metal so fast, so violently that it pierced her. Still, despite this, she sprinted, fast, skidding to a stop at a window. A shot pierced the glass, if by accident or by aim she did not know, but its impact caused a sudden lurch and duck aside.
The bells still rang, the voices louder, their owners making their way through the corridors. Outside, when Wyld braved a look, ten men flanking a horse and cart stood in a cloud of dust, freshly fallen bodies scattered nearby. Wyld may not know who these men were, faces disguised and brandishing obviously outlawed steel, but she knew what this was.
This was a missed opportunity.
Gunfire snapped violently as Wyld hurried herself to an exit at the back of the building, in running catching sight of the intruders packing the Vault door with explosives. Clearly they were not to be subtle in this endeavour, fighting off the guards who peppered the surroundings with sidearm fire.
In her retreat Wyld raced over the stone floor, sliding past any conflict before the back entrance was in sight, though before it could be claimed, a blow took the girl off her feet and she crashed onto the ground. Her gaze, now focused on the ceiling, was awash with sparks but she could see the figure lunging towards her, club in hand that struck and split tile where her head once lay.
Wyld wailed in surprise, after having rolled onto her side to evade the strike from the guard who assumed that she was one of these new intruders. He roared loudly, yanking his revolver from its holster and firing into the ground, chips spraying aside. On her side Wyld kicked out in a scramble, catching the gun barrel and sending it into a skim across the floor.
It was clear that she hadn’t intended for a confrontation of this magnitude – something that the guard sensed and capitalized on. He fell, with his full weight, onto Wyld, forcing every scrap of air from her lungs in a pained exhalation. Hands swung in punches, trying to force through the girl’s guard. This little runt wouldn’t escape this, he promised himself in a red mist. In this desperate struggle, as Wyld’s head rolled side to side, her arms buckling under the impacts, she reached for something, anything in her grip that could grant her freedom.
A crack was muffled by cloth and flesh, as the guard gasped aloud and life escaped his body. He slumped aside, eyes still bugged in disbelief, a shock of red flooding over his blue tunic, pooling on the floor.
All Wyld could hear was the panting of her own breath. Her hands, still trembling, were clenched tightly over one of her revolvers, a virgin shot smoking from the barrel, with spots of the victim’s life tarnishing her own clothes. She had killed a man. Not just any man. A man of the law. She was a murderer, simple and clear. Never had she done such a thing – such a horrid, brutish thing – and the shock burnt through her limbs, making every movement weighted and every thought nonsensical. For this, she would be hanged by the neck and they would be right to do so.
Escape.
She had to escape.
As she heaved against the back door with one shoulder, the building quaked violently as the Vault door was blown asunder, powdering her hair with brick dust. Daylight embraced her in warmth as she sprinted as best as she could back over the fence in a mad scramble. It wasn’t until she had hid herself sufficiently into the shadows of the shanties that she dared to look back, a cheering posse making their getaway on horseback, with a cart of goods pulled behind at speed.
Now, she allowed herself to finally breathe, watched casually by locals from their dilapidated windows. They had seen this kind of thing before. They nonchalantly closed shutters or deliberately ignored the commotion. They had no reason to trouble themselves with whatever this was, leaving Wyld to find solace in hiding.
Wise Men
Jacques had never deemed himself wise.
Clever, yes, observant, for sure, but wise? Wise wasn’t his thing. Wise was a quality for folks with big glasses, who spent all their time reading books, wrangling numbers and the like. Wise was, to him, an insult – a proclamation that a person was focused on small complexities rather than indulging in the world at hand.
So when Misu had playfully called the head of security wise, he wrinkled his nose and pouted in disappointment. She didn’t mean anything by it of course, but when realizing that it may have caused offence, she explained that it wasn’t a word that should be taken in the wrong way and the reason she needed his wise council was because she was concerned about Franco’s next endeavour and he needed company, wise company, to steer him from any lapses in intelligence he may suffer.
* * *
The Den was still impounded so Franco made it his business to ensure that it wasn’t damaged in the search. Secretly his paranoia was gnawing away at his conscience. Wyld had been with them for a month. Who knows what she had stashed in the storage car. Whatever it was, it was hopefully something that the law did not find.
‘Wise?’ Franco chuckled, walking out of the station clad in his long brown leathers protecting his smart attire, animal-skin boots clicking down each stone step. His green vest was finely tailored, a trail of brilliant buttons rising from belly to collar almost dazzling in the equally brilliant noon sunlight. His crisp white shirt beneath was clean – not scuffed with dirt.
‘Misu certainly did think so.’
‘She’s never been one to comment on anybody’s intelligence.’
‘Maybe she needed someone to compliment on such a quality.’
Franco pouted. ‘A quality I lack?’
‘I’m implying nothing, boss, not a thing. Just repeating what I was told.’
‘For the best.’
‘So, what’s the letter?’ Jacques asked, pointing to the folded paper protruding from Franco’s vest pocket. Ever since it was delivered that morning Franco had read it and reread it, even all through breakfast when he was focused more on its contents than eating.
‘A request from someone. They heard word that we were in town and asked for a visit.’
‘An admirer?’
‘Even better,’ Franco replied. ‘An old acquaintance.’
The pair took the tram to the western residential district, where tight streets of cobblestone terraced houses seemingly jostled one another for space. Doors and windows seemed decidedly cramped, as if they were being squeezed from the masonry. Carts rattled down the road, noisily, the clopping of horseshoes on stone creating a rhythm of strikes.
Franco stood in the doorway of a residence identical to the rows of those he had passed before, equally unspectacular. He rapped the door and beamed at the old gentleman who cautiously opened it.
‘Franco, what a pleasure,’ the owner croaked. ‘I didn’t think you would come. Please, come inside, welcome.’
The house was surprisingly comfortable despite being somewhat sparse. The furniture was mostly wooden, the décor a collection of simple materials and aged fabrics, sentimentally kept and repaired if needed. It was comfortable, though Jacques muttered that the seating was far too hard for his liking.
‘Mister Follister.’ Franco shook his hand, now far bonier than he recalled.
The
