[hr][hr][hr][center][hider=Concerning:][@Hostile][@Xandrya][/hider][/center]There were four of them in all, all wielding crummy East Bloc weapons with rust on the receivers and decay splintered across the wooden stocks. But the rooftop was within the guns' accurate range; they weren't worried.

"When the shooting starts, what do we do about Amelia, boss?" asked one.

The sunlight, diffused through the cloud-blanket and between the leaves of their foliage cover, glowed grey against the soldier's face, well-weathered and three days unshaven. He chewed a toothpick, pushing it with his tongue from cheek to cheek. "Depends if she shoots back, I guess," he said, wondering what Marcel would want if he were here. He supposed he was a bit afraid of that, stalling for time lest he misspoke. "I like to think she'd take our side. Don't you?"

They agreed to watch the hangar a while. They watched for patrols on the ground and on the roof, and they watched the forest edge where an ambush could be staged—by [i]either[/i] side. But was that Russian fuck smart enough to place troops discreetly out of sight? Or were they all hiding in the chicken-coup they called a base? Asking themselves that question, they felt safe enough to split up. Mikhail sent two men to flank the hangar through the woods, and end up on the other side. Then the sentries had no cover to hide behind up there. "Don't shoot until we do," he'd said. "Once the roof is clear, move in."

[i]That's business, huh?[/i] he thought to himself. [i]Gotta spend a few bullets to earn them back.[/i] Maybe the Russians would see things rationally, and know better than to be indebted to a rabid mongrel like Marcel. But if they chose to scam him, to scheme and conspire behind the bandit's back, surely they knew his retribution would come back to them. So it had to come quickly, so quickly they had no time to prepare for the assault.

Mikhail looked up. It would be dark soon. He set Amelia's time limit; the fun would start if he didn't see her soon, goods in hand.[hr][hr][hr][center][i][color=#785D62]M[/color][color=#7E6566]e[/color][color=#856D6A]a[/color][color=#8B756E]n[/color][color=#927D72]w[/color][color=#988576]h[/color][color=#9F8E7A]i[/color][color=#A78E7B]l[/color][color=#AF8F7D]e[/color][color=#B88F7F].[/color][color=#C09081].[/color][color=#C89083].[/color][/i][/center][hr][hr][hr][center][hider=Concerning:][@TemplarKnight07][@Fyre Unholy][@DepressedSoviet][/hider][/center]"Georg! [i]Rindsrouladen, zwei![/i]" He was around the corner again, holding his fist out with two fat fingers straightened.

Suddenly Max was a second-rate Saint Nick; greasy, unkempt, a bit ugly, sure, but jolly in the cheeks and generous in the belly. The color of money flashed in his eyes, which like an addict's needle or the sound of liquid slapping a wino's cup, cured every ache in his load-bearing limbs and every worry in his shaggy head.

"Anyway, Owl, you don't like the dirty jobs, right? I'll think of something you can do. Sure. It just won't be the big job I need right now. Whoever goes out there will smell blood and gunpowder. That's not subtle work. I know you like the subtle stuff."

All the beers were poured and the food was on its way, so Max relaxed a little, leaning his saggy bosom against the sharp counter. He watched the newcomer especially, and was grateful that his heart rate seemed to calm, his limbs stopped shaking, the pink and scarlet disappeared from his face; so he wasn't on drugs or alcohol, and looked to be thinking clearly again. Max didn't want to worry about him, but every now and then a newcomer thought the beer-garden was one of the saloons in those old Western movies, built there just so a hero could saunter through and smash all the tables and shoot a black hat dead. He was close to the cordon; good for business most times, but that meant he caught all the newbies, good [i]and[/i] bad. Whereas the barkeepers up north were serving stalkers who already knew the rules, already understood how to get in and out of town with their heads intact.