“The Great Game Rule #3: Anyone who acquires ten cards outside of Drop Night becomes a deckbearer and is bound by the rules of the Great Game.”

Wolfe pulled into the parking lot at Dock Eighty-Seven with his dented but still functional car and turned his engine off. He waited for a moment in his car, remembering what it was like to be young and on a product run. It was nerve-wracking. He could see a couple guys out near some shipping containers, and he didn’t want to spook them into using their guns.

Besides, Wolfe was still quite excited that he was a deckbearer, and, thanks to the few Cobra jerks he’d just made the acquaintance of, already level three. Excitement outside of a fight was an unusual sentiment for Wolfe, and he treasured it, trying to hold on.

Although said excitement was muted a bit since the rain had been soaking Wolfe through his shot-out window the whole time he had been driving, and his car had a few too many bullet holes for his taste now.

It’s gangland chic, Wolfe thought to himself with a snort, surprised by his own whimsy.

He glanced around. Dock Eighty-Seven was one of the many, many docks of Noimoire, which had both lake- and river-side docks. This one was lakeside, and had a medium-large ship at port—a smaller container carrier, with a pile of unloaded shipping crates on top, and a few large cranes near the ship.

A couple of the containers had been unloaded onto the dock and left there, and a couple cars were parked around the metal shipping crates. Wolfe was only about two hundred feet from the set up, and finally, a few men left the five Wolfe could see and approached.

He grabbed his pistol, stuck it in his belt, and got out of his own busted car just as the Grimm family men arrived at the vehicle, keeping his own empty hands visible. Wolfe didn’t recognize the first guy coming up, a tall, wiry man with coffee-colored skin and hazel eyes to match Wolfe’s own. Guy moved like he could fight, however, and had his hand on his pistol at his belt, which Wolfe approved of.

The second guy, however, Wolfe knew. “Hey, George, everything going alright? The boss sent me to oversee everything.”

George was a long-time member of their organization, and his loyalty to the boss was unquestioned. But over the years he had gone from a tan, hulking bruiser to a grossly overweight pasty dude. He was out in the rain sporting sweatpants and a wife beater, despite the drizzle still going on.

Wolfe frowned—guys with moobs shouldn’t wear wife beaters. Or lead runs for the family, no matter how loyal they were.

Although he was legitimately impressed by George’s ability to ignore the wet, cold weather.

I wonder if his fat insulates him? Wolfe thought with genuine curiosity. He was uncomfortably cold, himself, but didn’t allow himself to shiver or otherwise acknowledge his cold in front of his compatriots. His reputation for ignoring pain and discomfort kept him from a lot of actual fights.

The flash of headlights cut off any answer. A car turned onto the pier-side road, weaving drunkenly. Probably sad they didn’t get cards, Wolfe thought with a glance over his shoulder to make sure it wasn’t a threat. It passed the dock without slowing down.

Once the car was gone, George responded. “It’s good you’re here, Wolfe, but there’s no need. Everything’s quiet.”

“Hmm,” Wolfe responded, his eyes scanning the night despite the reassuring words. There was little light, only that provided by the streetlamps on the side of the road, plus a tiny bit through the drizzle from the city itself, which he could see along the shore.

George hooked his thumb back at some men working on the shipping containers. “Our boys are over there right now, getting the product. We’re mantled.”

Wolfe chuckled at the common expression, which referenced a deckbearer that was wearing a mantle—they were almost always far stronger than one that hadn’t gotten a mantle on yet.

George cocked an eyebrow and scratched at his gross chest, but didn’t pursue when Wolfe declined to comment.

“Who’s the new guy?” Wolfe asked with a jut of his chin at the man next to them.

“I’m Derek.” The man held his hand out. “Derek Washington. I carry a gun for the family. Really glad to meet you, Wolfe. Everyone around here really talks you up.”

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Wolfe just glanced at the offered hand, then raised his own eyebrow.

“He’s new,” George explained. “Hired to replace some of the men we lost with Johnny.”

Wolfe nodded and started to hold his hand out in turn, but a flash of headlights pulled his attention away.

Another car turned onto the pier road, driving slowly. Then another. And another.

Wolfe’s hand dropped to his Edge pistol almost automatically. He turned to get a better view of the cars.

In the dim light of the street lamps, through the misty air and drizzle, he couldn’t make out much, not even the exact color of the cars, although they were all darker. But a metallic glint of light where there shouldn’t be any metal, in a back driver-side window, warned him.

“Down!” Wolfe screamed, throwing himself to the rain-slicked concrete of the parking lot, grunting as he jostled his already-bruised-and-shot shoulder.

Derek followed him half-a-second later, leaving George standing.

From the back window a series of lights flashed, and loud bangs rang out across the docks—the sound of an automatic rifle. Wolfe stared in shock. Where the fuck are people getting military rifles?

Two large red holes appeared on George’s chest, and his back exploded in a shower of gore. He slammed into the ground with finality, almost certainly dead from hydrostatic shock before he hit—and if not, he would be in seconds as blood poured from the massive wounds in his back.

Hollow-point rounds? This gets better and better.

Even through the rain, the coppery smell of blood was over-powering, and a shit-stink of death joined it.

Wolfe rolled to his back across the wet asphalt and put his hand on his chest as the three cars turned into the parking lot. He had three cards—a Return to the Pit, an Escaped Damned, and a Tormentor Imp. And he always had Cereboo available.

No mantle in my first pull again. Of course.

Wolfe was very briefly tempted to put the Escaped Damned into play, as it had powerful defense and health stats for a tier-one card.

Escaped Damned

Common Infernal/Undead Creature Tier-1

1 Infernal Power

Health: 10

Attack: 0

Magical Attack: 3

Defense: 8

Magical Defense: 1

“A soul that somehow escaped the Infernal realm and wants to remain free”

Cereboo was treated as Infernal for purposes of resistances, which meant he was fifty-percent stronger against Mortal… including actual mortals and their guns. So Wolfe ignored his weaker cards and tossed Cereboo into the fray once again. The red light left his card and formed into his dog, who ran toward the Cobras gleefully.

As soon as Cereboo was in play, Wolfe sprang to his feet. “Get to the crates!” he screamed at Derek, who followed him almost step-for-step. Wolfe kept his own car between himself and his enemies as he moved, making sure he had cover.

More gunfire, and the sound of exploding glass, caused him to grit his teeth. He was pretty sure his car’s repair bill was gonna rival the national debt.

He reached the containers and slid to a halt half-behind one. He saw three more of the Grimm family men and another corpse—the head was blown through.

Two guys killed in a spray-and-pray, in the darkness, in the rain? And I didn’t get my mantle? The gods must really hate me.

Derek slid in next to Wolfe and then scrambled around to the other side of the container, his gun out.

Wolfe fired blindly in the direction of the enemy cars, just to keep their heads down, but a round of cussing told him that not all his luck was bad. It was followed by a combat log showing four damage against an ‘unknown enemy thug.’

Derek fired from his side of the big shipping crate, but the other three were just hiding.

Wolfe glanced over at them. “Fight back, you dumb fucks!”

“They have a gun!” one called back.

Wolfe pointed his pistol around the corner again and fired another couple rounds off. “You idiots, we all have guns!”

Three howls, that sounded suspiciously of glee to Wolfe, rang out from the darkness, and someone yelled, “Dogs!”

A series of screams sounded, and Wolfe got another combat notification that he summarized as Cereboo turning someone into an involuntary chew toy. These notifications are really helping out, since I can’t see a gods’ damned thing out there in the dark and rain.

His remaining cards became available again, and he threw an Escaped Damned out. A screaming soul, yellow, with red fire around it, appeared a few feet from him.

The Escaped Damned cards were extremely strong on the defense, but weak on the attack.

And I didn’t bring a spare magazine, Wolfe thought to himself, desperately wishing he had access to his car glove box and trying to remember how many rounds he had fired. He couldn’t, although he usually fired three-round bursts to keep people’s heads down… so probably eight shots left. Probably.

He turned around the corner of the metal shipping crate he was still crouched behind.

Three men ran up fast, one carrying the automatic rifle. They were close enough that Wolfe could easily make them out in the dark. He casually pointed his pistol and shot the guy with the big gun in the head. He got a notification of another thirty-three experience and level four.

I really should level. I could have used being stronger right about now. Although, I hate the idea of not sitting down and carefully planning my growth as a deckbearer.

The other two men leapt to the sides, and one pulled a grenade from his jacket and tossed it toward Wolfe, rolling it behind the protection of the crates. “Die, fucker!”

Wolfe’s eyes involuntarily widened. A grenade? In a gang war?

Wolfe was so shocked by the incongruity of the weapons in this fight that he almost didn’t act, but his instincts carried him through. He leapt behind his Escaped Damned just as the grenade went off, praying his summoned creature would be enough.