raid raid raid!

Quentin knelt down and unrolled a battered city map across the floor. A few of the leaders gathered closer, crouching around him.

"We have a potential target," Quentin said. He tapped a spot near the edge of Black Mask's territory. "There's a safe house here. Used mainly to scrub serial numbers off guns and to scrub parts before they move them deeper into the city. We hit it, we get a clean supply. Enough to defend ourselves."

Micah leaned in. "How many people inside? That's about right on the border where we operate."

"Usually four to six, depending on the day. They're relaxed most nights. No heavy security. It's more of a workshop than a fortress. They keep the real heat closed to home." Quentin replied

Shay crossed her arms. "Still, they'll be armed."

Quentin nodded. "Exactly. That's why we don't give them a fair fight. We hit them fast, when they least expect it."

He pointed to the surrounding streets. "There's two entrances. Front door, and a loading dock in the back. Small alley. We split into two teams. One takes the front, forces them to react. Second team comes through the back."

"What about lookouts?" another man asked from the edge of the group.

"We already have two spotters set up nearby watching the borders we can have them switch to watching the warehouse easily. They'll tell us if anything changes before we move in."

Shay frowned. "And once we have the guns?"

"We get out fast," Quentin said. "No heroics. Grab everything we can carry and fall back to pre-arranged drop points. We'll stash the weapons in different locations. No big stockpile that could get hit later."

Micah looked at him, face hard. "You leading the charge?"

Quentin's eyes glinted. "I'll be there. Don't worry I could never imagine missing out on all of this fun."

The leaders exchanged glances. Slowly, they nodded.

"Gear up," Quentin said, rolling up the map, "We move tomorrow night."

***

The next morning was spent preparing.

Quentin divided everyone into small teams and sent them out to stake the place out. They worked quietly, posting up in corners, pretending to panhandle, keeping to the shadows. By the time the sun dipped low, they had a full picture: two men guarding the back, smoking and talking shit to each other. Another two lounging by the front. Inside? Hard to tell. Probably two more, based on the food runs and shifts they tracked.

At nightfall, they gathered in the broken-down warehouse again. Quentin laid it out one last time.

"We will have two teams for this raid. Front team you make the noise. You pull them to you. It has to be convincing, but not enough to make it look like a warzone. Last thing we want is Batman dropping in." His voice was low, serious. "We hit them hard, but we stay small we must contain the noise to the warehouse, the second they get too suspicious a army will descend upon us closely followed by the bat."

He turned to the back team, his hand resting casually on the pistol tucked into his jacket. "We'll hit the rear entrance. Take out the guards, get inside, and start moving the crates. Remember we aren't only going for guns, we have to grab the ammo too."

The gathered group nodded, "What about a small fire and some broken glass?" One of the front group asked

Quentin thought for a moment, "it's a good idea, make it seem like kids messing around breaking shit. Make sure to stick around long enough for some of them to investigate."

***

The night air was cool and damp as they moved into position. Quentin crouched with his team in the alley behind the safehouse. Up front, he could already hear the beginning of the distraction a loud crash of a bottle, shouting, the telltale whump of a Molotov igniting on the sidewalk. Flames licked at the curbside, small but bright enough to pull attention.

Inside the safehouse, the shuffling sound of shoes on floor could be heard. Quentin heard barked orders through the walls.

"Get out there! Handle it!"

Perfect.

Quentin slid his mask on and crept forward. The two guards at the back door were laughing about the commotion when he struck. Moving like a ghost, he grabbed the first one around the throat, yanking him into the shadows. The man barely made a noise before he hit the ground, unconscious. The second turned, mouth opening to shout, but Quentin was already on him. A sharp jab to the throat, a crack of knuckles against temple, and the second guard crumpled.

He waved his team forward.

They slipped inside. The interior of the safehouse was dark, cluttered with crates and workbenches stacked with half-disassembled guns. Quentin didn't waste a second. He pointed to the nearest crates, motioning for them to start loading up.

They moved fast, stuffing firearms into duffel bags and canvas sacks. Pistols, shotguns, a few beat-up assault rifles it wasn't glamorous, but it was enough. Enough to fight back.

Quentin was reaching for another rifle when he felt the cold, unmistakable press of a gun barrel against the back of his skull.

"Don't move," a rough voice growled. "Who the fuck are you?"

Quentin froze. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man motioning for others. "Hey! Come look at what I found!"

Footsteps started to approach, boots thudding against the floorboards. Getting closer.

Quentin closed his eyes briefly, breathed deep.

And then Vey took over.

In an instant, Vey spun, trapping the man's wrist and wrenching it up and out, the gun clattering from his hand. Before the Black Mask thug could react, Vey twisted his body around, cinched an arm around his throat, and with a savage jerk, snapped the man's neck. The body slumped silently to the floor.

The approaching footsteps were almost on top of him.

Without hesitation, Vey lunged forward, grabbing a metal file off one of the tables, one used for scraping serial numbers off weapons. He drove it into the neck of the first man that rounded the corner. The second barely had time to open his mouth before Vey tore the file free and slashed it across his throat, dropping him in a spray of dark blood.

The whole thing took less than ten seconds.

Vey exhaled slowly, closing his eyes and Quentin flowed seamlessly back into control, as if nothing had happened.

He turned sharply toward the others, voice low and urgent.

Blood splatters glinted from his theater mask, "Move. Now."

They obeyed without question, hauling the last bags of guns out into the dark streets. Quentin stayed at the rear, scanning the shadows, but there were no more interruptions.

Out front, the shouting grew louder. Quentin could hear a scuffle the Black Mask men finally reacting, trying to get the front under control.

He clicked his radio once, short and sharp.

The front team knew the signal. Time to bail.

While Quentin and his crew carried the last of the stolen weapons out the back and disappeared into the night, the front team triggered their exit plan a hidden alleyway nearby, blocked off earlier with trash and debris to slow down any pursuers.

The Black Mask men, half-distracted and furious, never even realized they'd been robbed blind until long after Quentin's people were gone.

By the time anyone thought to check the rear entrance, it was too late. The safehouse was picked clean.