Crooked Hearts

Episode 8

ALICE

The night is darker than usual, without a moon or stars, as only the dim streetlights illuminate the streets. "Are you guys sure about this?" Marvin's usually warm and determined eyes are hesitant, his hand rubbing at his mop of messy light brown hair as he asks.

"It's just reconnaissance. I want to understand what's happening down here...better if the Firelights are there." I glance at everyone, not that I'd blame them if they got cold feet. This is my mission after all. "You're free to leave if you want; I just need someone to guide me to the warehouse. I'll handle the rest myself."

"We're already here, let's do what we set out to do." Reiner crosses his arms with a confident smile, bolstering Marvin's spirit who then nods agreeably. Percy turns to take the lead, and I follow him all the way to the warehouse to see a group of men guarding the entrance, appearing like professional mercenaries. Miche isn't lying; something is going on here tonight. "What's the plan?"

"We won't get past them, and we can't see anything from here." I look around. "Stay here Reiner, keep an eye out for the Firelights." I turn to the others. "The rest of us will look for another point of entry."

We make our way around the steel gate that surrounds the warehouse and come across a small gate door. A chain loops around it as a padlock hangs from the latch to prevent entrance. Percy steps forward, eyeing the lock before pulling out a set of lockpicks. "Ah, the thrill of breaking and entering." His voice is tinged with playful mischief.

"Why do you possess such tools?" My brows furrow. "Better yet, why are you acquainted with the art of lockpicking?" Percy winks before humming a tune under his breath as he works the padlock. Maybe it's true after all, the Outer Districts are where criminals are born. My eyes scan the area for incoming patrols.

"Aren't you glad I am?" The padlock clicks, its shackle unlocks, and Percy throws it off to the side with a flourish. "Ladies first." He bows his head low and gestures for me to enter.

I make my way into the warehouse and hide behind several stacks of boxes. A group of men wearing an assortment of clothing, from leather armor to only shirts in tatters and pants, is unloading crates of boxes from a wagon. They carry makeshift and improvised weapons such as clubs, sharpened sticks, and kitchen knives—a rabble of thugs.

I pull apart my overcoat, loosening the fastening on my sling as I take out my prized possession. A breech-loaded rifle affordable only to the noble scions of the empire, custom-made with intricate silver inlays across its mahogany frame, steel barrel, sights, trigger, and lever. With the silver inlay of a songbird on its stock, the mark of my family. "I will take the higher ground; Be vigilant."

Carla grabs my arm, pulling me back into cover. "We agreed to do reconnaissance." Her voice is a stern whisper. "And what the hell is that?" Her eyes widen with surprise. "This was never a reconnaisance operation, was it?"

"Plan's changed. We can handle them." Carla is taken aback by my intention. "You claim to be competent, don't you?" Carla lets my arm go resentfully; whatever they are doing in this warehouse can't be anything good. I just have to wait for the Firelights to show up; no matter how good they are, one shot from a rifle and they're done.

I move swiftly, going from cover to cover before climbing up the stairs of the mezzanine slowly and finding a spot, falling to one knee as I hold the rifle close, ready to aim and fire. A man enters, his size as imposing as Reiner's as he approaches the cargo at the center of the warehouse, his golden mullet wild and unkempt.

He opens the lid to reveal the shipments from the burnt ship, his thick brows knit together in a permanent scowl as he picks up one of the apples and breaks it into two. Holding up a packet to inspect it before nodding his head in approval. Drug smugglers, that's what they are. Everyone turns to a whistle.