Two weeks ago
4:48 a.m.
Fog rolled in from the northeast an hour ago - it was the perfect cover for the operation. Six pairs of boots clattered sporadically down steadily broadening alleyways in Dockside, and Alain could smell the salty water and fresh catches getting stronger. His heart hammered, his blood pumped faster as it worked the last of Miss B.'s truth serum out of his system.
He'd gone to her "restaurant" for dinner, and she had drugged him. And herself, at the same time. The questions stayed away from business, but her initial arrogance had turned slowly to discomfort, mock boredom, and she'd kicked him out.
He was glad she hadn't asked about business. About what he was going to do tonight.
"Psst." That little hiss halted the five guards, men that the governor herself had recommended. They were very close, only one short block from the warehouse. Most had a broadsword and two flintlock pistols, though one large man hefted a wicked-looking crossbow. Alain had looked at the barbed bolts earlier and winced.
He didn't want to risk speaking, so he motioned to them. Three through the back entrance, two through the window. Then they all leaned close, checked their synchronized watches. Finally he whispered, "4:50:30." Their breath rose in little clouds; it was chilly.
They nodded to each other, and Alain hurried off, jogged as quietly as he could manage. He slung the old Winchester 12 off his shoulder and clutched it tightly in his left hand, coated in a cool sweat. His mantra cycled through his head -- Play it cool, Alain. Play it cool.
The warehouse was small, only fifty feet wide and less than one hundred deep. If a gunfight broke out, it would be over very quickly. One man stood guard out front, one hand inside his jacket... a purple jacket.
Subtlety was never your game, was it, "Tulip." He waited until the man turned around, and crept quickly up to him. Whistled to get his attention, and wide eyes and an open mouth registered the intruder too late. He uppercutted him with the butt of his shotgun, whacked him over the head, and dropped him. Mine either.
The large front doors were ajar; Alain checked his watch and slipped inside. "Excuse me..."
Four of Miss B.'s thugs were there, partly in uniform. Purple top hats had been set aside while they checked crates, one by one, and loaded them into an old truck. He caught a glimpse of white bags, and a whiff of coffee. They'd been unloaded from coffee crates. Oldest trick in the book. There was a murmur of conversation, a decent amount of noise from loading and unloading -- they hadn't heard him. Time for a newer trick.
He held out his shotgun, angled it up, and fired into the ceiling. The blast echoed through the warehouse, and four pistols came out at once. Alain made no move to level his weapon at them, and one of them even grinned. "The detective," he growled.
Alain cleared his throat. "Good. Now that I've got your attention... I have an announcement to make. I am placing you all under arrest, with the authority of the Governor of RhyDin, for smuggling unchecked recreational drugs." Ah, but authorization was so tricky and expensive... Miss B.'s problem, not his. "Put your weapons down, or they will be taken from you, and place your hands behind your head."
The four men looked at each other and laughed uproariously. Alain checked his watch. 4:50:30. The man who'd recognized him took a step forward, and levelled his pistol. "Can't wait for my promotion. You're gonna die, D'Mourir..."
Boots shuffled rapidly, pistols clicked, and five guards pointed their weapons at the men. "Not today," Alain said dryly. "Now what was I saying...? Oh yeah. Drop 'em."
They were shocked. The detective had just declared war -- in Alain's eyes, Miss B. already had. This was the first raid, a retaliatory strike. The four men dropped their pistols, and the guards roughly bound them.
The big guard with the crossbow tossed a white bag Alain's way, who caught it. "It's the real stuff," he called, and Alain nodded. He could only guess at the fallout from this bold move...
...but God, payback felt good.
4:48 a.m.
Fog rolled in from the northeast an hour ago - it was the perfect cover for the operation. Six pairs of boots clattered sporadically down steadily broadening alleyways in Dockside, and Alain could smell the salty water and fresh catches getting stronger. His heart hammered, his blood pumped faster as it worked the last of Miss B.'s truth serum out of his system.
He'd gone to her "restaurant" for dinner, and she had drugged him. And herself, at the same time. The questions stayed away from business, but her initial arrogance had turned slowly to discomfort, mock boredom, and she'd kicked him out.
He was glad she hadn't asked about business. About what he was going to do tonight.
"Psst." That little hiss halted the five guards, men that the governor herself had recommended. They were very close, only one short block from the warehouse. Most had a broadsword and two flintlock pistols, though one large man hefted a wicked-looking crossbow. Alain had looked at the barbed bolts earlier and winced.
He didn't want to risk speaking, so he motioned to them. Three through the back entrance, two through the window. Then they all leaned close, checked their synchronized watches. Finally he whispered, "4:50:30." Their breath rose in little clouds; it was chilly.
They nodded to each other, and Alain hurried off, jogged as quietly as he could manage. He slung the old Winchester 12 off his shoulder and clutched it tightly in his left hand, coated in a cool sweat. His mantra cycled through his head -- Play it cool, Alain. Play it cool.
The warehouse was small, only fifty feet wide and less than one hundred deep. If a gunfight broke out, it would be over very quickly. One man stood guard out front, one hand inside his jacket... a purple jacket.
Subtlety was never your game, was it, "Tulip." He waited until the man turned around, and crept quickly up to him. Whistled to get his attention, and wide eyes and an open mouth registered the intruder too late. He uppercutted him with the butt of his shotgun, whacked him over the head, and dropped him. Mine either.
The large front doors were ajar; Alain checked his watch and slipped inside. "Excuse me..."
Four of Miss B.'s thugs were there, partly in uniform. Purple top hats had been set aside while they checked crates, one by one, and loaded them into an old truck. He caught a glimpse of white bags, and a whiff of coffee. They'd been unloaded from coffee crates. Oldest trick in the book. There was a murmur of conversation, a decent amount of noise from loading and unloading -- they hadn't heard him. Time for a newer trick.
He held out his shotgun, angled it up, and fired into the ceiling. The blast echoed through the warehouse, and four pistols came out at once. Alain made no move to level his weapon at them, and one of them even grinned. "The detective," he growled.
Alain cleared his throat. "Good. Now that I've got your attention... I have an announcement to make. I am placing you all under arrest, with the authority of the Governor of RhyDin, for smuggling unchecked recreational drugs." Ah, but authorization was so tricky and expensive... Miss B.'s problem, not his. "Put your weapons down, or they will be taken from you, and place your hands behind your head."
The four men looked at each other and laughed uproariously. Alain checked his watch. 4:50:30. The man who'd recognized him took a step forward, and levelled his pistol. "Can't wait for my promotion. You're gonna die, D'Mourir..."
Boots shuffled rapidly, pistols clicked, and five guards pointed their weapons at the men. "Not today," Alain said dryly. "Now what was I saying...? Oh yeah. Drop 'em."
They were shocked. The detective had just declared war -- in Alain's eyes, Miss B. already had. This was the first raid, a retaliatory strike. The four men dropped their pistols, and the guards roughly bound them.
The big guard with the crossbow tossed a white bag Alain's way, who caught it. "It's the real stuff," he called, and Alain nodded. He could only guess at the fallout from this bold move...
...but God, payback felt good.