This was, without a doubt, the cleanest attic Alter had ever seen. The triangular space was immaculately kept, not one speck of dust could be found on the patchwork wooden floor. Shelving units lined both sides, each filled with neatly placed and organised boxes and files. At the far end of the space an ornate desk was laid out with neat piles of paper, envelopes, quills, ink pots and a closed, unlit lantern. Winslow stood over it, fiddling with the tiny drawers and hatches that coated its surface.
“Surprisingly well maintained.” Riptide commented as he emerged through the hidden door, echoing Alter’s thoughts. “Give me a bed and a couple of skylights and I’d be very happy.”
“It’s a bit chilly, though. I dread to imagine the cost of decent insulation in this place.” Alter joked as he moved further into the attic.
A polite chuckle stuttered its way out of his friend's throat as he moved to the side to allow Boozehound to crouch through. Shrugging off the lack of back-and-forth, Alter sidled over to one of the shelves and selected a suitably chunky wooden box to examine.
“What does the Foreman use this place for?” He called over to Winslow, mild annoyance slipping into his voice at the realisation that his chosen prize was locked.
“Information, mostly.” Winslow spoke absentmindedly as his own search continued. “Blackmail material, gang movements, smuggler’s contracts. The grease that keeps the wheels of the underground turning. I recommend you leave it well enough alone, for the sake of future relations.”
“Alright. How about you, what are you looking for over there?” He asked as he gently replaced the box and motioned the others to leave whatever they were looking at alone too.
“This weapon shipment has only just arrived, therefore the paperwork should still be being dealt with. I had hoped to find something about it here, but…” Winslow’s voice trailed off in disappointment as he replaced the last stack of paperwork.
“But they’re a little further down the bureaucratic path then we’d hoped?” Boozehound suggested as he paced around the room.
“So it would seem. We’ll have to hope that we can find the rest of those weapon’s down in the basement.” There was a poignant thud as the last drawer of the desk was slammed shut and the Sergeant turned, throwing a dull iron key to Alter. “Here, you’ll need this.”
“What about the Foreman himself? This seems more like a safe room dead-end than an escape route. Unless he has some secret trapdoor in here.” Riptide asked.
Winslow smiled knowingly. “Well, then. As an official liaison between the lords of Masserlind and the Known House, I am allowed to know about this place.” He stepped to the side of the desk and reached a hand up to disappear behind a ceiling beam close to the far wall.
“Now, let me show you what I’m not supposed to know.” His wrist shifted as if grasping a hidden lever as his smile broke into a gleeful grin.
For the second time in five minutes invisible mechanics sprung to life and, in a process highly similar to before, a section of the far wall slid to the side. Another, smaller hole was revealed and with a short burst of laughter at the men’s incredulous looks Winslow picked up and lit the lantern before crawling into the shadowy recess.
“Again?” Alter asked in disbelief.
“How many separated homes are in this row? Eight to ten? Who knows how many attics he’s taken over.” Boozehound grumbled as he moved to follow the guard.
His statement was met by the low rumblings of agreement as the three men continued their loft-space odyssey. This was no simple bypass through the wall, the entry led into a tunnel that extended for a number of metres which Alter estimated to be the length of the next house’s allotted space. Fortunately, they emerged into a new attic just before the claustrophobia could set in, and as the men stood and examined their new surroundings they were met with a much more traditional setup. One of dust, cobwebs and abandoned odds and ends that get shoved into such storages only to be forgotten about until their usefulness has long since expired. Items and keepsakes from countless generations of childhoods that the parents just can’t bring themselves to throw away. Boxes, trunks and suitcases that might come in handy one day, you never know. Although, there was a noticeable lack of the traditional heap of tacky Christmas decorations. Winslow was crouched down nearby inspecting the floor.
“See this?” He asked, pointing to a spot of disturbed dust. “There’s footprints moving through here, leading dead ahead.”
“Please tell me they’re not headed straight for the next wall.” Riptide groaned as he massaged his hip, it being the unfortunate recipient of several bludgeoning assaults from the butt of his rifle as they’d crawled through the tunnel.
“It looks that way I’m afraid.” Winslow answered apologetically as he tracked the prints.
“Keep your voices down, and watch your footing. Voices on the floor below.” Boozehound cautioned in a whisper.
The men quieted at the warning, the aforementioned voices were a mixture of masculine and feminine tones, all were calm and conversational, not an immediate concern. Alter spotted a floor hatch and delicately picked his way towards it. The ground around the obvious exit was undisturbed, neither footprints nor handprints marred its grubby surface. Winslow and Boozehound had traced the Foreman’s trail to the next wall and were busying themselves scouring the surroundings for yet another hidden mechanism. Despite this, it was Riptide who made the first solid discovery. HIs attention had been waylaid by one of the footprints halfway through the space. Silently, he ushered Alter over and whispered his findings.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
“This print is wrong, see how there’s a sticking out part on the outstep? That’s a toecap, the man’s backtracked by stepping in the existing footprints, now he’s cutting sideways.” He continued conspiratorially, eyes roving and scanning the floor like an owl on the hunt.
This new, hidden track saw them move to the steep sloping roof, where another tiptoed footprint was nestled between a pair of damp-riddled crates, the man must’ve leapt the distance in order to maintain his illusory path. They beckoned the others over and with the help of the lantern’s light they began to spy other hidden details. There was a hatch embedded into the roof, thin cracks in the tiles betrayed metal hinges that glinted softly in the warm orange light. The catch was located a moment later, and with the opening of the hatch Alter looked out to see rough metal rungs attached to the rain-slick slates that charted a precarious route down to an alleyway between rows of houses and small gardens. The outside was dark and shadow-choked, but even without light he could tell the alley was empty.
“He’s long gone alright. I think we’re done here.” Alter murmured.
No further questions were asked, the men were seemingly content to return from their not-so-wild goose chase. As they untangled themselves from moving back through the tunnel, the lantern was snuffed out and replaced on the desk. Alter lingered for a moment, this room was a treasure trove of intel, but his orders were to keep the House’s business as undisturbed as possible. Never-the-less he opened his mouth to ask whether they could see about securing some of the unsecured documents but his words didn’t immediately arrive. A pair of red flashes lined the corners of his vision, his eyes snapped to his teammates who quickly matched his sudden alertness.
“I think I got the pulse just after you two did.” Riptide spoke, voice calculating. “Which means that was roughly westward.”
“That’s the same bearing the hatch opened out to. What can you tell us about the city in that direction?” Alter turned his gaze to Winslow who seemed a little taken aback by their sudden shift in attitude.
“It’s a pretty rough part of town, a lot of the gangs are born from those side streets. Why?”
The three squad-mates gave each other knowing looks before Alter continued.
“Get back to your men and reinforce the perimeter, Sergeant. We have trouble heading our way from that direction, numbers unknown.” He ordered.
It took Winslow a second to process the instruction, but to his credit he quickly gave a crisp salute and hurried back into the pseudo-kitchen. The command team followed a moment later, emerging back into the room where the rest of the squad stood ready.
“We took the liberty of securing the rest of the floor, no further contacts and no weapons cache, sorry. I’m guessing you got the pulse too?” Whim reported as they arrived.
“That was risky of you to undertake without a medic nearby. But given the circumstances, good job.” Alter half-scolded the man.
“How’re we handling this?” Walross asked, cutting off Whim’s inevitable sarcastic response.
“We get down to the basement asap and sweep it for crates marked with a green lion, then we greet whatever might be coming our way. Anyone who escaped knows we’ve got a significant force here, I doubt they’d be stupid enough to attempt a fight. Here’s hoping it’s just some drunkard who heard his favourite watering hole is being raided and is on his way to give us a piece of their mind.” Alter joked dryly as he made for the stairs.
The squad hurried back through the Last Flourish, passing blasted bannisters, broken bottles and bloody blotches where bodies once basked. A clean-up effort was well underway on the ground floor, the unfortunate souls who met their ends had been removed, the scattered furniture picked up and returned to their rightful positions. The smell lingered though, and likely would for some time. They hustled past the scene and through the doors to the kitchen where another mess was as of yet untouched. Shattered plates and cutlery, half-finished meals and a frankly disproportionate turnip supply littered the floor. A pair of knives and a scattering of bullet casings marked where Whim and Vangroover had held the rear stairs. The body of a young man could still be seen sprawled on the steps, his arms and head lying still on the cold floor. The entrance to the basement was located beneath the stairwell, its door hanging open and inviting.
“Seven and Eight; remain here and make sure no one wanders in through the back. Two has the lead once we’re downstairs.” Alter ordered.
The majority of the squad tramped down the stairs into the darkness beneath the Last Flourish. With no obvious light source, flashlights were produced from packs and attached to gun barrels, and the men advanced. Doorless chambers twisted and turned, rows of bottle racks brimming with wine and liquors, crates of fruits and vegetables, old chairs and tables, and a room filled with enough cheese to earn the title of ‘glorious’ from their resident Frenchman.
There was but one door that blocked their way, situated in the deepest, darkest recesses of a forgotten furniture jungle. Its iron bars that ran across its surface and thick, sturdy lock promised no entry. The key Winslow had given them in the hidden storeroom said otherwise. With what could only be described as an excessive creak, the men crept into the room beyond.
The room was made of featureless stone, but in the centre stood a worthy prize. Worthy, but worryingly slim. A pair of stark wooden crates lay open and empty, loose strands of yellow straw used to pack the interior littered the floor. The discarded lids bore the stencilled mark of a green lion.
“Ach, we’re too late.” Boats hissed.
“They shifted the whole bunch in a couple of hours, we were never making it on time.” Walross tried to sound reassuring but his words seemed hollow as they gently echoed through the space.
“How many of these crates did you see in the camp?” Alter asked quickly.
“Six.” Riptide responded; voice subdued as he kicked at the straw.
“Then I’d say they’ve got more than one safehouse out there. Question is, where?”
Any further theorising was interrupted by their radios leaping into life. The sound crackled as the signal fought its way through the stonework.
“This is … ght … Men approaching …. entrance … whole mob of them …. angry.”
“Time’s up gentlemen, let’s move.” Riptide shouted and the men responded with a surge of motion towards the exit.