The muzzle of an assault rifle greeted me before the doorman did. Two big guys in gang leathers flanked the steel door, their eyes hidden behind cheap augmetic shades that probably fed them an ID on me the second I stepped into range.
I could tell by the way the one on the left tilted his head that something came up on his HUD. Either way, I saw his finger twitch near the trigger. A heavy tension crackled in the air between us like static before a storm.
I raised my hands slowly, a cigarette still dangling from my lips. "Easy," I muttered around the filter. Smoke curled into my eye, stinging. I hadn't even had time for a full drag. Walking straight into a mercenary fortress for a friendly chat, what could go wrong? Let's just say subtlety was off the table tonight.
The goon on the right stepped forward and patted me down with all the warmth of a cattle prod. He found my pistol and knife easily and tossed them to a waiting colleague. I felt naked but that was the deal. Silvio insisted on no weapons if I wanted an audience.
If you're just tuning in, Silvio's an upstanding community leader, if the community is the bottom of a bottle and the leadership is a gun to your face.
They marched me through a narrow corridor lit by red emergency bulbs. The place was a converted factory or maybe an old bunker, concrete walls thick enough to stop a tank round, now lined with graffiti and sensor arrays. Every few meters, a dome camera whirred to follow our steps.
In my periphery, I caught glimpses of side rooms: one fitted with monitors floor-to-ceiling where an underfed techie watched security feeds, another stockpiled with rifles and crates of ammo.
The scent of oil, sweat, and gunpowder hung heavy. House of dead men indeed, everyone here was either packing or prepping for a fight, most likely both.
They were expecting me, but that didn't mean they were friendly. A scar-faced woman with a chrome arm leaned in a doorway, cleaning her nails with a boot knife as I passed. She gave me a predator's grin.
I didn't recognize her, probably new muscle Silvio hired since our last encounter. Memo to self: next time, if there is a next time, bring a bigger gun and skip the courtesy call.
We reached a pair of reinforced doors. My escort rapped a code on a keypad, and with a heavy thunk, they opened into what Silvio liked to call his throne room. Real humble guy. My gut was already twisted in knots, but now it clenched into a fist.
Something was off.
The throne room was a wide, high-ceilinged space that might've been the plant manager's office back in the day, remodeled into a gangster's approximation of a palace.
Velvet drapes hung incongruously against cracked concrete walls, and LED lights simulating candle flames flickered atop a massive oak table strewn with maps and datapads.
At the far end, on a dais of stacked crates draped in more velvet, was Silvio's chair, a monstrosity of black leather and chrome fashioned to look like some tech-corrupted baron's throne.
But it wasn't Silvio sitting there.
A chill spread through my chest as I saw a wiry man lounging in Silvio's seat, one leg slung over the armrest. He wore a tailored suit that might have been expensive before someone splattered blood across the collar. He was turning a small handgun in his gloved hands with idle interest.
Behind him stood two more mercs with rifles at ease, their posture too relaxed for comfort.
"Where's Silvio?" I asked. My eyes flicked around, searching for any other friendly or familiar face. It's never a good sign when you show up to meet the king and find the jester on the throne instead.
The wiry man glanced up at me. He had sunken eyes, the kind that come from too many midnight stimulants and not enough conscience. "Mr. Silvio is unavoidably detained," he replied. His voice was all snake-oil slickness.
My escorts shoved me forward into the room and took positions by the door behind me. The heavy doors shut with a thud, locking me in with the new players. I felt like I'd been dropped into an arena.
Six, no seven of them in the room including the throne-warming idiot, plus however many more within earshot. I rolled the cigarette to the other side of my mouth.
"Detained, huh?" I said. "That's funny, I had an appointment with him five minutes ago. He's never been one to ghost me, especially not in his own house."
Snake-Oil smiled thinly. "Times change." He nodded to the big screen on the wall to my right. I hadn't noticed it until it blinked alive with static. "As do leadership arrangements."
I turned toward the screen, every muscle in me tensing. The static cleared to a grainy video feed of a small room. In it, a man knelt. Even through the fuzz and bad lighting, I recognized that distinctive bald head and the tattoo of a howling wolf on his neck. Silvio. He was gagged and bound to a chair, looking more pissed than scared.
"What the hell..." I started, but no one answered. My heart thudded against my ribcage as a second figure came into view on the video. The camera only showed their back: a tall individual in a black armored coat. They pressed a pistol to Silvio's temple.