Echos Of Gunfire
The group arrived near the neon-lit club—Roll—smack in the middle of Street 5. Rollo's turf.
A loud thump of bass vibrated through the pavement. The flickering banner overhead bled red and violet. Laughter, music, and muffled voices leaked through the sealed doors.
Their heads were wrapped in cloth. So were the muskets.
"All right," Myth muttered. "Our plan starts now."
"Good luck," Sira said quietly. Her eyes lingered on him.
Myth gave a heavy nod, then turned away with Walker. The two peeled off, walking straight toward the entrance.
Victor and the rest disappeared into the alley beside the club.
Both Victor and Walker began counting.
3… 2… 1…
BAM.
The lights blinked out. Music cut. A moment of artificial silence hit the block.
Thud. Thud.
Walker had taken out the guards like they were nothing. Myth stepped over one, musket slung on his shoulder. Walker followed.
The lights flickered back as the generator kicked in. Music resumed. Inside was hazy—lit just enough for chaos to hide in shadows.
To the left: the DJ, raised high.
To the far right: a sleek marble bar, glasses clinking in rhythm.
Above: a long platform gallery with private tables, stretching over the crowd like a balcony.
Myth and Walker slipped in like regulars. The cloth dropped from Myth's musket, which he let scrape noisily along the floor. Eyes turned. No one screamed—yet.
They sat at the bar. The bartender glanced up, annoyed. "What'll it be, sir?"
Myth placed the musket on the counter, barrel pointed straight at the man's chest.
His voice sliced through the beat.
"Who here works for Rollo?"
He scanned the crowd. "And more importantly… who matters?"
The bartender's face froze—but his hand didn't. Below the counter, he pressed the panic switch.
WEEEOOO-WEEEOOO. Alarms wailed. The music stopped again.
Myth didn't flinch. "Don't be stupid."
"I-I don't know anything!" the bartender stammered. "Just got this job last week!"
"Let's kill him," Walker said coldly, standing.
Myth raised the musket to his shoulder—dead calm.
"WAIT!" The bartender panicked. "They're up there! The important ones!"
He pointed to the platform gallery above. Murmurs spread through the crowd. Heads turned.
Guards were already approaching. Most held stun guns.
Walker reached over the counter, yanked the bartender by the collar. "Take us."
They marched toward the platform stairs. Two guards blocked the path.
Myth jabbed the musket against the bartender's spine. Walker charged ahead—then vanished in a blur.
Thud. Thud.
The guards dropped before they even reacted. Walker now held two stun guns, one in each hand.
The bartender trembled, pointing out known faces—names and roles Myth had memorized.
Then he pointed to a man seated casually near the platform's far end.
"That's his lieutenant."
The man was sipping something, laughing with his companion—unbothered.
Myth and Walker approached.
People nearby stiffened—some drew knives, stun guns, even short blades.
Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.
Walker fired first, stunning them with expert shots. Panic erupted.
People screamed, scrambled, ducked behind tables.
The lieutenant stood—but not in time.
Walker was already there.
He grabbed the lieutenant's companion and slit his throat in one motion.
Blood sprayed. Gasps echoed. Chairs toppled.
The lieutenant flinched, but didn't collapse. Not yet.
BANG.
Myth fired the musket into the ceiling. Thunder rocked the club.
Now everyone was running.
The exit below was sealed shut—panic turned into frenzy.
Only a few remained on the upper platform. Loyalists. Or too frozen to move.
Walker stepped forward, musket at his side.
He stared at the lieutenant.
"You take us to Rollo," he said.
The man paused—then shouted, voice sharp and desperate, "Kill them!"
A few loyalists twitched, reaching for weapons.
Bang.
Myth fired.
A man screamed and crumpled, clutching his bleeding leg. Chaos froze.
No one moved now.
Myth stepped forward, voice calm—almost polite.
"We won't kill you… if you cooperate."
Walker didn't wait.
He seized the lieutenant's wrist.
The man struggled, panicking—but Walker's grip was steel.
With cold precision, Walker pulled out his knife and slowly pressed it under the man's fingernail.
"No—wait, wait—!"
Too late.
The knife dug in. Blood spilled. Flesh tore.
The lieutenant shrieked, thrashing in pain as his fingernail peeled loose.
He gasped, coughing, eyes wide with agony.
Walker's voice came again—flat and void of emotion.
"Take us to Rollo. You live."
The lieutenant trembled, unable to speak. He coughed again, sucking in air.
Walker moved to the next finger.
"W-wait—! I'll take you!"
He winced, holding out his bleeding hand.
He led them through a back door that connected to the alley.
While Myth and Walker had stormed the club, Victor, Ashley, and Sira had locked all entrances and exits. They'd watched the perimeter closely—anyone trying to escape was captured and quietly thrown into the alley, bound and gagged.
If even one of Rollo's men escaped and warned him, this entire assault could be for nothing.
As Myth and Walker emerged from the rear, their heads still wrapped in cloth, Victor and the others silently followed at a distance. Thin layers of ice formed around Myth's shirt—Victor's subtle safety measure, ready to harden if things turned ugly.
---
They walked for about 600 meters, the lieutenant leading the way. Eventually, they reached a large house. A stone path, lit by soft yellow lamps, stretched to a broad metal gate.
Seven thugs stood guard, weapons drawn—stun guns and swords ready.
Walker glanced at Myth.
Myth nodded once.
Without hesitation, Walker stabbed the lieutenant in the back of the neck.
The man dropped instantly.
Walker moved forward without a word.
Myth broke away, crouching behind a nearby streetlamp, musket in hand.
---
Bang.
One guard screamed, collapsing with a bleeding leg.
Six remained. All eyes turned toward the sound.
Click… click…
Myth prepared next round.
The guards raised their stun guns, aiming toward the shadows.
Too late.
Walker was already flanking them.
Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.
Twin stun guns fired—two thugs dropped. Two shots missed.
Four left.
Walker tossed the empty stun guns and sprinted forward, knife in is hand.
Myth fired again—Bang.
It missed, but startled the thugs enough for Walker to close the distance.
Walker enhanced his leg muscles, accelerating with terrifying speed.
He crashed into the distracted thug, knife driving through his ribs.
Three left.
One swung a sword—horizontal slash.
Walker ducked cleanly and stabbed the man's knee.
The thug buckled. Walker threw him into another guard running toward him, knocking them both off balance.
Then, without pause, he rushed the last standing thug nearby.
A diagonal slash came at him—Walker sidestepped and surged forward, plunging his blade into the man's throat.
He fell without a sound.
Two remained.
One raised his sword and charged—Walker kicked him hard in the stomach.
The second thug brought his blade down.
Walker deflected it mid-swing with his knife—but the blade flew from his hand.
Unarmed, Walker lunged.
He grabbed the attacker's throat and crushed it.
One left.
The last thug trembled, sword shaking in his hands.
He tried to speak—beg, maybe. Walker didn't listen.
The thug lunged with a weak slash.
Walker dodged smoothly, stepped in—
And snapped his neck.
Then, without a word, Walker turned and walked over to the man Myth had injured—still writhing on the ground.
He killed him.
Myth stood still for a moment, the musket's wooden grip tightening in his hands.
The echoes of gunfire had already drawn attention.
Thirty more thugs—armed with stun guns and crude weapons—were beginning to pour out from inside the compound.
They moved cautiously, in formation, eyes scanning every shadow.
Myth stepped up beside Walker, both of them near the outer gate now.
He stared at the scattered bodies, blood mixing with dust under the pale streetlights.
Then a thought hit him.
A jolt of quiet dread.
'Wait... these stun guns... they're not just for disabling. They kill.'
The weight of what they'd done—what they were in the middle of doing—settled heavier on his shoulders.
And now it was Ashley, Sira, and Victor's turn.