Gangbusters

They'd spent the better part of a day checking streets and alleys in the warehouse district, letting Argent lead the way. Cord didn't have much to contribute other than staying out of the way, but the others didn't either. Tracking was, as always, Argent's show.

The gang had a few haunts scattered through the old buildings. Too many targets with so little information, but they had an edge. 42 had separated the fake potion into its components. Argent sniffed around until he caught the bitter chemical scents that none of the rest of them could. He nodded at one particular warehouse and Jarod had signaled them to stop.

The day dragged by in fits and starts as they found places close by, but not strange, to loiter. Cord found some potters playing stones for coppers and joined in. He found the others again as it started to get dark.

The warehouse district was quiet by the time they moved. Not empty, there was always someone prowling the streets in a city like this, but quiet enough for their kind of work.

The chosen warehouse squatted like a lump of dark stone in the moonlight, its boarded windows glowing faintly around the edges. Whoever had sealed them was careless.

Argent had already peeled off into the dark, gone so quietly none of them even heard him move. His job was simple: make sure no alarm got raised, no one slipped out the back door, and no unexpected faces wandered into the middle of things.

A particular howl sounded in the night, Argent's eerie call, and Jarod gave the signal — two fingers, then down.

The gang had posted a watch, of course, two men at the loading doors leaning on sticks, half-dozing and half-drunk. They weren't interested in that entrance and headed for the regular doors that would have led to the business offices in a functional building.

Pip and Quint slipped forward. The street was wide and empty, bathed in moonlight. They'd have been fucked if the gang had set a better watch, but they hadn't. Amateurs or trusting too much in something like a lock.

Cord watched as the pair moved too silently forward, too silently. It wasn't just skill. Pip could pull that off but not Quint. That meant magic and was probably why he had a feather sticking out of the corner of his mouth, like he'd forgotten it was there. It looked funny, but Cord didn't care so long as it worked.

They both stopped short of the doorway, peering at the door frame for a moment before Quint drew out a stick that gleamed in the moonlight. He drew something in the dirt then touched the door and marks along the frame flared to life for a moment then went out, like snuffed candles.

More magic, probably an alarm or lock. It explained the lack of more guards, though that didn't make it any more sensible.

Pip shook his head, gestured, but Cord couldn't hear him say anything. Quint shrugged, Pip flipped him off, then knelt to deal with the lock. A few moments later he and Jarod were being signaled to come over to the door standing open.

As they passed through a faint, sour-smelling smoke curled up from the runes Quint had disabled. There were four rooms connected by a short hallway once they were past the entryway and the small desk that had likely once been for managing ingoing and outgoing goods. They didn't loot - that would have taken time. Jarod or whoever was near went ahead and tossed everything not nailed down directly into the inventory.

Pip led, checking the doors carefully while Cord followed close behind. There wasn't a high chance of a trap but it was standard for him to roll behind Cord's shield if one sprang. A dungeon-born practice, drilled into the marrow of their bones like everything else they'd learned there.

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Three rooms they cleared were empty, just dust and a touch of moonlight filtering through the degrading roof. The fourth Pip was careful about, seeming to hear something on the other side of the door. He eased the door open and slipped in. A soft snore became a wet gurgle.

They walked in to find a dead man slumped in the chair he'd been sleeping in.

The short hallway opened into the main warehouse. A cavernous, dusty space with a high ceiling and the faint smell of old wood and rat piss.

Boxes were stacked along the walls, haphazard piles of goods and scrap, and a few mismatched chairs and tables were scattered near the center where the gang probably played cards or drank when they weren't running product.

It was quiet now. The two outside seeming to be the only gang members present.

Cord took the lead and Jarod signaled. They quietly laid the bar across the receiving doors to lock out the guards. Then they turned and headed for their object.

The lab was impossible to miss. A neat little island of order at the far wall. Lanterns glowed softly over an array of tables lined with glassware, racks of jars, and shelves of carefully labeled powders. The floor there was clean, swept even, a sharp contrast to the grime and dust everywhere else.

The Alchemist didn't even look up.

He was bent over a set of bubbling flasks, one thin hand adjusting a valve while the other carefully sprinkled powder into a beaker that smoked faintly.

Pip slowed to a stop, glancing back at Jarod. Jarod didn't speak, just gave the faintest nod and kept moving forward.

The Alchemist finally straightened as they approached. He turned to face them, calm, his face pale and sharp-featured, eyes clear and unbothered.

"Well, I assume there's been a change of… command," He said, taking in the daggers as a group." Would you like me to make anything in particular?"

"Opium powder perhaps? I'm sure I still have the ingredients on hand."

"Heard you make potions," Jarod said flatly. "Or rather poison dressed up like 'em."

Cord fought down a sigh. They should have just killed the bastard but Jarod apparently needed to have feelings about it.

"Ah, yes, and …no. That was a failed mana suspension fluid prototype. A part of my larger body of research, the gang unfortunately felt it best to sell it rather than more reliable products like narcotics," the alchemist explained.

"So I can make more but… it won't remain profitable for long and is rather time consuming and uninformative in terms of research."

Jarod's expression didn't change. "So they bankroll your work, you make their drugs. You get a cut or just room and board?"

"We had an equitable arrangement. They funded my research; I gave them product," the alchemist said, tone easy, almost bored. His gaze flicked to Cord's maul, then back to Jarod. "Though… if you have other products in mind, please do tell me. Poisons, narcotics, anything in between. I'm something of a polymath in the lethal arts."

"Specialty of yours?" Pip asked.

"It wasn't the main focus of my education," the alchemist replied, lips curling faintly. "More of a hobby."

Jarod tilted his head. "Happy to sell whatever poison we need, then?"

"Anything," the alchemist said softly, "with payment up front."

"Yeah, okay," Jarod said, nodding slightly to Cord.

Cord was surprised that Jarod had picked up on his impatience but was already swinging his maul before the thought fully formed. The Alchemist went down in a heap of shattered bone and blood, still wearing that faint, polite smile.

"Payment's settled," Jarod said with a grimace. "Burn this shit heap."

Pip threw up that weird thumb‑sign he'd picked up in the valley and was already uncorking a flask of oil. Quint's face was screwed up in that annoyed‑concentration look he got when he was sweeping things into inventory.

Cord glanced toward the loading doors. The silence felt thin now, stretched. Nobody was trying to push in yet, but it didn't mean they wouldn't.

Pip moved quick, weaving between tables, leaving a dark, glistening trail toward the entryway. He was almost done when a faint clunk echoed from beyond the barred receiving doors — the sound of something solid bumping against wood.

Everyone froze.

The clunk came again and a curse, the words too muffled to make out. It was followed by the harder thunk of a bootsole. One of the guards, maybe both, was testing the door. Cord shifted his grip on the maul, Jarod's hand hovering near his sword.

"Again you weirdo? Fine, don't have dinner!" came a shout followed by laughter. It seemed the guards were still drunk, still useless.

Pip flicked them a sharp grin and went back to his work, finishing the line to the front door. They left the way they came, single‑file and fast, not looking back.

Once they were far enough down the alley, Pip struck his spark. Flame hissed along the oil, snaking into the dark like a fuse before catching in the lab. Fire light flared hard and orange in the boarded windows. The scent of smoke followed them into the night.

The guards would be in for a rude awakening. The Daggers would be long gone.

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