Ultor’s gait no longer betrayed his artificial leg, and the long sleeves of his billowing black trench coat covered his mechanical arm.

Polias caught up with his brother at the entrance. They stood on a porch framed by tacky lights and a neon sign. The entrance display was complete with a crude illustration of the famous whistler himself, staring down a well-worn set of wooden stairs which led to the basement bar. Only the faintest muffle of music and laughter could be heard through the heavy green door, the light above which flickered ominously.

Without a word, Ultor set down the stairwell, his left foot thumping heavily on the tired wood. At the bottom of the stairs Ultor unholstered his semi-automatic pistol, holding it in his good hand.

“Let’s hope Matthew’s info is accurate; I would certainly hate to riddle the wrong men with holes.”

Polias shrugged, “Not going to find an innocent man in here.”

“True, but it might be terribly difficult to push an alliance with Malloy after having slaughtered a group of his delegates,” Ultor put to his brother.

“Best we do this right then. I’ve been working on my aim more than my apologies.”

Ultor smirked, and opened the door.

The interior was large for a Hub pub, and bordering on decadent, perhaps even tasteful. The bar occupied much of the far wall. To the left of the counter was a steel door which led up to some modest, but comfortable, hotel rooms above. Around the outer walls were couches and the odd booth, decked out with plush, comfortable-looking green seating. Dining tables of heavy, polished synthetic wood were set about the vast, open central space, and stools lined the bar. All in all, it looked respectable. Even the clientele had made an effort, with most wearing shirts and shoes, instead of wife-beaters and scowls. Polias had to hand it to John Stettner, he had done an impressive job of imitating class. It was difficult to believe the owner had such a shady past when looking at the fruits of his reformation.

The owner himself was working the bar with three other tenders. He was instantly recognizable, with his broad shoulders, shaven head and down-to-earth rugged, but friendly, features. That, and the fact that he was the only bartender who wasn’t an attractive young woman displaying a generous percentage of cleavage.

‘Ok, so not every element is classy,’ Polias thought.

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John was the first to acknowledge their entrance. The beer-bellied barman nodded to them with a warm smile as the welcome bell chimed and the door creaked shut.

John did not have the fastest reaction time Polias had ever seen. His brow furrowed with a puzzled look, as if he were trying to remember where he recognized the newcomers from, then his smile faded, his eyes widened, and his lips parted. This happened at about the same time that Ultor and Polias raised their guns.

“Don’t you fucking d-,” was all John managed before his voice was drowned out by gunshots.

What followed was mayhem.

The first victim received a bullet in the back of the head. He crashed face-first into a table full of drinks, his blood mixing with a small lagoon of alcohol. The next three or four fell with similar speed and ease. Panic had begun to spread through the room but for the most part people had no idea how to react, or even where to look. Anyone who spotted the vigilantes merely marked themselves as the next target.

It didn’t take too long before the remaining off-duty gangsters managed to fish out weapons. The trouble was, with so many factions congregating in the bar, nobody really knew who to blame for breaking the peace. Men who had been drinking together not moments before now butchered one another openly. Open hostility was the order of the day now that the truce had been broken. Old feuds were rekindled.

The chaos allowed the brothers to methodically pick off their marks. They specifically anyone with any kind of allegiance to The Grey Wolf. Many others were unfortunately caught in the crossfire, but Ultor hoped the skewed numbers would still send a message.

The Vigilantes were not aiming for out and out slaughter. In fact, moments after the shooting had started, Iustus, who had been strategically sat at the bar, leaned across the counter and cudgeled John, rendering him unconscious. Anthony then quickly dove over the polished surface and stooped behind the crude barrier, motioning to the three girls to get down. The deaths of John and his staff would serve no purpose to the cause, after all.

Malloy’s men, who had been relaxing in a booth, began to scramble for their weapons early in the firefight, but they were soon halted by Spes and Servo standing over them, guns at the ready.

“I wouldn’t if I were you. Don’t worry, this isn’t your day to die. Ultor would simply like a word with you and thought you might appreciate a bit of a show beforehand. We’re only after The Grey Wolf’s men. No need for more people than necessary to die here today, don’t you think?” Spes had developed a lot since his first assignment, and spoke now with the confidence of a true professional.

After a moment’s consideration, Malloy’s men decided that this was not a conflict they need involve themselves in. They slowly placed their hands on the table. They seemed to be following the lead of a young gentleman in a grey suit and fedora combo, who looked somewhat amused by the calamity unfolding. Once Spes and Servo relaxed a little, the man carried on drinking.

Elsewhere, more of Ultor’s men were emerging to suppress those who would otherwise unnecessarily mark themselves as targets. Others joined in the assassination of Lupus’ men.

One man came bounding down the backstairs, a revolver in hand, only to meet his end at the hands of Libertas, who had squeezed off a shot which crumpled the man’s nose and ricocheted off the stair behind. A gaping, smoldering hole was left in the bullet’s wake, a wisp of smoke curling up from the cavernous exit wound. The man fell backwards violently. The door wedged open by his limp arm.

Another customer brought about his own demise as he sought sanctuary behind the bar. Diving over, and drawing a knife from his belt, he was met with a rain of bullets as Iustus furiously panic-fired at his visitor, riddling him with holes.

With the rest of the establishment under control, Ultor and Polias were free to move through the room and casually pick off the remnants. The whole operation seemed to take little more than a minute, so ruthless were they in their efficiency. A score of people lost their lives that evening, in just a short few moments.

The Whistler’s Jig had fallen deadly silent. Those who were not dead were awaiting judgment with forced bravery. Ultor’s men wore the smiles of conquerors, terrifying in their ability to remain un-phased throughout the devastation.

Ultor dispatched the wounded himself. He rolled over one man who had been seated at a table in the middle of the room, a Grey Wolf soldier. The man was clutching his neck where a bullet had nicked his jugular. He choked and spluttered on his own blood. It pooled in his mouth and flowing down his chin and cheeks. He made a show of spitting at Ultor, but the blood merely flecked his already stained white shirt.

Ultor sighed, and stamped half-heartedly on the man’s upturned face, submerging his terror stricken eyes into the depths of his skull.

“I need to work on my aim,” he muttered idly.

He did a quick lap of the bar-turned-slaughterhouse only stopping when he was satisfied that all threats had been removed.

“It displeases me to have to kill in such a way. It is tragic to pull a trigger and extinguish a life with such ease and detachment. It’s a pity that circumstances sometimes demand such an impersonal approach.”

Liberating a chair from its corpse owner, Ultor took a seat in front of Malloy’s men.

“I’m sure you have heard of me and my war against The Wolf. As you can see, the rumours are not unfounded. I will go to great lengths to see Lucus Asher deposed. To that end, you can tell Malloy that I have a business proposition for him. I wish to discuss a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

“And why exactly should Malloy trust you?’ it was the fedora-wearing gentlemen who spoke, in a thick sing-song accent where the words bled into one another.

“Oh, he definitely shouldn’t. Not in the long run, at least. For the time being, though, we have a similar goal, and we both have much to gain from an alliance. We may be ‘the new kids on the block’, relatively speaking, but I think my reputation already begins to carry weight, and I think you can see that I am an upfront and direct man.”

Several of the men snorted, which Ultor took to mean agreement.

He continued, “Malloy knows full well that one day I will come after him too, but, until that time, I think he knows that we can be useful to one another. As long as The Grey Wolf is alive Malloy knows that I cannot afford to stretch myself too thin. I am sure he has figured out that it is not in my interest to have a war on two fronts. Simply put, I can’t afford to invite an additional threat.”

“So he’s just supposed to hang tight and wait for you to stab him in the back?”

“We both know we will betray each other; it’s all just going to come down to getting the timing right. The question is, does Malloy think he’s cleverer than me?”

Malloy’s man chuckled, “You’ve got a good read on him, I’ll give you that. The boss does like to show everyone what a smart fucker he is,” he sipped his bourbon, “So you get left alone to deal with The Wolf without us nipping at your heels. Fair enough, I get that. What I don’t get though, is what exactly you’re offering Malloy.”

“Something the syndicates haven’t seen for a long time,” Ultor looked around, his very body language patronizing, “someone who gets things done.”