It was not the most glamorous of alleyways to lurk in. The fact that it was uncomfortably dark was to be expected, fair enough, he accepted that. Strangely, it was the dripping that was getting to him, becoming akin to nails on a chalkboard as he peered out into the street. Rain clouds had been blown across Jestriff through the early evening, leaving the city glistening with shallow puddles and a million droplets across myriad window panes. It made for a peaceful and pleasant late evening stroll but now the leaky guttering apparent throughout had worn through this picturesque veneer. Once their guide, a Houseguard Sergeant by the name of Winslow, had deposited them at their shadowy destination then they were left to sit, ponder, and be driven mad by the ghost of the rain.

As anticipated, Oliver’s investigation had borne the foreseen fruit. A trade caravan had passed by the immigrant camp a couple of hours previous. One of the wagons in the line had stopped, citing a loose wheel, grinding to a halt around the corner from the weapons tent. Its contents were listed as luxury goods bound for the Last Flourish, and its cargo load mysteriously doubled during the repair. With all required inspections having already been made, and all questions faithfully answered before the wagon even made it to the gate, it was let straight through. With the operation green-lit, the squad had squeezed back into their arrival uniforms, still dirt encrusted from their week on the road. In order to blend in a little better, Morgan was able to produce eight dark grey cloaks that served to disguise the shapes of their weapons. No hoods though, there would be no jedi cosplaying today.

The level of foot traffic had dropped significantly over the last twenty minutes. They had no direct view of the Last Flourish, however the alleyway intersected quite neatly with the side road that led to the rear of the building and its accompanying stables. Team One, consisting of himself, Boats, Pavejack and Walross, would use the front door. A pair of senior city clerks with matching innocent vices had been willingly employed to make a late visit to their favourite destination, with instructions to keep the doormen and upstairs watchers distracted while the team crossed the open space. Their carriages would deposit them at the front door before moving to the rear, allowing Team Two, their hidden passengers, close access to the back door. It wouldn’t be long before they arrived, never mind a knife you could cut through the tension with a balloon animal.

“I’ve been thinking.” Pavejack spoke up somewhere behind him.

“Ooh careful, don’t hurt yourself.” Alter quipped, anxious humour temporarily controlling his tongue.

“Are these people going to realise what’s actually happening when we bust in there? None of them will have seen a gun before. How’re we going to scare them into submission when all they’ll see is a group of strangely dressed lunatics with some weird metal pipes?” Pavejack questioned.

Alter hummed to himself; it was a fair point.

“The first man that talks back gets folded, easy. Hard to play the big man when the walls are freshly painted.” Boats’ voice was deadpan but there was not a single hint of sarcasm to be found in his quietly confident rumble.

“Why is blood, violence and death always your first suggestion?” Walross shot back, the increasingly familiar crackle of disgust was plain to hear.

“Settle down.” Alter ordered before the argument could truly begin. “Anyone inside that building is to be considered a possible key witness and are to be harmed as a last resort only. If it looks like the patrons are about to draw steel then we can murder a conveniently placed vase or perhaps a bottle or two. Just remember that we want the upstairs to be as blissfully unaware as possible, so gunshots are never your first option. Clear?”

“Crystal.” Boats’ responded coolly.

“Excellent. Alright, be ready to move.” Alter readied himself as twin carriages wheeled into view, turning away to head into the rear yard. “How’s our backup looking?”

Walross took a couple of steps backwards deeper into the alley and peered around a corner. “Still briefing. They look almost good to go, though.”

Hidden around said corner in a forgotten square, the chosen members of Oliver’s Houseguard had been assembled and were only now learning why they’d been dragged from their rooms. Their leader, Winslow, was an experienced swordsman in his early thirties. His head was close shaven, black hairs so short they were more akin to a shadow. His face was unfortunately divided by a vicious, jagged scar that made him look so unapologetically villainous that it forced you to think that he must be ironically good. When asked whether he was reliable enough to be involved in the build-up, Oliver had explained that it was impossible that he might’ve turned against them. If his uncle had made him an offer then he would’ve immediately marched into the young lord’s office to see if he would give a more lucrative counter-offer.

Raised voices emanating from the street prompted Alter to give the order to begin. In close formation they moved into the lamplight, their footfalls punctuated by the splashing of water trapped between the cobblestones. The Last Flourish stood before them; its appearance was exactly as described. He glanced upward, sure enough a pair of young men leaned casually against the balustrade of the terrace, their attention ensnared by the scene playing out below them. It seemed that the clerks had taken to their given role with much unexpected enthusiasm and gusto. Their method of choice being to engage in a full-scale shouting match from the moment they exited their transportation. The point of contention had started with a disagreement on what to do about the immigration camp. However, as the team advanced it degraded into a boxing match punctuated by semi-coherent bellowing concerning Clerk A’s wine addiction versus Clerk B’s bedroom activities. Or lack thereof. Alter wasn’t sure, it was hard to keep up with the rather fluid narrative. Either way it was quite the scene and the bouncers agreed, moving away from their posts in order to break up the fighting men.

Stolen novel; please report.

There was neither challenge nor contest as Alter pushed open the first set of double doors. A small, square coatroom greeted them, with an identical pair of doors at the opposite end and two walls covered in expensive looking outdoor clothing. The team paused as the exterior doors softly closed without a sound, with a quick nod they pulled their rifles out from under their cloaks.

“I feel like I should be making a COD reference.” Pavejack whispered as he struggled to bring his machine gun up in the tight space.

“Please don’t.” Alter whispered in return, knowing full well what the teenager was referring to.

All weapons ready, the second set of doors were pushed open and the men stepped through into perfumed air, plush carpets and spotlessly polished woodwork. The lion’s share of the ground floor was given over to large, high-backed armchairs that rose from the blue carpet sea like volcanic islands. It being late in the day, only a handful of these fireside thrones were occupied by suitably smug looking men sporting enough jewellery to completely shut down security at a medium-sized airport. Weaving between the seating, trays in hand, were a trio of young women with strikingly good looks, wearing outfits that would be borderline scandalous to the local man but in the team’s more modern eyes it was typical Saturday night out-on-the-town attire. A couple of people looked their way but, much to Alter’s appreciation, their curiosity was powerless before the temptation of their cups. It was the lone barman that kept his attention on them as they moved further into the room, one eyebrow raised and wearing the most ‘who are these jokers?’ expression he’d ever seen. They weren’t being immediately identified as a threat. Excellent. He motioned Pavejack and Walross to take positions near the ornate spiral staircase off to one side before sidling up to the bar.

“Welcome to the Last Flourish, gentlemen. How can I help you tonight?” The barman asked slowly, measuring them. He was keeping both hands palm-down on the bar top but one of them was slowly and deliberately inching backward.

“We were just hoping to get a few drinks before turning in for the night.” Alter lied reassuringly.

“Have you ever visited our establishment before?” The barman asked, smiling testily. The creeping hand was now fully out of sight behind the bar.

“I can’t say we have.” Alter admitted as he matched the man’s expression.

“Then I should tell you that–” The barman was cut short by a muffled scream of surprise that emanated from behind the door beyond him. His head whirled around as his body tensed. More noises, that of raised voices and clattering, smashing plates could be heard getting closer. He began to reach for a pull cord that ran up the back wall and disappeared into the ceiling.

“I wouldn’t try that.” Alter warned, guessing its purpose was to warn the upper floors to trouble. The barman’s head spun back to be greeted by the barrel of Alter’s rifle. “This weapon is unknown to you, but make no mistake it will end your life before you can utter one singular syllable. Don’t. Move.” He growled.

Before any further threats could be made, the kitchen’s serving door burst open as a half dozen cooking staff were bundled through by Riptide and Boozehound. There was a moment of surreal silence as the patrons and waitresses turned, mouths agape at what they were seeing.

“Rear secure, boss. Seven and Eight have the back stairs on lockdown.” Riptide called over jovially as he poked his charges into a corner.

Finally, one of the whiskey-laden drinkers regained enough composure to find his voice. “What the blazes is going on here!?” He shouted.

This sudden exclamation was the catalyst needed to break the spell and spur the room into sudden and violent action. Chairs were toppled backwards as a handful of patrons sprang to their feet, two of the young women shrieked and retreated towards another corner while the third pulled a long, slim knife from a concealed sheath and advanced towards Riptide. The barman too pulled his own blade and threw himself forwards, hurdling the bar and swinging wildly at Alter’s head. Alter stumbled backward with a curse and flicked his safety catch to off. Somewhere above them, the incessant chiming of a bell caused the sound of heavy, urgent footsteps to thud audible paths in various directions. The resounding bark of a gunshot from behind him split the air and the barman lurched backwards, blood spurting from his shoulder as the short sword that had been concealed behind the bar clattered to the floor. A quick burst of shots from the LMG caused another man with a sword drawn to tumble limply down the spiral stairs. The knife-wielding woman stabbed at Riptide with a flurry of well-rehearsed strikes, causing the Belgian to block frantically with the side of his rifle before Boozehound sprung forward and drove the butt of his own weapon into her temple. She toppled downward, unconscious. More screaming. One of the patrons sprinted past the chaos only to be knocked out by the front doors flying open as the bouncers charged into the room, weapons ready. More shots from the back of the building sang a deadly hymn. Moving, shrieking, swinging, crying, clattering, sprinting, falling, flying.

Madness had well and truly descended within the Last Flourish.