Blue Massacre (2)

Aston leaped onto the leaky roof, the tiles crumbling beneath him, and the dirty water already dripping through the gaps.

‘Thump!’

The roof partially collapsed, but it left behind a larger hole, with Aston’s arms instinctively raised over his face, his hood pulled low. Crumbling tiles struck his head and back, with his blue-tinted knives swatting them away.

There were several men—each more rotund than the last. Eight in total, only two of them slender. They sat around a blue table, their mustaches twitching above their bluish lips. They stared at Aston, startled, a few of them abruptly recoiling. They fell from their chairs like puppets, and shadows flickered beneath the dim light of the candles. They had been playing a card game—poker, from the looks of it—when one of the thinner men, his face hawk-like with a long, crooked nose and sharp eyes, glared at Aston.