Gino and Brandon Cassini exchanged looks and adjusted their respective grips on their firearms, a Glock for the wiry Gino and an Uzi submachine gun for the bulky Brandon. Their heads swiveled back to the door and, by unspoken agreement, the younger Brandon reached for the handle. He glanced at his brother and, receiving a nod, opened the door quickly, bringing his weapon to bear.

For a moment his mind couldn’t process the scene. The lot outside the warehouse door was smoky. Two of the other men were down, groaning. Brandon didn’t pay them any mind; they were piciotto, button-men, and therefore expendable. Willy the Pick was holding his face and whimpering, his clothes smoldering. There was evidence of a small blast on the asphalt nearby.

Brandon ducked out to the left, his brother moving quickly to the right, each of them scanning the lot, the streets, the buildings around them. There was a glint in the sky and Brandon’s eyes reflexively tracking a shiny object falling his way. He stepped back as it hit, the small canister bouncing twice before rolling in a rough spiral. Then he saw the small red light on the top. He opened his mouth to yell at his brother…

*FOOOSH!*

The world went white.

* * * * *

Ricky Angelis drew both revolvers and rolled his shoulders. Something was going on just outside. Two bangs and a series of shouts, yells and similar sounds of pained surprise led him to believe that, whatever it was, it wasn’t good. He might only be hired muscle but he was good at what he did. Mainly, staying alive.

He backed down the hall slowly, glancing over his shoulder every so often. Black Mike was back there somewhere, toying with the mask. He and that silent sonuva-bitch were taking this whole “revenge” thing a bit far. Kill him and be done with it, Ricky had said, and a bunch of the other boys agreed with him. But Black Mike was footing the bill and what he said, went. Ricky and a bunch of the others might not be Family but Black Mike was good to his hired help.

There was a flicker of shadow to the side and Ricky swiveled around, coming just shy of pulling the triggers. His eyes darted around, trying to find the source of the movement. A whisper of sound spun him around. Nothing. Again, a hint of movement out of the corner of his eye. Someone was toying with him.

He spread his arms wide, one pistol aiming in each direction as he again began backing down the hall. If he could get to the warehouse proper the other boys would make short work of whatever joker was playing around.

He felt more than heard the thump behind him. He stopped, his arms dropping. He suddenly spun around, bringing his precious revolvers to bear on…

*WHACK!*

* * * * *

The warehouse proper was a mish-mash of crates, boxes and bins, some neatly stacked and appearing ready for delivery, others seemingly placed wherever they would fit. There were labels from all over the country and indeed the world, but hardly any of them would ever see the light of day again. A dirty forklift was parked just to one side, a small pool of oil beneath it. A small catwalk crossed overhead, just off-center. Three men stood upon the catwalk. Four more meandered across the dirty concrete below. All of them appeared bored, but it was deceptive. With Black Mike just inside the offices above and Willy the Pick somewhere outside, none of the men wanted to be seen as anything other than attentive, ready to go at a moment’s notice.

A metallic thump made them all jump, the sound echoing in the spacious warehouse. Several exchanged glances. Again it sounded. This time all seven pairs of eyes swiveled to the door that lead to the public office, which in turn led to the outside. It was where Willy the Pick had gone. The men on the floor instinctively stepped forward, unconsciously moving toward each other, nervous and uncertain.

One of the men, bolder than the rest, stepped carefully forward, one hand resting on the automatic pistol tucked into his waistband. He reached the door in time for a third thump. He again jumped, this time drawing his pistol. Several of the other men readied their weapons, as well.

As his hand carefully came to rest on the knob the door suddenly burst open. Up on the catwalk, as all eyes focused on the door, chaos erupted.

The three men on the catwalk found themselves amidst an attack of unknown origin. They shouted and pointed weapons, one even firing into the air in reflex as they were inundated with noise, lights and smoke. There were loud pops and staccato crackling, sparks and small lights blinking around them, and everywhere a wispy smoke erupted.

Below, the four men found themselves faced with the lifeless body of Ricky Angelis, one of Black Mike’s favorite lieutenants. He was a bastard with a handgun and a seriously dangerous sociopath. He’d been beaten to a pulp. As his body skidded to a halt the men looked up to see a silvery figure darting among them.

Qismat moved with fluid grace, hands lashing out, metal glinting in the poor light, never staying in one spot for more than the second necessary to strike. Men grunted and shouted in surprise and alarm. Weapons discharged. In moments each man had been hit, one disarmed, one downed. Spinning quickly Qismat dropped to a crouch and pulled her own weapons, guns blazing.

Above, the men on the catwalk suddenly found themselves grappling unknown foes, Hammer-like blows rained down upon them before they could get their bearings. Not one fired a shot as each in turn was brought down.

* * * * *

Luke heard the noise, the gunshots, the shouts. They seemed far away. His head hurt, his ears ringing and the thunderous sound of his own heartbeat reverberating combined to muddy the sounds even more. He blinked rapidly, his head lolling back and forth as he tried to clear his thoughts enough to process what might be happening. It was hard to focus. One eye was swollen shut.

“Oh, God,” he heard behind him. A soft voice.

He tried to turn his head but it wouldn’t obey him. He felt distant tugging on his arms, tied behind him in the chair.

“Oh, God,” the voice said again, closer. He could hear the anguish in the tone even through the whisper. “God, Luke! What’d they do to you?”

He tried to speak but nothing came out. He recognized the voice.

Jen Dixon moved into view just as his arms came free. He winced as the pain in his shoulders flared anew and the blood rushed to his hands. She cupped his face and stared at him, her eyes filling with tears.

“Oh my God,” she said again. He tried to laugh, coughed instead. “Shh!” She wiped at her eyes and began working on the bonds that secured his legs. “Quiet, Luke. We’re getting you out of here.”

Luke sucked for moisture in his mouth, swallowed. He winced again. It was as much blood as saliva.

“We?” he croaked. He winced again as she freed his legs. Godddamn, but everything hurt!

“Come on,” she said, tugging on his arm. “We have to get you out of here.”

He stood, every movement an agony. They hadn’t broken anything—maybe a rib or two—but they’d done a damn thorough job of working him over. He let Jen drape his arm over her shoulder as she led him to the door in the back of the room where the chaotic sounds emanated.

“We?” he asked again.

“Come on!” she urged, pulling at him, half-carrying him. They made it to the warehouse proper.

Luke blinked as she opened the door for him and led him into the main area. Luke was limping. He wasn’t sure he was going to be able to walk all the way out. As they got deeper into the warehouse proper some shapes began to materialize. Luke tensed, thinking there’d be a fight, but then began recognizing their faces.

Qismat stood to one side, smoking automatics in her hands. She smiled and nodded once. A blocky man stepped out from behind a stack of crates, several other men with him. One gave a half-salute in greeting.

“Pops?”

One of the men behind let loose a wheezing chuckle. “He looks like shit, but I guess his eyes still work.”

“Well, eye,” another corrected.

“He looks kinda like you, Donny.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Shut up!” Pops barked. “Both of you! Doc, you’re up.”

Around Pops McGinty came the nervous form of Cleveland Garfield, the assistant medical examiner for the city. He rushed over to Luke’s side and helped Jen set him down. Luke groaned and Cleveland hissed. “Sorry,” he muttered. He swung a satchel from over his shoulder and started rummaging in it. Jen began wiping at his face. He smelled alcohol.

“Kid?”

Luke zeroed in on Pops. Behind him were several other regulars of the bar, retired cops all. Brian and Don and Bill…the Old Boys of the bar. Each held a weapon. Pops himself had a shotgun in his hand. Luke shook his head. Pops chuckled.

“You got yourself into a mess, kid,” he replied to the unspoken question. “Had to come get you out of it.”

Luke scanned the faces around him. From Jen’s worry and anguish to Cleveland’s nervousness, from the anxious bravado of the Old Boys to the quiet confidence of Qismat.

Qismat?

“She came to us,” Jen answered, looking over her shoulder.

Pops stepped forward. “Word was out you’d gone off the grid,” He explained. “Jen and I were worried and ready to go to those hero friends of yours. Qismat here convinced us we should do it without their help.”

“I know what it is like to feel the need to accomplish something by oneself,” the woman said in her strange accent. Jen frowned at her and she smiled in return. "You and 'mysterious others' will get credit, I am sure. They will not say it was a woman and old men."

"We aren't that old," Donny gruffed.

"You are," Bobby retorted.

“Anyway,” Pops continued gruffly, scowling at his friends. “That snitch of yours, Frankie, gave us some clues, and the Doc here gave us some more. We pieced together where you were and…” He shrugged. “Well, here we are.”

“Not that Jacks kid,” Donny supplied.

“Right,” Bobby agreed. “He skedaddled after we blew up the Pick.”

"Well, she did most of the work," Bobby confessed, gesturing to Qismat. She smiled in acknowledgment. "But we were all in on it."

Luke couldn’t believe it. Here were the very people he was trying to protect should anyone find out his secret, and they’d put their lives on the line to come save him. Everyone had been right. He’d been an idiot to do this on his own.

Again Luke felt himself drawn to Qismat. She didn’t quite fit the mold with the others. She looked like she was about to laugh.

“We’ve got to get him out of here,” Cleveland said. “I can’t tell how bad he is until we get him out of his costume.”

“All right,” Pops said, all business. “Doc, you and me are carrying him out. Jen, go get the car ready. Bobby, go with her and make sure the coast is clear. The rest of you hang back and make sure no one else sneaks up on us.”

Luke winced and coughed as they struggled to get him up. “Thank you,” he croaked. He looked up, his eyes finding each face. “All of you.”

“For you, Habibi, anything.” Qismat winked.

“Wait.” Luke stopped, trying not to wobble. “Black Mike?”

“Gone,” Bobby answered. “That creepy silent guy with him got him out the back. They were too fast for us to chase.”

“That’s cuz you’re old,” a voice said from the catwalk.

“Go fuck yourself, Donny,” Bobby retorted. There was a smattering of chuckles.

“Can we stop the pansy chit-chat and get the fuck out of here, please?” Pops shook his head. “Like a goddamn bunch of hens, wanting to talk about everything at the worst possible times.”

“If you’d shut up we could go.”

“Me? You’re the one who won’t—“

“I was ready to go—“

“—anytime you decide you want—“

A piercing whistle silenced them all. Jen lowered her fingers from her mouth and looked around.

“Shut. Up.” She enunciated clearly. “And let’s go.”

Pops chuckled. “You heard the lady.”

“Hey,” Donny said suddenly. “Where’d the foreign chick go?”

They all looked around. Qismat had disappeared.

“Whatever,” Pops said, resuming progress.

“She’s kinda hot,” Donny said. “I was gonna buy her a drink.”

Bill scoffed. “Like she’d let you.”

“I’d let her buy me one,” Donny retorted.

“Probably be poison in it.”

“I think she smiled at me.”

“It was probably gas.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Hobbling between Cleveland and Pops, Jen hovering nearby, Luke couldn’t help but smile at the banter. He’d avoided death—or worse—and learned something along the way. All this time he’d thought he’d been doing what he did for them. It seemed that they did what they did for him, too. He wouldn’t take chances like this again, that was for sure. But then, he didn’t really need to. Not alone.

~Finito~