Hidden within the night’s darkness, Emz and Bamba climbed a fence and pushed through the evergreen treeline at the rear of the property on Hepburn Road. The back garden was a spacious square of lawn, a little overgrown and in need of a spring trim, with an inner central square of gravel that held an empty firepit and outdoor furniture.
As planned, they slowly skirted the left treeline, with Bamba taking the lead, until they were close to the rear of the garage. They took a moment to check for any signs of detection before dashing across the open grass and pressing themselves against the cold brick of the building. Still no alarm.
Gently, they slid across the rear of the garage towards the main part of the house. They reached a window into the garage, and Bamba peered in from the edge. It was pitch black, with nothing visible, but they ducked under just in case and stopped when they found the plain back door.
They guessed it would lead to a short hall providing access to both the garage and the rest of the house. Bamba carefully tried the handle, but as expected, the door was locked.
They both looked up, following the route of a drainpipe that ran up past the potential rec room above the garage and continued to the roof.
Bamba patted the combat knife sheathed in Emz’s armoured vest—a silent reminder to kill quietly first—then interlocked his fingers to give the smaller man a boost.
Emz nodded, pulled the HK MP7FT tight around his back to prevent any noise, then allowed himself to be hoisted up. His hands clawed at the metal downpipe until he found a foothold on top of the back door frame. Shifting his weight onto a downpipe bracket, he extended upwards, soon reaching the second level of the house.
Bamba waited until Emz was fully up before continuing his own advance. The next two windows had their blinds drawn, so he couldn’t see inside. He crept along the wall until he reached the centre of the main house, where large windows lined the living room. Keeping low, he inched his head up, just enough to see inside with one squinting eye.
The middle section of the downstairs was a wide open space from front to back. Closest to him was the living area: a wide sofa and a couple of armchairs occupied by two caucasian figures in dark, mismatched tactical clothing. One was a medium-built man with a dark brown buzzcut and a chin beard; the other was a burly woman with a solid, flat face and dark hair pulled tightly behind her head. They were intently focused on a screen on the opposite wall. From Bamba’s angle, he couldn’t see it properly, but the glow illuminated their faces, and he could make out muffled sounds—probably a sports game.
Beyond them, at the centre of the room, was a small dining table with several long guns laid across it. Further ahead, at the front of the house, was the kitchen. A copper-toned man, sleeves rolled up and slicked-back black hair glistening under the lights, stirred a large pot on the hob. He, too, wore tactical clothing, occasionally reaching over to grab ingredients from various open packets on the countertop. He was tall, maybe a little taller than Bamba, but a touch narrower across the back. Still, he looked like the biggest physical threat.
Bamba was about to relay the information to Emz when three more figures entered the scene from the keeping room—a soft-furnished corner area adjacent to the kitchen, accessed through an archway.
Two of them were also dressed in tactical gear: a lean, weaselly-looking white guy and a beefy Asian man with a shaved head. The third was different—a middle-aged, thin Slavic-looking man in jeans and a blazer. He was speaking, gesturing as he explained something to the other two, who nodded obediently.
The weaselly man broke off, grabbed a long gun from the dining table, and paced back into the keeping room.
The bald man and the blazer-wearing boss moved out of view, heading left towards the front of the house—likely towards the garage and the staircase to the upper floor, though Bamba couldn’t confirm from his angle.
Lowering himself to the ground, Bamba high-crawled past the living room’s low window, keeping his body as flat as possible. His big handgun was holstered at his right hip, an automatic shotgun was slung vertically down his back, and a tightly strapped HK MP7FT pressed against his chest. He took care not to catch anything on the ground.
Once past the window, he raised himself onto his haunches and checked from another angle. Against the far wall, the large screen displayed a basketball game in progress. To the left, an archway led to another part of the house, but Blazer and Baldy were nowhere in sight.
Bamba moved on, reaching the screen porch doors. That section of the house was dark, furnished with more seating and a small breakfast table. The mesh panels of the two outer walls were barely visible in the moonlight. The inner partition walls had glass panels and an interior door that led into the keeping room.
Brushing dirt from his knees and elbows, he whispered just loud enough for his contact mic to pick up his voice.
“Have you gained entry yet?”
Emz stood on a lower section of the roof, gripping the guttering as he peered through a window. His voice was soft as he replied.
“Not yet. I can see into the room above the garage. It’s dark, but there’s a guy asleep on a sofa. Rifle propped up next to him. I’m sure these are the kidnappers.”
“Oui,” Bamba replied. “There are five armed combatants downstairs, and one man in a veste—I think he is the boss. They are not alert. They have no idea you tracked them.”
There was a pause before Bamba added, “Get inside and kill the sleeping man quietly.”
“Okay,” Emz whispered back.
Shuffling carefully along the second-floor roofing, Emz reached over and tested the window sash to the rec room, but it wouldn’t budge. He edged the other way towards the main part of the building and spotted a small top sash slightly ajar in a nearby unlit bathroom. Judging that he could just about squeeze through, he unslung his SMG, pried the sash up as far as it would go, and—somewhat reluctantly—lowered the weapon inside first.
Then he started to pull himself through.
It was agonisingly tight. The pouches on his armoured vest caught on the locking mechanism, forcing him to twist and wriggle forward bit by bit. He flicked a wary glance at the door, dreading the possibility of someone stumbling in for a late-night piss, only to find an intruder wedged in the window, weapons out of reach—an easy shot and an utterly humiliating way to die.
Fuck my life.
His handgun, tucked at the small of his back, snagged on the sash, which irritatingly kept trying to close. Wedged in place, he gritted his teeth and, with considerable effort, folded his right arm across his chest. Stretching his fingers behind him, he nudged the sash up just enough to free his weapon and continue his slow, painstaking crawl inside.
Once his hips cleared the window frame, he reached down and shifted his weight onto the toilet cistern, then the basin, using them to support his upper body as he pulled his legs through. With a final awkward stretch, he climbed inside and slumped against the wall, feeling utterly drained.
Retrieving his SMG, he took a few steadying breaths before whispering into his mic, “I’m in. Heading for the sleeper now.”
Bamba’s patience had almost tipped into unease, his mind calculating whether to storm the living area or exfiltrate if Emz had been compromised. When the eventual response came, he settled back into his default, stoic disposition.
He had slipped into the unlit screen room by painstakingly sawing through a mesh panel with a serrated steak knife—borrowed from Luki’s cutlery drawer. Now, he crouched low against the interior partition wall, the blade gripped downward in his fist. The adjoining door to the keeping room stood just in front of him in the corner. The opposite wall, shared with the living area, had glass panels running its length, giving him a partial view of the frantic basketball game on the big screen and the tops of the two combatants’ heads as they watched.
A muffled voice spoke nearby. Then the adjoining door slowly swung open.
Bamba tensed, knife at the ready, his fingers briefly itching towards a gun.
The thick interior door swung wide, briefly shielding him from view. The conversation beyond became clearer.
“The chilli’s almost ready, ese.”
“Yeah, I’ll just check the backyard quickly. Make me a bowl.”
Footsteps entered the screen room, heading towards the outer door at the far end of the shadowy space. The door closer, well-oiled and silent, slowly eased the partition shut again, revealing the man on patrol—the Weasel.
Shorter than Bamba by a full head and barely half his mass, the man had a lean, sinewy frame, built for endurance rather than brute strength. He moved with smooth efficiency, barely making a sound. His rifle was held low at an angle in both hands.
The moment the door clicked shut with a soft, dragging sigh, the Crocodile struck.
The African surged upward from the shadows, his massive form swallowing the space behind the Weasel. His left hand clamped over the man’s mouth, yanking his head inward toward Bamba’s chest. At the same moment, his right boot hammered downward at an angle, crushing into the outside of the Weasel’s right leg just above the ankle. The bones snapped like dry twigs. The sharp crack of vertebrae followed as Bamba twisted his prey’s head brutally inward. A strangled squeal died beneath the suffocating grip.
Only then did the knife strike.
The serrated steak knife drove deep into the Weasel’s right ear canal, slicing through soft tissue and burrowing into the skull. Bamba’s weight pressed down, carefully crumpling his prey’s body along his own muscled flank to absorb any remaining movement. The Weasel spasmed, fingers twitching in the last sparks of life. To be sure, Bamba wrenched the knife free and drove it deep into the recess beneath the back of the skull, giving it a final, merciless twist.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
He listened.
The basketball game continued. No shift in the muffled voices from the living area.
Silent and efficient.
Slowly and quietly, the Crocodile dragged the dead Weasel back into the shadows from where he had been waiting.
Emz gently pushed open the bathroom door, SMG ready, and slipped out into the short corridor connecting the upper-floor landing to the rec room.
His target was there—sleeping, head resting on the arm of a sofa, barely five metres away in the room's dim light. A simple kill. But before moving in, Emz’s gaze unconsciously flicked right, towards the landing. Four closed doors and a bannister wrapped around two lengths of the rectangular stairwell, leading down to the ground floor. Was Asta behind one of those doors? Was she hurt?
Concern edged out caution. He moved to the first door beside the bathroom, twisted the handle, and stepped in, SMG up. His spine tingled as he scanned the space—a study. A workstation, bookshelves, old sailing ship paintings on the walls. Empty.
The next door, at the landing’s far end, revealed a master bedroom. Tastefully decorated, massive bed, matching furniture, a suitcase, an ensuite. He checked the bathroom quickly—also empty—before backing out.
Another glance down the landing. The sleeping man was still motionless at the far end. He moved on.
The next door was beside the stairwell opening. Emz rounded the bannisters, peering down. A plain white wall, coat hooks, the edge of the front door. A faint smell of spice.
The third bedroom was smaller but still spacious, backpacks lined against the wall. It had an ensuite bathroom, with another door slightly at the end—a shared connection to the final bedroom.
Bamba’s voice came through in Emz’s earpiece.
“Emz, what is happening? Have you killed the man yet?”
“No,” he whispered back. “Checking the other rooms first. But I don’t think she’s up here.”
“Merde. You should have killed him first. I took one down already.”
“Already? Do they know we’re here?”
“Non. He was on patrol. No noise.” A brief pause. “But they’re serving food. They’ll notice he’s missing soon. Take out your man now. A firefight is coming. I need you ready.”
“Okay, okay.”
Emz hurried through the shared bathroom, into the final empty bedroom. Asta must be downstairs.
“Bamba, she’s definitely not up here, be careful where you shoot. She could be anywhere.”
“Oui. Now kill your man.”
“Yeah, I’m on it.”
Emz returned to the landing and slowly eased into the rec room, crouching low, tucking away the SMG, and drawing his knife. One step at a time, he crept toward the sleeping merc. The man’s rifle rested nearby, barrel angled against the sofa’s arm. Emz considered his approach—slash the throat? Stab the chest? Eye?
He never got the chance.
Bamba’s voice interrupted: “Emz, I’ve lost track of one. He collected a bowl of food—but he is no longer in sight. He may be heading upstairs.”
Emz froze. Turned.
A beefy Asian man with a bald head had just reached the landing, a steaming bowl in one hand, a mobile screen in the other keeping his attention.
“Packer, I brought you some—”
Baldy looked up. His eyes landed on Emz, crouched inches from his sleeping comrade.
Packer stirred at the sound of his name. Lifted his head. Turned groggily toward the voice.
Fuck.
Emz reacted on instinct, whipping his knife at Baldy.
Baldy flinched, jerking backwards. Hot chilli sloshed over his chest as the knife flashed past his face.
No time to think.
Emz snatched Packer’s rifle before the groggy merc could act. Let the momentum swing his arm and rifle left, then reversed—slamming the stock into Packer’s skull. A dull thud. The man crumpled sideways.
Baldy had dropped his phone and bowl, reaching for his sidearm. Too slow.
Emz swung the rifle in a wide arc, then hurled it overhead.
Baldy instinctively raised his arms to shield his face as the long heavy weapon smashed into them, forcing him back. His arse collided with the stairwell’s short end of the banister.
Emz didn’t hesitate and dashed towards Baldy.
As he ran he half turned—braap-braap.
Two bursts from the SMG into Packer. A strangled grunt. A slump.
Then he shoulder-charged into Baldy.
As soon as Bamba heard the commotion upstairs, he surged out of the screen porch and into the kitchen, automatic shotgun gripped firmly in both hands. His targets were the startled, big copper-toned man with slicked-back hair, midway through serving food from a large pot, and the flat-faced woman holding her bowl.
Bamba raised his weapon as he charged in, but caught sight of the chin bearded man to his left, standing by the central dining table. As Chin-beard dropped his bowl of chilli and reached for a rifle resting there, Bamba fired first, the blast hitting with a dull splatter. He heard a thud as the man bounced over an armchair, followed by the crack and tinkling of glass as he smashed through a coffee table, and then a final deep thump as he hit the floor.
By then, Bamba had barreled into Slick on his right and Flat-face on his left. His shotgun was like a horizontal battering ram, catching them high on their chests and forcing both mercenaries back against the kitchen countertop. He kneed Slick in the groin, then scraped his heel down the man’s shin with vicious force.
Slick bellowed in pain, flailing and trying to push Bamba away, but the space was too confined. His struggles amounted to nothing.
Unlike Slick, Flat-face was quicker and less bulky. As Bamba briefly focused on Slick, she attempted to break free from his hold, sliding away to his left and delivering a swift stamp to his knee from the side. But Bamba felt her movement. With a quick shift, he turned his bent knee outward, absorbing the blow on the evolutionary reinforced top part of his kneecap.
Rather than breaking his knee, she used the leverage to push herself away instead. She then locked her left arm outward, forcing the shotgun barrel away from her face, while her right hand drew a sidearm.
Bamba reacted swiftly. He stepped back, yanking the shotgun from her grasp. In one fluid motion, he released his right hand and swung the long weapon upwards and round, bringing it down like a hammer to smash into her right wrist with a brittle snap. She dropped her gun, stepping back—silent, but clearly in pain from the sudden violent injury.
Slick lunged forward, throwing a wild one-two punch combo. Bamba twisted to absorb the cross on his shoulder and dipped his head, taking the jab on his forehead. Slick’s knuckles cracked painfully on contact.
Without missing a beat, Bamba grabbed the bubbling chilli pot from the hob and swung it overhead, crashing it down hard onto Slick’s head, spilling scalding hot food in a sizzling torrent.
Slick shuddered in pain, trying to wrestle the pot off his head. At the same time, Flat-face moved like a blur. She launched into a series of Taekwondo strikes.
Her first roundhouse kick slammed into Bamba’s left wrist, sending the shotgun spinning from his grip. Before he could react, she pivoted, driving a sharp sidekick into his ribs. He staggered but quickly regained his balance. She spun into a hook kick, aiming for his jaw, but Bamba closed the distance, blocking the strike with his dense shoulder. He then followed up with a brutal headbutt to her face, sending her stumbling back.
Slick wrestled the pot from his head, wiping the chilli from his face with a forearm. As his right hand reached for his sidearm, Bamba stamped through his knee from the side. There was a sickening pop as the joint buckled, followed by a sharp, wet crack as ligaments tore and bone gave way.
Slick collapsed, crying out in pain, into the corner of the kitchen. Bamba followed up with a solid left cross to his jaw, the force rattling his brain and knocking him out cold.
“Evacuate, evacuate!” A shout called out.
Bamba’s gaze snapped to the centre of the room, where Chin-beard was rushing unsteadily towards the front door, rifle in hand, and body armour ruined. He moved towards Blazer, the Slavic boss, who had a bound woman in front of him, an ugly machine pistol pressed to her head.
Flat-face froze for a second, caught between fight or flight. That moment of indecision cost her.
A bullet smashed into her forehead. Her body crumpled to the floor.
Bamba, quick to react, had drawn his SIG P400MAX handgun for the snapshot. But before he could get a clear bead on either of the remaining men, Chin-beard opened bursts of fire in retreat, tat-tat-tat, forcing Bamba to drop and take cover behind the kitchen island.
The kitchen exploded in gunfire, bullets riddling the island. Wood splintered, marble cracked, and ragged pops rang through the air.
Emz had slammed into Baldy with all the force he could muster, the impact cracking the bannister handrail behind Baldy. It didn’t give way completely, so the two men wrestled against the stairwell’s edge, each trying to land a decisive blow. Emz tried to swing his SMG inwards for a close-range shot, but the strap was too tight, and Baldy elbowed the weapon away. Letting go of the SMG, Emz threw a surprising haymaker into Baldy’s face.
Baldy retaliated with a right body shot. Though it was dampened by Emz's body armour, it still stung enough to make him realise he wasn't going to win this fistfight with the beefy thug. Desperate, Emz twisted around, pressing his right shoulder blade against Baldy's chest. He then threw both boots out, catching the edge of the nearest bedroom door frame with his heels. With a powerful push, he extended his legs, breaking the bannister and sending them both tumbling down the stairs.
Baldy landed flat on his back, and Emz crashed into his chest a split second later, driving the air from his lungs. The back of Baldy’s bald head slammed against a hardwood step, stunning him. They continued to roll down the final few steps, coming to rest in the midst of the gunfire that had been echoing around the house.
As they crashed onto the ground floor, Emz saw the Slavic boss dragging a bound Asta through the internal garage door, with Chin-beard following closely behind. For a brief moment, Emz’s eyes met Asta’s pleading gaze, silently urging him to help. But before he could react, Chin-beard swung his rifle towards him.
Tat-tat-tat. The bullets rang out, and Emz instinctively heaved Baldy’s bulky body in front of him. The shots hammered into the mercenary, shaking him violently until the final bullet struck the back of Baldy’s skull, leaving him fatally limp.
Rolling from under the dead weight of the body, Emz drew his SMG and aimed towards Chin-beard’s last known position, but the man was already gone. He heard the garage door begin to unfold, and the sound of a vehicle pulling away.
“Bamba! Quick, they’re getting away!” Emz yelled, not knowing where the African mercenary was or if he was even alive.
Inside the garage, the second dark grey van—the one they had spotted earlier via drone—was hastily reversing into a sharp turn, tearing and scraping the garage door in its frantic bid to escape.
Emz aimed for the side of the van, but a sudden concern about hitting Asta stayed his shot. Instead, he fired at a pair of dual rear wheels. The reinforced tyres held firm, but the driver quickly yanked the steering wheel the opposite way, guiding the van out of the driveway and onto the road.
“Bamba!” Emz yelled again, sprinting for the driver’s door of the other grey van—the one they had tracked.
Just then, Bamba appeared from the internal doorway, shotgun in hand, with a chilli-stained body armour draped over his left arm like a shield. He sized up the situation in an instant, then jumped into the passenger seat of the van.
Emz didn’t hesitate, shifting the van into reverse and quickly executing the same sharp left turn out of the garage. As soon as they were clear, he swung the wheel the other way and sped forward, chasing after the escaping vehicle.
“Luki, we’ve left the house in the grey van, in pursuit of the other one. Come back us up.” Emz’s voice called over the comms.
“On my way,” Luki’s voice responded in both men’s earpieces, as Bamba donned the chilli-stained armour.
