The whining grind of a gas engine echoed, dropping to a hiss as Rommel parked the forklift in the shadowy corridor between two towering cargo containers.
He jumped down, the map crinkling in his hand.
Perusing it, he confirmed the 'X' mark labeled "PILU 123456 5" against the serial number stamped on the rust-streaked door before him.
This was it.
Using the stolen keys, he unlocked the anti-tamper locks, turned the heavy vertical bolt, and pulled.
The right door groaned open with a sound like a dying beast, and Rommel winced at the noise. He quickly hauled the left door wide, flooding the interior with the beam of his flashlight.
Inside, wooden boxes were stacked tightly to the ceiling. But one was different. It sat apart from the others, pushed forward, its lid slightly ajar as if someone had recently inspected its contents.
Rommel shoved the lid open and took an instinctive step back, a low whistle escaping his lips.
Boomsticks. In their hundreds.
Arranged in neat, symmetrical rows within the rectangular crate. They were numerous enough to utterly rock a city block.
The sheer, compact potential for annihilation was humbling.
Shaking off his apprehension, he got to work.
He drove the forklift in, speared the crate with the twin tines, and lifted it with a hydraulic whine. After securing it, he retrieved a grenade and a length of wire from his bag.
Then with swift, precise movements, he rigged the explosive to the crate's inside, setting the pin to release and the spoon to fly upon a severe impact.
He was turning back to the forklift when a sharp voice cut through the gloom ahead, followed by a bright beaming torchlight.
"Hey! You! What are you doing here?!"
A security guard stood at the mouth of the corridor, her other hand hovering near her duty belt.
Rommel let out an exasperated sigh and began walking toward her.
The guard's stance shifted to a defensive crouch. "Hold! Get on your knees! You're under arrest!"
Rommel suddenly broke into a sprint.
The guard yanked her taser free, but Rommel was a blur of motion. He slammed into her before she could aim, driving the air from her lungs and sending her sprawling onto the hard concrete.
To her credit, she scrambled up almost instantly, training taking over. However, her taser was gone, so she drew her baton.
But Rommel was already in her space.
A swift leg hook swept her feet forward from under her; and a firm palm to her face shoved her head down onto the unyielding floor with a sickeningly crack.
She lay still.
After a moment ensuring she was unconscious, Rommel grunted and sprinted back to the idling forklift.
—❦—
Inside the Mermaid Bar, Rainer walked a slow, deliberate path toward the center of the room, letting the suffocating tension thicken.
Before the stunned gangsters—or a seething Festus could react, Owen strode in, receiving his boss's lethal glare.
"What is the meaning of this, Owen?" Festus growled.
Owen offered a subservient smile.
"Boss. We've hired a performer for you."
Festus squinted, confused, his gaze flicking to the masked man.
"Performer?"
Rainer placed his duffel bag on the counter and drew out the boombox. He then gestured to the wire connecting the bar's speakers to a smartphone.
"Help me with that, sweetheart," he said to Aqua.
She did as instructed, her movements automatic. He plugged the boombox in, his eyes scanning the digital display.
It was a touch screen, and interactable.
He bypassed unfamiliar tracks, quickly arranging a short playlist of mostly dramatic, cinematic phonk, then hit play.
Instantly, a soul-centering, atmospheric intro filled the bar, that of a soft Latin vocalist singing in a forlorn tone as if spinning a eulogy.
Rainer moved to the center of the cleared space and suddenly struck a suave, confident pose, basking under the numerous pairs of eyes locked on him.
Soon, the intro faded, and it was then, Rainer moved.
An orchestra of children's voices erupted in a haunting Latin chorus, backed by a pounding, visceral bassline that built with relentless pace.
He flowed with the music; His steps were fluid, arms carving arcs of majestic command.
Rainer moved like a tyrant set free—gliding backward, executing a sharp twirl, then collapsing with controlled grace into a chair, his head rolling side-to-side with the rhythm.
He quickly pushed himself back up, gliding forward, arms raised as if in benediction before shifting his weight to one leg and spinning, his black coat flaring like the wings of a raptor, carving out a domain he now claimed.
Rainer became an electric, inspiring force, moving with a fusion of raw power and predatory class.
And eventually, the initial fear and alarm in the gangsters' eyes melted away, replaced by laughter, excited whoops, and shouts of drunken encouragement.
Festus smiled at this, sinking back into his throne with a rich, pleased chuckle.
"Ah! I see now. You bastards dressed up a pro dancer like the GBGs to perform for us. Hah! If the GBGs hear of this, they'll be pissed."
He leaned forward, watching the masked performer approach the climax of the first song.
"I like this! Don't know how much these idiots are paying you, but I'll double it!"
The song ended with a final, resonant beat. And Rainer drifted to a stop, facing him.
Then slowly, he raised a single, gloved finger to where his lips would be beneath the mask.
"Shush now..." Rainer advised softly. "By the time I'm done performing, you'll be donating everything you own—to my cause."
Festus' head tilted slightly, momentarily confused. Then he laughed, assuming it was just a dancer's bravado about an exorbitant fee.
"Hah! Then show me what else you have! I look forward to more of this!"
Rainer smiled beneath the porcelain.
"Me too."
—❦—
Rommel drove the forklift into the open clearing, positioning it as far from the bar's light as much as possible before killing the engine and lights. He checked the alignment—a perfect, deadly bead on the glowing building.
He knew it would be a straight drive into the bar.
Rommel turned, leaning into the forklift, using a length of rope to bind the steering wheel in place. He then dismounted, hands digging into the forklift in search for a weight, or rod to jam the accelerator. When suddenly—he was ambushed!
"You fucker!" The assailant roared, lunging from the shady corridor behind.
The gangster sent a loop of barbed-wire garrote over his head, pulling as it snapped around Rommel's throat. The serrated metal teeth dug deep, tearing into skin.
Caught so utterly by surprise, Rommel's hands flew to his neck, fingers slipping on the wire and his own blood.
He bucked backward, slamming his attacker into the side of a container with an echoing boom, but the man held on, pulling with desperate, strangling strength.
Blood had begun to bleed everywhere, staining his white shirt and hands red.
His eyes bulged in horror, sensing the quiet approach of death as black spots danced at the edges of his vision, but the fight hadn't left him yet.
He kicked backward, tangling their legs, and they crashed to the ground.
With the last of his air, Rommel whipped his head back, feeling cartilage crunch as he shattered the man's nose.
"Argh! Fuck!" the gangster screamed, blood gushing, but his grip on the garrote rings only tightened.
Rommel's struggles rapidly grew weaker, having tried all he could.
This was it.
A stupid, silent death in the dark—yards from a box of dynamite.
He would die here, and that would be that.
At that moment, one word, more a thought than a sound, escaped his fading consciousness.
'Pops...'
*Bang!*
The gunshot was shockingly loud, and suddenly the pressure around Rommel's throat vanished.
The gangster slumped sideways, a dark hole in his temple.
Rommel tore the wire from his neck, gasping in ragged, painful drafts of air.
When he looked up, his savior stood framed against the moon: A ghastly silhouette.
He took a long draw on a cigar, the ember blazing fiery-red, then exhaled a plume of smoke.
"I haven't shot a gun in ages..." The deep voice calmly rumbled out. "A fortunate thing my aim's still good then. Ain't I right, Rommel?"
Rommel sat up, a hand to his ravaged throat. His expression was one of pure shock.
"Mr. Man?"
Man lowered his still-smoking revolver, his gaze cool and appraising.
"Mr. Breaker would be rolling in his grave if he saw that pathetic fight just now."
Rommel managed a wet, painful scoff.
"The bastard's in hell. I reckon he's rolling in flames, not dirt..."
But then his eyes, wide with the shock of survival, met Man's.
"And I would've joined him if not for you."
A faint, grim smile touched Man's lips, and he extended a hand.
"I merely cuckblocked death. But I guess that's what family's for in our line of work."
Rommel scoffed, the sound soft and ragged.
"Guess so." He smirked, a bloody, defiant thing, then grabbed the offered arm.