The air seemed to congeal; everyone held their breath.
All eyes slid to the boss's face, and saw it darken.
"Boss…"
"Watch the perimeter."
Roger's voice was low; the dagger he always kept up his sleeve flashed into view.
At his warning, they drew together, bracing for an attack that could come from anywhere.
The tavern was dead quiet. No one dared raise their voice. For all they knew, a demon who killed without blinking might be crouched in some patch of shadow.
Suddenly—
Thunk!
Something kicked the barkeep's counter. The crowd traded looks, nerves pulling taut.
"Come out!!"
Tours barked and lunged behind the counter. No one could grab him in time; they could only rush after him to back him up.
But when they reached the back of the counter, they froze in unison.
What hid there wasn't an enemy—it was one of their own: Babut.
Tape sealed his mouth tight. His hands and feet had been chopped off. He'd been reduced to a limbless stump, his face a sheet of blood. He was banging his head against the wooden counter, desperately signaling for help.
"Babut! What happened?!"
Tours ripped off the tape and wiped the blood from his eyes.
Seeing this, Roger slit his own palm with the dagger, letting blood spill to the floor.
Babut's mind was already dim. When he saw Tours and the boss, he could only sob through what sounded like apologies, leaving no clear sense of what had happened.
Just then, the sound of ODM gear (Omni-Directional Mobility gear) echoed outside.
"Military Police!"
Someone shouted.
The ODM whine cut off—and gunshots replaced it.
Shotguns.
Bang! Bang!
Two blasts punched through the windows. Two of their men dropped with holes blown through their skulls.
Next, anchor lines shot in and bit into the walls. Cables snapped taut, cinched, and yanked figures inside. They landed atop tables and held position.
A squad filed in through the door, wearing the same sort of ODM rigs—but not in Military Police uniforms.
A bearded man in an old-style cowboy hat walked in, a cigar clamped in his teeth. He held two guns, both smoking thick as the cigar.
Behind him, his people rushed Roger's crew and ringed them in.
Roger's men drew pistols and aimed back, ready to fight to the death.
Around them, the "police" leveled those shotguns integrated with their ODM rigs at the gang's heads.
Even with the crisis peaking, Roger kept his eyes on their gear, studying it.
Shotguns wired into ODM rigs—able to dart fast and hit hard with precision.
Useless against Titans, maybe. But murderously effective against people.
Long ago, Roger had sketched out the shotgun-plus-ODM pattern and considered standardizing it for Scorpio.
Thanks to Nelly's "hard work," the rookies were already using versions of that setup.
So when Kenny walked in and those first two shells blew, Roger had half thought Levi had led the rookies in a mutiny.
Luckily, it was a false alarm.
While Roger's focus drifted, the bearded man spoke.
"Reiner Braun—no, Roger Eikam." He smiled. "Name's Kenny. I hear you're a Titan shifter. Mind changing right now to satisfy my curiosity? Pretty please? I came a long way."
"…"
At that, nearly everyone—Roger's men and the "police" both—stared at Roger in shock.
"Boss, what's he talking about? I don't understand a word."
Tours frowned.
Blood dripped steadily from Roger's palm. "You don't need to. What you need to do—what all of you need to do—is, whatever happens next, get to the basement at once. Clear?"
Silence. Nelly stared at the boss's back, lost in thought.
Back when the boss led them to rob the casino, they'd known he wasn't an ordinary man. Hearing what he'd just said left little doubt about what would happen next.
"Understood."
Heads nodded. Men began looking for their chance.
Only Tours kept glaring at Kenny.
He stepped forward and put himself in front of Roger.
"I can take a bullet, Boss. Please—kill this guy."
"Don't be stupid, Tours. Back up." Roger grabbed his shoulder and flung him behind. "I don't need you as a shield. This one—I can crush with a hand."
He started toward Kenny at an unhurried pace, motes of light sparking across his body.
Bang!
Someone fired at the nape of his neck. Roger reacted in a blink, thrusting out a grotesquely thick Titan-like hand to block.
The slug punched a few holes in the flesh—but didn't pierce through.
Cold sweat beaded on Kenny's brow.
"Hey now—no need to get serious!" He took two steps back, grinning. "Aren't you curious how I know your real name? Someone told me. And they came with me. Don't you want to see your old friends? Hey—quit hiding! Bastards!"
Kenny yelled. He'd slit plenty of throats, but he had no interest in fighting a Titan.
He'd stepped back because the two still hadn't shown, and this wasn't the plan.
Roger drifted clear of his men into open space.
"Now!"
A woman's voice.
Two figures burst from the shadows, left and right, pinching Roger in a pincer.
Cloaks hid their faces; as they rushed him, their hoods slid back.
Thud! Thud!
They seized his wrists in an instant and, before he could react, snapped both his shins with savage kicks.
Roger dropped, one of them planting a boot between his shoulders.
Face to the floor, he showed no pain.
On the contrary, he looked pleased.
"Back in training, you never went this hard, Pieck."
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