It didn’t feel right to be facing the opposite direction when there was yet another door to be opened. However, pragmatism had forced him to the rear after his sudden evasive dive. His right shoulder ached and throbbed as he tested the limits of its mobility. Being a perennial left-hander, his ability to hold the weight of his rifle and squeeze the trigger wasn’t compromised. But his right hand was forced to keep the loosest hold possible on the foregrip in order to take minimal weight, mitigating the waves of pain that rippled across his shoulder and into his neck. His precision aim was also compromised, the adjustments needed for accurate fire were possible under duress but Alter would have to twist his entire torso to reduce further aggravation. It wouldn’t surprise him if he had been reduced to his sidearm by the time they made it to the top floor.

It was fair to say that his current position facing back along the corridor from where they’d begun their clearance operation felt a little obsolete. The fact that, should he raise his weapon, his sights would be filled by their allies holding the stairwell was certainly awkward to consider. Winslow and his Houseguard regarded the squad with both curiosity, concern, and the slightest hint of bemusement. Doubtless their tactics and equipment must seem quite alien, though whether they perceived this unknown method as a help or hindrance, Alter could not tell, their expressions were disguised behind their helmets. The bare-headed Winslow, however, wore his opinion as if it were heraldry. He stood front and centre, arms folded, eyes narrow as they swept across his surroundings like CCTV cameras. The faintest glimmer of white teeth betrayed the fact that his lips were a hair's breadth away from curling into a doglike snarl. He emitted an aura that said he was ready to rip a man in half, Alter would happily bet half his life savings that the man volunteered at the local orphanage every other day.

As for the rest of the squad, Alter had relinquished leadership of the fireteam to Walross for the time being. With the prospect of both teams breaching into a pair of much larger rooms, one which having known occupiers, the use of flashbangs had been approved. Behind him, the men from both teams settled into position with the only exception being Whim who was charged with guarding the corridor in the opposite direction. Both Riptide and Walross slowly fished the forest green painted grenades from their chest pouches while Boats and Vangroover placed hands on handles. Riptide began a silent countdown and with fluid, practised motions pins were pulled, both doors were cracked open, and the tiny payloads were underarm tossed through the gaps before they closed again. Three seconds of silent yet eager anticipation hung in the air, followed by hollow, crackling bangs and a strange fizzing sound. A trio of resounding heartbeats later the entrances were thrown open amidst the surprised, pained shouts from the unwitting occupants as both teams raced into the casino and party chambers.

Shouting and cursing immediately mixed with the roar of Riptide barking orders to surrender in the further room. However, there was precious little to go on from the casino other than a soft call of ‘Hands’ from Walross the moment after he entered. Curiously, it sounded more like a question than an instruction. His moment of puzzlement was shattered by a gunshot and the clattering of feet.

“We’ve got runners at the far door!” Riptide shouted from inside.

Alter immediately echoed the information, causing Winslow to perk up and order his men to ready their weapons. A tap on his shoulder from Pavejack signalled him to move into the casino and he responded, momentarily forgetting the pain as he swung into the room. He took a pair of sideways steps once through and paused to take in the scene.

The casino was many things one would expect from such a designation. It was ornate, it was lavish, gaudy, opulent, maximalist, an assault on good interior design sensibilities. The works. All the walls were covered in a layer of thick, dark purple drapes laced with golden pattern work. He wasn’t sure how they’d managed it but his feet sank even deeper into the carpet than before. The tabletops of the various games on offer appeared to be solid marble, ripples of dark green and black studded by small gleaming dots that twinkled like starlight. The ceiling was dominated by a pair of large, ornate chandeliers whose tens of candles gleamed against their polished brass frames. Every chair a throne, every cup a grail, every dream a fairytale. He hated it.

“Sir? Can you hear me?” Walross asked gently, drawing Alter’s eyes to the room’s formerly only occupier.

A grey-haired man, short and slight, sat with shoulders slumped forward at one of the card-strewn tables. His hands were folded neatly in his lap, as if he were waiting politely for the next round to begin. Or for the next bus, if that was the case then it was running pretty late. Slowly, with great awkwardness the old man shifted his head towards Walross. Eyes that would’ve once been brilliant sapphire lenses were clearly clouded with age. His mouth moved, a voice so soft and quiet crept into their eardrums like a thief in the night.

“Ahma win’n?” Was the most accurate interpretation Alter could manage.

Seemingly taken aback by the question, Walross stepped forwards and examined the playing surface. “I … don’t think so, sir.” He turned to the man, putting on his best, most comforting smile. “Come on now, we need to get you out of here.”

With gentle coaxing and levering, he got the man out of his chair and began steering him back towards where they’d entered from. The old gambler stared up at him all the way, a gaze somewhere between lost puppy and confused infant.

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“Ma Win’n?” He kept asking, or was he making a demand, it was impossible to tell.

“This is why I could never stand these places.” Walross remarked to Alter as he guided the man through the door, Alter murmured a wordless agreement, the poor soul should never have been allowed near a punter’s perch.

“These cards are certainly different.” Pavejack remarked from a nearby table, picking up one and presenting it with a flourish. “I summon! Weird looking yellow duck on a toadstool! ... Of fours!”

Alter fought the urge to smile and roll his eyes, instead fixing the young man with a glare. “And is the duck going to help us clear the rest of this building?” He asked coldly.

Pavejack flushed red in embarrassment and hurriedly deposited the four of smug-looking ducks back on the table. It seemed the casino was well soundproofed but through the open door Alter could hear that the sounds of conflict had transferred from the party room to the lobby. Walross and the gambler stood a couple of paces beyond the threshold, the former wearing a heavy scowl as he observed the stairwell. Poking his head out, Alter could see Winslow forcing a small group of unknown men down the stairs at sword point.

“Bastards.” Walross growled.

“Wherm’ win’n?” The gambler insisted, tugging at the German’s sleeve in frantic slow-motion.

“I don’t–” Walross snapped, his voice climbing in volume before he caught himself and sighed. “I don’t know, sir. Look, I’m going to leave you with the guard here, okay? He’ll make sure you get home safely.” He cooed placatively as the angry protests of the unknown men faded and a member of the Houseguard stepped forward and took the old boy’s arm before leading him away.

Relieved of their burden, they stepped back into the casino to see Boats moving towards them from the opposite side.

“Looks like the blokes that made a break for it picked up a few extras from the remaining rooms, there’s a couple of open doors out there.” He jabbed his thumb back in the direction he’d come from.

“That makes our lives easier.” Alter smiled thinly. “Seven, status of Team Two?” He called out.

“Three in custody.” Whim responded from outside. “They’re resisting removal, though. We’re waiting on the guard to be freed up for collection.

“Noted, Team One is moving on.”

Clearing the remaining space on the first floor was blessedly simple. The four remaining chambers were all empty, their occupants taking their chance in the miniature stampede that Winslow’s men immediately put paid to. As for Team Two, one of their latest captives was another of the agitators, bringing their total of high value individuals to two, not counting the one Walross had gunned down earlier. For the sake of his peace of mind, Alter ordered the floor swept again, an instruction which was quickly completed with no result beyond some good-natured grumbling. As they reconvened at the stairwell, Winslow popped his head up between the bannisters and reported that there was a group of men attempting to scale down the outside of the building that demanded his attention. Once the squad had recovered from his inadvertent murderous jack-in-the-box announcement, they began their slow upward progress to the top floor.

The spiral between the upper floors was different from the lower. Its individual steps were shallower and more frequent, the angle of spiral sharper. They moved in something akin to a combat shuffle, forming a combined shape of a hairy caterpillar if its hair was made of gun. Alter’s shoulder was doing a little better, feeling a little stronger. He no longer worried about the possibility of being a liability in a firefight but he still took a place near the back of their formation, allowing him to keep his weapon low. All was smooth as they climbed, there was no ambush forthcoming. Their progress was halted, however, at the top of the stairs.

“Starting to get real tired of these things.” Riptide murmured from the front as he came to a halt, eyes roving something hidden around the corner in disapproval.

It was another door, blunt and imposing. Heavy. Featureless. The kind of door that makes a weak-willed person walk away without even knocking. A swift push on its staunchly defiant surface once they had re-organised themselves yielded the expected result of it being locked. There was no visible keyhole, no ‘ring bell for service’ sign, not even a conveniently placed not-so-secret secret lever. Many a puzzled look was passed between them as they scrutinised the latest obstacle.

“The way I see it, we’ve got two options.” Boozehound piped up. “Either we go outside and find a way to climb up and enter through the terrace. Or we have to blow this thing open, which from the look of it is going to take quite the boom.”

“Well, we’re not wasting an anti-tank rocket on it, and as we’re limited to our Warforce loadouts none of you should have C4 due to the fact that it was bugged.” Alter began. “So, my question is, which one of you chuckleheads brought the stuff anyway?”

The seven men glanced at each other sheepishly before Boozehound raised a hand. Alter looked at him, mouth open in disbelief.

“Really? You wasted a medic’s backpack slot on explosives?”

“What, you’re going to complain?” Boozehound chuckled as he began rifling through his pack.

“I’m just … urgh, good job.”

The rest of the squad backed away to a reasonably safe distance as Boozehound and their actual designated explosives carrier, Whim, set to work dosing out the hazardous, grey putty-like material and attaching it to the door. Like a pair of giddy school children, they practically skipped down the stairs to join them, remote trigger in hand.

“Hold on, are we certain this isn’t going to set fire to the building?” Walross asked.

“Excellent question.” Whim answered with a wild grin. “Let's find out!”

Click.

Boom.