Jerry sprung into action. He reached for an obscure button on the wall protected by a glass screen and slammed it with the back of his iron fist. Immediately an iron curtain fell over the garage walls, covering the front side. The white lights had turned bright red, but there was no alarm or call for authority.
At the same time, a wall on the far right had opened up, revealing a pair of encased guns. A modified assault rifle and a thick but small pistol, along with a pair of sporty glasses.
Jerry peeled the weapons off the wall. He grabbed the assault rifle, threw the strap over his neck, checked the mag and inspected the weapon briefly but professionally. He took the pistol and holstered it to his belt.
Sadie rushed in from the other side. She had a silver revolver in her hand. A Smith & Wesson that she handled with a certain grace and style it was meant for.
Her face was sober but lines of concern were etched on it. She said with a controlled voice:
"What's the deal?"
"Don't know yet. Motorbikes by the sound of it." Jerry went over his gear once more and made sure his equipment was in order.
"Jack Boys, then." Sadie said the words with a bad taste in her mouth.
Jerry gave Sadie a hard stare. "Could you cover the front, darlin'? Me and Artie here'll take the back." He paused. "And please stay safe."
Sadie nodded heavily. She gave Arthur a slight nod and turned to leave, her steps fading into the back room.
Outside, Arthur could hear the stamping of feet approaching. He tried to discern the number. Was it four? No. Five, perhaps six. Something cluttered and snapped. The car lot fence. Broken through.
Arthur crouched low behind a metal cart and unholstered his pistol, pointing it down and flicking the safety off. Jerry had appeared by his side, now wearing the sporty glasses and handing Arthur a pair.
Arthur took them and put it on. The bright crimson glow was immediately neutralised by the filtered lens, his vision turning normal and clear.
Outside, a male voice shouted, the accent clearly American:
"We know you're in there, 'Jerry'! Come out. Now. While we're still asking."
Jerry's response didn't come. He had a stoic calmness to him. Like he'd done this before. He gave Arthur an examining, sober glance.
Arthur wished he could say the same about himself. He felt unease shaking up his chest. A slight tremble in his pistoled hand, his breath uneven and jittery.
He'd only ever witnessed situations like these. In the Dredge. Men getting shot in broad daylight and passerbies watching with disinterest or pity, used to the sight. You develop a numbness for that sort of thing over time. Apathy. He certainly had. Especially when he fought as an amateur fighter. He'd even knocked out an opponent or two, feeling empty when the bell rang and pronounced him victor.
And yet, here he was. His hand still trembling like it told him to go fruck himself.
Arthur grit his teeth.
"Breathe," Jerry whispered beside him. He had a calmness that transferred over to Arthur despite the dire circumstances. "You're a'right, son. Breathe. Loosen your shoulders."
Arthur took a deep one in and realized how stiff he'd become. He shimmied and let out a long, controlled sigh.
The voice outside continued, shouting:
"We're waiting, Jerry. We don't mean harm. We just wanna talk."
Silence.
Jerry looked at Arthur and whispered quickly:
"We'll take 'em from different angles, a'right? Don't stay in one place." He pointed up. "Red light smears their optics and blurs fast movin' objects. Use that."
Arthur nodded wordlessly.
Outside, the voice shouted a number:
"Three."
Jerry stood and crouch-ran to the far end of the garage. Despite being spacious, the garage was cluttered with all sorts of tools, carts, car parts and large empty packages stacked to the side.
A terrain advantage, Arthur thought. The notion gave him a touch of confidence, but the faint tremble remained.
"Two."
Jerry hid somewhere on the other side of the garage. From where he was crouched, Arthur couldn't see him anymore between all the clutter.
"One."
Arthur tightened the grip on his pistol.
"Fine. You did this to yourself, you hillbilly fruck!"
Ratatata!
A wild spray of silent bullets rang out from outside, smacking against the metal reinforcement. Multiple guns fired at the same time but there were no gunshots. Suppressed muzzles, then.
Some bullets pierced through, tinkling as it ricocheted off metal, plastic and cardboard, producing colorful sparks and shaving off bits of cement from the wall.
One bullet hit the Vilero's windshield and headlight. Glass cracked, sparkled and tingled as it spread like diamond dust through the air. The blaring of the car's alarm system cried out, filling the garage with its constant wail, the rear lights and remaining headlight flashing.
Arthur lowered his head further, knuckles white from the tightness of his grip.
The cart was safe, at least.
At that thought, a container of engine oil was shot above his head, arching to the floor and leaking in gulps of shiny liquid. For a moment, he imagined the yellow oil as fresh blood and the container as a heart.
The spray continued for a moment more, then stopped.
Arthur patted his body with a free hand. No leaking holes. No blood. He was okay. He looked to the side, hoping Jerry hadn't been poked with holes.
Other than the blaring car alarm and Arthur's loudly beating heart, there was now silence.
The garage door was kicked open. Arthur watched the assailant walk through from the reflection of a shard of glass a few meters away from him.
The man had a black tactical pants with a matching motorcycle jacket above a red shirt. He had a mohawk of all hair styles, the sharp tips of which were dyed red.
Jack Boys.
A few more men wearing similar clothes carefully entered through, suppressed weapons in hand, alert for any human movement and subsequent killing of. Five in total, each with their unique but lack of tasteful hairstyles.
The leading assailant, the Mohawk, made a circular motion with his index finger followed by a point, which signaled:
Spread out.