After 8 years of sitting on their hands, the Puglianos were finally going to war again, and Mikey was all for it.

  It’d be just like the good old days, heading out to kick in teeth and collect some scalps, then brand the survivors with the barrel of their guns. Was an art to branding, because you couldn’t just press your gun right up against their face. That’d make them flinch and ruin the whole thing, so you had to grab them by the hair or face and pin them in place, then fire off your gun by their ears and eyes to cook the barrel. Get it all nice and hot, while the noise and muzzle flash disoriented them good and well. Then and only then do you make your mark, something flashy that couldn’t be mistaken for a regular, everyday burn. Mikey favoured leaving two rings and a shaft so they had to go around with a dick and two balls burned into their face, usually the cheek or forehead. Other guys, they left a P, a circle and a line pretty much, or a circle with a big x through it to show strike one. Those he didn’t like much, because the barrels of their guns weren’t all that thick, usually only 22s, so it never really looked right, but it wasn’t his place to say nothing about nothing.

  Course, while Mikey was ready to relive the glory days, wasn’t everyone who felt that way, and it showed at Antonio’s wake. Was for made men only, no wives, no children, no outsiders of any sort aside from the priest here in the church, because they were keeping the kid’s death on the down low so as not to give the game away. With a lineup like today’s, and everyone in the know, Mikey expected to see tough, stoic expressions in the crowd, or feral rage ready to rip and tear. Instead what he got was a bunch of unfit, middle-aged chain smokers moping flop sweat from their brows while talking in hushed whispers so as not to disturb the proceedings. Bunch of nancies for the most part, these fair-weather mobsters who made their bones after the Family took over the mines. Was one thing to rough up civies or walk up on an unsuspecting target and shoot him in the back, but war was a different sort of beast. These wise guys might’ve been through some rough times, but wasn’t nothing like the early days when the whole crew would ride up into town with guns blazing and just start putting people down.

  They’d all learn soon enough though. The Don already put out the call, and only a skeleton crew was staying behind. Underboss Gio was gonna hold down Mount Rime, with a couple low level Capos who were more brain than muscle. Had to keep the books, girls, and games running after all, but they’d be heavily reliant on the Rangers and Sherrif Barone to help out if the Zampanos came calling while the rest of them were away. Dom and Matty were part of the original crew, so the Don wanted them along for some extra heavy hitters. Dom started off as a miner, so he knew his way around Shatter, which could do a real number to stone and metal, to say nothing of flesh and bone. As for Matty, he was a virtuoso with Caustic Spray same as Fingers, which was only a First Order Spell, but still banned because getting covered in Acid shooting out of another guy’s hands was a real bad way to go.

  Here's hoping the two of them kept up with their Spell slinging, but chances of that were slim to none. Same with their shooting, because even though they were packing some real hand cannons, a Savannah Jaguar and an Aerie Falcon respectively, those guns looked like they ain’t never been fired. Was all gilded and shit too, with embossed magazines and animal heads carved into the barrels that made it look like the Bolts were coming out of their mouths. Looked real nice, and truth was Mikey envied them both for having the cash to burn on decorative pieces like that, while he was still using a trashy 1915 semi-automatic pistol that jammed at least once every three or four magazines.

  Had a good inch of exposed barrel at the end though, which made for good branding, unlike most semi-automatics that were built like two rectangles mashed together.

  A shame there wasn’t much else of the old guard still hanging around though, and of those that were, only him, Louie P, and Franky were still in fighting form. Dom and Matty were sweating from just standing around, while Underboss Gio was even worse off than the other two combined. Was a time when Gio went into fights side by side with Franky, because even though he wasn’t the sneakiest fucker around, he could get into places no one else would even think of. That’s what the Spider Climbing Spell got you, a way of looking at the world in vertical space as well as horizontal, and wasn’t no one better at it than Gio. Could scale a wall as easy as walking then open up a window without so much as a creak, before tossing a rope down for Franky who’d go in with knives out and clean house while everyone was fast asleep. What a pair they made back in the day, the Phantom and the Spider, but there wouldn’t be no acrobatics in fat Gio’s future, near or otherwise.

  The greasy fuck was so fat and slick he looked likely to slide down a slight incline even with the Spell on full blast. That’s why the Don was leaving Gio here in Brightpeak. Man wasn’t worth shit out on the battlefield no more, not like Dom and Matty. Thing is, this sort of shit was exactly what an Underboss was for, to wage war against the other gangs when the Don wanted someone dead. There’d be a reckoning soon enough, as Gio was on his way out, or least that’s what Mikey thought. The Don’s blood was all hot and blazing over the death of his son, and he’d soon realize he needed a fighting man for an Underboss, doubly so since he himself wasn’t in any shape to fight either, so who better to promote than someone who’s been loyal for so many years and could still knock some heads around when they needed knocking?

  Yeah, that’s right. Mikey was ready to step up as the Underboss, skipping over Capo and moving right up the ladder to where he belonged. Even if Franky took over as Don like him and Mia was planning, he’d want Mikey there too, since Louie P was Franky’s guy and would make for a great Consigliere. Yeah, Mikey was moving up in the world, or he would so long as he proved his worth, which was why he was ready and raring to go to war once more and remind the Zampanos that Mikey Snow Show wasn’t someone to fuck around with.

  He'd have to really step his game up, carry all that extra weight until the rest of the crew got whipped into shape. A fight or three would do it, because those that couldn’t cut it would be dead by then, leaving only those smart and lucky enough to survive. There’d be bloody days ahead, but Mikey wasn’t worried one bit, because he could take a licking and keep on ticking, like they used to say on T.V. Could tank a Bolt from a military-grade rifle to the chest, and all it’d do is knock the wind out of him for a little bit. So long as he got his Spell up in time and remembered to maintain his personal Ward with First Order Abjuration Spells, then he could run headlong into a hail of Bolts and come out none the worse for wear.

  Which is why he was fully confident he’d survive this war against the Zampanos, and why he was dead serious when he shook the Don’s hand, offered his condolences, and said, “If it’s alright with youse, when it comes time to fight, I’d like to lead the charge. First in, last out, that’s where I belong.”

  The offer earned him an approving look as the Don clapped his shoulder with a feral grin. “Good, good,” he said, hitting Mikey with a gaze that burned with violent fury. “I will be counting on you Mikey. Show these grass-eaters how a real soldato behaves, and tell them stories of our glory days. Get their blood hot for battle, and assure them of our strength and ferocity. Too long have we sat idle without baring our fangs, so our enemies think us weak and lazy. We shall show them the errors of our ways, and when we return, I will correct mine. Soon, you will be soldato no longer, but first we spill blood, and speak of the future later.”

  Which was exactly what Mikey wanted to see and hear. Not about the promotion, though that was nice and all, but the talk from the Don, because this here was the Firebrand, the Iggy Pugliano of old. Man was still fat and overweight, yet there was an intensity about him that made it hard to meet his eyes, a chill to the air around him which sent a shiver down your spine. It’d been missing for so long, Mikey almost forgot all about it, and it was all too good to see again. Even though they were all killers, there was something about the Don that set him apart, a savage animation and brutal joy he took from the process that couldn’t be faked. It was no different from fucking or eating to him, something that satisfied a primal urge which he only barely kept under control. Gio, Dom, and Matty, they were all fat fucks because they grown old and lazy, but the Don? He ate the same way he killed, with a gusto that made you envy his love of life, and now he was back again.

  And if he could hold onto that spirit, that drive, that intensity, then maybe Franky wouldn’t be so pressed to become Don any more.

  Wasn’t for Mikey to say though, so he did like the Don told him and started sharing stories of the glory days with the other boys. Back when they rode from village to village keeping ahead of their rivals and taking whatever they wanted from whoever was there. Not just food, weapons, and ammo, but women and riches too, living like kings on the lam and killing anyone who tried to stop them. There was nothing like it, the rush of battle followed by the sweet celebrations after, and they’d soon all see it for themselves once they pushed into Zampano territory and took everything they had.

  Before Mikey even noticed, the air about the funeral had changed into a buzz of nervous energy, one that was still scared and wary, but eager too. Even more so when the Don stood to make his speech and jumped straight into the heart of it. “The Zampanos killed my Antonio.” The silence following the statement was deafening to behold, as everyone in the room held their breath, made men one and all quailing before the Don’s fury. “For this? We will wash their rivers in fire and blood.” Raising his clenched fist before him, the Don radiated strength and energy as he declared, “Gather your people, arm them with your best, and in two hours, we will set out in groups, leaving from different gates and moving in all different directions, but all bound for Mueller’s Quay. There, we board ships and cross over to Riverrun under the cover of darkness, where we will strike at the Zampano enterprises, killing everyone we come across and setting their buildings aflame. Men, women, children, if they or their families work for the Zampanos, then we will feed their corpses to the fire, a blazing pyre burned in honour of my Antonio, a beacon we light to show this Frontier we Puglianos are no sheep to be shorn. We are lions and wolves, killers and warriors, and we will cut straight into the heart of Zampano territory and bring that bastardo Alexandro’s head back to lay at my boy’s feet. Then and only then will I bury my son, for he will not rest easy until all our enemies are dead.”

  Mikey was first to cheer in reply, and the other Capos and Soldatos responded in kind. The Don said a lot more, calling out his people by name and encouraging them like a general before a war, and for a time, it was like they’d gone back 10 years and were just a small gang struggling to make a name for themselves. As for Franky, he was busy giving out more specific orders, like what routes to take, things to bring, and places to hit once they were across the lake. That’s why the cousins worked so well together, with Iggy as the face and Franky doing the background support to keep things running smooth. Soon enough though, everyone had their orders except for Mikey, who only had Fingers on his payroll. He followed Franky though, who waved him over to talk to the Don once more. “I still think we’re rushing into this too quick,” Franky began, spoken like a man who’d made and lost the argument before. “None of this makes sense, but even if the Zampanos are responsible, they’ll be ready and waiting, while we could use the time to better prepare. Gather weapons and allies, scout their defenses and make plans to counteract them.”

  “No,” the Don replied, with an emphatic shake of his head that set his jowls to flapping. “I tell you this already. That is what they expect. For me to call a meeting of the Families, air my grievance, and demand reparations for my Antonio.” Both fists clenched, the Don went utterly still in a terrifying display of barely restrained rage as he stared off into the distance, imagining what he would do to their enemies soon enough. “There will be no arbitration, no talks to discuss their fate,” he said, a full minute later, his voice strained and tone heavy. “They think me weak, else they would no dare to strike, so we must make them pay for their mistake. Not only in money or territory, but in blood and suffering. I will carve Don Alexandro’s tongue out of his mouth and make him watch as I set my men upon his wife, daughters, and son. Then, when he has given up all hope, I will set them all ablaze and kill him only after he has lost everyone he holds dear.”

  “We’ll pay a heavy price for it,” Franky said, again, all matter of fact and without emotion. The fucking Phantom right there, a cold killer that couldn’t be more different from the Don. Iggy, he enjoyed the killing, took great pleasure in it, but the Phantom could kill you without batting an eye for no reason besides you being in the way. “We’ve been living large up here in Brightpeak, because the Rangers handle most of our defense. The Zampanos though? They’ve had to guard their routes against pirates and Abby since they can’t risk travelling along patrolled waterways with smuggled goods. They’re better armed, better trained, and more experienced than we are, so it won’t be an easy fight. Any ground we take, we won’t be able to hold, and the other Families and gangs will know it.”

  “We will take, but no hold,” the Don replied. “Cash, weapons, maps, or goods, we bring back with us, and what we cannot carry, we destroy before we go. Boats, docks, safe houses, and storage rooms, we burn it all, so whoever comes in must work to rebuild.”

  “While fighting amongst themselves no less,” Franky mused, and Mikey couldn’t help but be awed by the sheer simplicity of the plan. “Still, it’ll cost us dearly, and we’ll have to spend even more recruiting after the fact.”

  “Money we can always make,” the Don replied, which wasn’t true for the most of them, and a big part of why Mikey hadn’t been content these last few years, but at least now that money would be going back into the Family. “This we must do.”

  “Give me a day at least,” Franky said, lips pursed and brow furrowed. “Find out how the Zampanos got someone in close to Antonio and scout safe routes over to the quay. Or better yet, secure a second and third staging point to set off from, so we can attack on multiple fronts.”

  “Why? To make up for your failure?” Breathing heavily in the silence that followed after, the Don stared Franky down until the other man looked away. “Or to guard against the Firstborn?” The Don sneered, the fires of his rage smouldering as he built up a good head of steam. “You with your spies and your lookouts, all busy watching for a child who no have the balls to come into my town. How many days now has he sat outside after throwing his little tantrum? While you watch for him, some Zampano piece of shit drowns my Antonio in a sink, and now you tell me to wait!?”

  Shooting to his feet, the Don took Franky’s head in both meaty hands, and for a moment, Mikey thought he’d wrench his cousin’s head clean off his neck. Looked ready to do it, eager even, as he struggled against the urge to do violence here on consecrated ground inside the chapel. “No,” the Don declared, his eyes wild and wide with rage. “I will no wait. You have failed me cousin, but this, I blame not on you. I have failed too, failed my Antonio and the Family both, so now, we will make amends. You and me, cousin, together we will tear the Zampanos down and leave their scraps for the vultures, then rebuild our Family to become the strongest of the Frontier, just as you have always urged me, and I was too blind to see. You were right cousin. Only with strength, can we strike fear into the hearts of our foes, so strength we will show them.”

  Though Mikey was convinced, Franky wasn’t, and even had the courage to say as much while the Don still had his head in his hands. “What if this wasn’t the Zampanos?” he asked. “What if this is all a ploy to get us to fight? Maybe the Firstborn killed Antonio, or someone working with him, and they’re waiting out there in the forest to ambush us when we leave?”

  The Don snorted, and Mikey had to agree with the sentiment. “Who does the boy have to work with?” The Don asked. “You say the new recruits are all still in town, and no Ranger Strike Teams unaccounted for. The Knight Captain, the Storm Caller, the Revenant, Warden, and Sentinel, not a one within a hundred kilometres of Brightpick, and no official request made to the Rangers for intervention. This you tell me, and I trust you are correct, so who could he be working with? The moonshiner hillbillies? The hippies in their commune? The Innate retreat full of mezza’s too cowardly to fight for themselves? No, the boy is alone, and if he should show his face, then we will be ready for him, tear him limb from limb and make him pay if he is responsible for my Antonio’s death, but I do not believe it so.”

  This time, Mikey wasn’t so sure, because the kid was definitely up to something. Why make a declaration of war then go completely silent? The caravans coming and going to Brightpick were more heavily armed now, but the Firstborn hadn’t so much as fired a single shot since burning the wagons right in front of Mikey’s eyes. Kid didn’t strike him as the patient type, and now that Franky brought it up, Mikey realized there was a very real possibility that the Firstborn had set this all up. Never mind how he got into the town unnoticed or snuck into Antonio’s room at the brothel and drowned the kid without anyone hearing a peep. With one hand and the inability to blend in mind you, but the Firstborn had to have all sorts of Spells that could do stuff for him, so Mikey wouldn’t put it past the kid to up the stakes.

  Think of it this way. Burning the wagons wasn’t enough to coax the Puglianos out of town, but Antonio’s death had done the trick. Was it really a coincidence that the Firstborn was getting exactly what he wanted? Didn’t seem likely, or if it was, then that’s one hell of a coincidence.

  The Don wouldn’t hear it though, and if Franky couldn’t convince him, then Mikey wasn’t even gonna try. They left the discussion off there, and Mikey followed Franky out to meet with Louie P. “I want you here guarding my family,” Franky told the big capo, which just went to show how much he trusted Louie P. “If we’re gone, the Firstborn might come looking for answers, and Mia’s one of his prime targets.”

  “You got it boss,” Louie P replied. “They’ll be safe with me.”

  “Take Bernie and Vito, plus whoever else you need. At least a dozen men total, three shifts of four going 24/7,” Franky continued, and Mikey agreed with the move. Others might think it was overkill, but the Firstborn was a real threat, one well worth watching out for. Don’t know how the kid took Ron out, because that man was as clever as they come and had plans within plans and more than a hundred toughs to call on, so anyone capable of coming out of that scrap alive was someone to be wary of, and Franky wasn’t taking no chances.

  Turning to Mikey, the older man flashed a rare smile. “It’ll be just like old times then?” he said, before gesturing at the gun on Mikey’s hip. “We’ll have to get you something better than that piece of junk though. And polish that badge of yours too. C’mon. We’re counting on you to lead the way to Mueller’s Quay and spot any ambush before we walk into it.”

  Not one to say no to a free gun, Mikey grinned and followed along, all too pleased to see the direction the Family was going in. No more infighting, no more sitting around on their hands, no more scrounging for scraps in the field and shaking down farmers and homesteaders for protection fees. No, they were going to go big again, to build up the Family and expand their territory once the Zampanos were dealt with, and Mikey was all for it. Almost a decade late, but they were back in fighting spirits, and he couldn’t be happier.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  Fact is, even if this was the work of the Firstborn, Mikey was kinda hoping the kid would stay out of sight until their bloody business was done. Who cares who killed Antonio anyways? Little Lord Fuckwad was a stain on the Family honour, and Mikey might’ve done the kid in himself if the little shit tried to take over as Don. Whoever killed him did the Family a favour, one Mikey would happily pay back in kind, so long as it was after the Zampanos were dealt with.

  Might even work extra hard to make sure the Firstborn died quick if he showed his face on their way to the quay, because why let the truth ruin a good thing?

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  The Puglianos got the right idea, but their execution is just godawful.

  Maybe my expectations are just too high, but I was under the impression that military standards are kept low as humanly possible while still allowing the army to function at a reasonable level. It’s the bare minimum pretty much, because you ask for too much right out of the gate and you’ll lose out on all your recruits. Say what you will about soldiers, but truth is, it ain’t often your best and brightest signing on for duty. That’s why you need to start them off slow, then really drill the discipline into them until they’re in too deep to walk away. Only then do you raise the bar and push them to do more, a slow and steady process to take an everyday army grunt and turn them into a full-fledged Ranger, Marine, Green Beret, or what have you.

  As for the Mafia? They don’t even meet those bare minimums, though I suppose it’s because anyone who can stomach that much discipline could find a job as a guard or merc instead. From what I seen, being a guard probably makes more than your average mafioso, because like I said, you get what you pay for, and the Puglianos don’t pay much.

  Shows in the slipshod way they ‘sneak’ out of the gates, moving in staggered groups that do nothing to disguise the sheer volume of armed men leaving Brightpick. Anyone with eyes knows that something is up, which means folks elsewhere are gonna find out soon enough. I gotta assume the Rangers got some eyes and ears here in town, seeing how it’s the central hub of all their mining operations here in Rimepeak. Then again, they gave over control of it to the Mafia without too much of a fight, which just boggles the mind whenever I think about it. A single Company of 20 Rangers could lock the whole mountain down, though I suppose it’d be hard to keep their families safe if they living here too. That’s the weak point thugs and mafioso’s always go for, the families of hard-working men and women alike, so it only seemed fair to return the favour.

  Yeah, drowning the Don’s kid wasn’t my first choice, mostly because it seemed like Luisa just wanted revenge for her Matías. Can’t really blame her, but I didn’t see how it would help since I can’t take on the whole Mafia all at once by myself. Sure, I can follow a group out and hit them with a Widened Fireball, but it’s not like they’ll be packed shoulder to shoulder while out on the shabby dirt roads. No, they’ll be in single file and on horseback no less, so even with a 24m radius on my Metamagicked Fireball, that’s what? 10 people, at most? Maybe if I set things up perfect and laid out Entangling Potions to drop from overhead when I cut a bunch of ropes all at once, I could theoretically hold 30-40 mafiosos in place long enough for me to cast Fireball 3 or 4 times. Yeah, 4 now, because all that daily practice with Mental Fortress was enough to push me over the threshold of 4 Third Order Spells a day at 15 Aether a pop. I was already close before Pleasant Dunes, with round about 56 Aether available to me for Spellslinging, and I can’t rightly say when I pushed over 60. A nice breakpoint, though I can only cast 4 Third Order Spells if I avoid casting any other Spells that day.

  So the ideal situation of killing even one of these mafioso groups before they have a chance to strike back is slim to none, and I’ve counted 6 such groups setting out from this one gate. Could always try using less Spells and more bullets, but that’s risky. If I’m shooting, that means they can shoot back, and it only takes one stray shot to bring me down, while they got a whole lot more shooters than I do. Going at them head on out in the field is not smart. Even if they ain’t all that well trained, who knows how many got Spells like Mikey or Joey Junior, ones they can unleash at a moment’s notice and really ruin my day?

  So as much as I want to follow them out and kill each and every one, I stay where I am, laid out on the streets with an empty bottle in hand and a cap over half my face, where I got a great view of the main gate to see all the comings and goings. The ones leaving are the lucky majority, because even though you’d think they’d be easier to hit, I got my sights set elsewhere. See, no matter how scary or powerful a criminal organization might be, it’s still a criminal organization in the end. Everyone joins up for power and money, but there ain’t no power without money. That’s my goal here today, to hit them where it really hurts, their hearts and their wallets, but I can’t hardly do that with so many mafiosos here in town.

  Which is why I went along with Luisa’s scheme, and so far things are playing out exactly as she said they would. Kill the Don’s kid and make it look like a rival Family done it, and the hothead will rush off to war and bleed for it. Not a bad plan if all you want is to hurt the Don, and truth is, I could pack up and head home right now and probably come out okay. Won’t be no peace between the rival Mafia Families for a while, not after this, so won’t no one be looking my way until the dust settles, buying me plenty of time to stir the pot from the sidelines.

  I want more though. I don’t just want to hurt the Puglianos. I want them to know I done them in. Only real hitch in the plan is how Luisa might do something stupid like try to take on the Pugliano army with a bunch of overweight and under armed villagers. She said she wouldn’t, and I sent a message warning her once more, but I haven’t heard back, nor do I really expect to now that so much time has passed. Regardless of what happens next though, it’s out of my control, as I got my own job to deal with. Now that most of the muscle is out of town, I got an opportunity to do some real damage and take my pound of flesh.

  And believe you me, I got my sights set on a whole lot more than one measly pound.

  Takes about 12 hours to reach the quay on horseback from Brightpick, and longer to get to any other dock along the lake. Means I ought to wait at least 6 hours, so any messenger sent out after them has gotta travel the whole way there, and they’ll have to travel the whole way back, leaving me 18 hours to play. So I lay low in the street until traffic dies down, then retreat to the tunnels to rest and prepare. I wait until 20:30 to strike out, because that ought to be late enough to get most innocents off of the streets, or at least most of the women and children. This time, when I emerge from the mortuary, I got all of my gear with me, namely 4 pistols, 3 Blastguns, and 2 rifles. That’s a whole lot of hardware with not much way to hide it, though I do my best by keeping the long guns all wrapped up in a leather carrying case, and my pistols, Whumper, and twin Judges all hidden under my stolen jacket, a ratty piece two sizes too big and so thin the discoloured brown leather can barely block a breeze much less a Bolt.

  No matter though. I’m wearing my armoured plate rig concealed underneath, as well as a kerchief over my mouth and goggles over my eyes. Add in my grey flat cap and the dry, gaunt features the foul tasting Barkskin potion gives me, and I look like any other drunk or strung-out vagrant in Brightpick. Aside from how heavily armed I am of course, since there ain’t a jacket in the world that can hide so many guns underneath it, which gets anyone and everyone who sees me coming to moving in the other direction. Don’t concern me much, because the folks here react the same way to mafiosos, so I guess I look like a young prospect or whatever it is they call them. Works to my advantage when I arrive at my first destination and the bouncer at the door eyes me with suspicion, but I approach with confidence and he waits for me to say something. I don’t, just bring out the Whumper once I’m in nice and close and point it at him until he moves aside. I meet his eyes, and am half tempted to just Blast him here and now, but the gnarled older fella don’t much act like a hardened mafioso. Reacts same as any scared townie would, with eyes wide, knees shaking, and hands reaching for the skies, so I check him for a gun. Since he don’t got one, I step aside and flick my chin to tell him to get gone right quick before I change my mind, and the old timer only takes a second to gape before making himself scarce without so much as a peep.

  Guess he done this before then, so I head on into the mostly empty restaurant, because all of its usual clientele are out on the warpath. The staff are still in though, and while most freeze up at the sight of an armed man walking in, the well-dressed barman reaches for what I gotta assume is a weapon behind the counter, so I point it at his face and growl, “Don’t.”

  “Alright man,” he says, his hands shooting up for the sky. “Easy now. Money’s all yours. Was just opening the register, so please don’t hurt anyone.”

  “Everyone out,” I declare, only to glance around when no one moves an inch. So I point the Whumper up at the ceiling and pull the trigger once to unleash the loud metallic fwomp from which the weapon gets its nickname, one that sets everyone’s ears to ringing besides mine. “Out!”

  That clears them out right quick, even the barman who looks confused as all heck, because I didn’t wait for him to open the register. Not here for petty cash though. I’m here to make a statement, one that builds upon the one I done already made out in the forest when I burned that shipment of booze. Might seem a bit repetitive, burning the restaurant down, but if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. I do take a little extra time to work up a bunch of molotovs using some of the fanciest bottles of wine I done ever seen, two of which got labels claiming to be even older than I am. Would’ve had to start fermenting in the first few months after the Advent, but having seen how fond some folks are of their booze, it wouldn’t surprise me if the dates on these bottles were actually true.

  All burns the same though, and I prove as much when I lob my first expensive Molotov into the main seating area of the restaurant, then two more into the back corners. One goes into the wall of liquor behind the bar to get things real toasty, and then I head into the kitchen to make sure no one is hiding inside before toss one last Molotov on my way out the back.

  Got my route all planned out as I quaff a bitter Potion of Climbing and walk up a wall to the adjoining roof. The trick with the Spell is to never overthink it and just walk like normal, so if you do it right, it’s all intuitive and don’t nothing ever stick to no surface unless you want it to. Only tricksy part is making sure no molotovs fall out of my bucket, and once I’m up on the roof, the sky’s the limit. See, Brightpick is built into the side of the mountain, so there are levels to the town as you make your way up to the crown jewel of the place, the big catholic cathedral looking all fancy up high. While armed men can easily lock down the streets going from one level to the next, a man with Spider Climbing or Jump could easily move all about the town, which is the key to my one-man crusade here. I’m gonna hit them fast and hard from all different angles, so they never know where I’m coming from or where I’m gonna go next.

  The burning restaurant in my six? That’s just the opening number, and more a distraction than anything else. Any civvies with any sense will see the smoke and flames and head home early, which is why I hit the restaurant first. Wouldn’t be all that crowded, so small chance of any collateral damage, while still being a mob joint. From here on out though? All bets are off. I’ll do what I can to avoid civilian casualties, but if the shooting starts and regular folks are still out and about, then that’s on them. Gave them all the warning I can afford, and now it’s time to take care of business.

  Or rather, take care of the Pugliano Family’s businesses.

  A backroom casino is my next target, but not the dimly lit main floor where they got the card and dice tables set up behind the thin veneer of a cigar lounge. No, I go up onto the roof instead and make my way to the back door, a steel-reinforced barricade that’s locked up tight and guarded by at least 2 men on the other side. The good news is that the door sits in a dead-end alleyway that runs parallel to the main street, and being the criminals that they are, they ain’t big on being recorded at their place of illicit business. Means they got no security cameras to speak of, and won’t be none at most of their businesses, so there’s no need to worry about being caught on camera. Just to be safe, I drop a Fog Grenade at the corner so anyone coming up through the alley can’t stop and shoot at me from cover. Instead, they’ll have to walk out into the open and through the Fog to get eyes on me, which gives me a sporting chance to get them before they get me.

  The only problem now is how to get through the reinforced door, as I ain’t ever learned how to pick locks. Rather than even try though, I simply knock instead, because I done been told that the guard inside will just slide the shutter open so he can ask for the password. With his head pressed right up to the gap no less, which is never a smart move, since it lets me greet him with a Blast of kinetic shards to the face. The Whumper lets loose and echoes out through the night as the guard’s head is vaporized into a mist of blood and brain matter, leaving nothing of anything behind.

  Because unlike the restaurant, anyone working here is a tried-and-true mafioso, and my daddy always said that mercy to your enemies is cruelty to yourself.

  Knowing the second guard will soon close the shutter, I toss in a tool I prepared to help break in through the back door with minimal risk. It’s a wooden slat broken off of a chair, something I picked out of the garbage earlier today. Ain’t nothing special about it, besides being nice and sturdy enough not to shatter from a throw, and small enough to definitely fit through a shutter on a door. That’s all I really needed, because the important thing is the Spell Cast onto the wooden slat before coming up out of the mortuary, my 3rd Third Order Spell I learned to earn my bronze Magus pins. Was a no brainer when Uncle Teddy asked me which Spell I’d like to learn when we first resumed our study sessions again, and it was a little upsetting having to put my studies aside to learn Mental Fortress instead. Picked up this Spell a whole lot quicker than either of my other two, probably because it’s a Divination Spell, one I seen Ronald Jackson use to good effect, and a trick I been dying to try myself ever since I brung his Ranger Nagas home with me.

  Because that wooden slat there is the target of my Clairvoyance Spell, a right useful Spell I can cast manually or via a 15-minute Ritual. Lasts a full hour with Concentration at base values, and allows me to see or hear things through the target in question, one or the other. No idea why anyone would choose the latter, because Arcane Bug does that just fine, and that’s a First Order Spell as opposed to Third. Shows how far we’ve come in a few hundred years of Spellslinging I suppose, which is something. What Uncle Teddy failed to tell me though was that you really don’t want to activate your Clairvoyance while your target object is still clattering around on the ground, because that is disorienting as all heck. Soon as the world stops shaking around me, I’m greeted by a first person view of the inside of the room from the perspective of a piece of wood on the ground.

  Not exactly ideal, but all it takes is a focused effort of will to pull away and get a bird’s eye view of the room instead, one centred around the wooden slat. Could also look around in first-person perspective, but that makes me motion sick if I turn too quickly, so I stick to bird-eye for now. Spot me the second guard crouched next to the door, clutching his shabby semi-automatic pistol in hand with knuckles white as milk and eyes wild as can be as he stares at the body of his dead, headless buddy. Feeling a touch of remorse, I say, “Put your gun down and open the door and I’ll let you live.”

  Would that I could do the same for his buddy, but his face was blocking the opening so I couldn’t throw the wooden slat in. Why go through all the rigamarole of having all this security if you just gonna put your face up against a hole all the same? Idiot.

  The second guard don’t answer, but not out of shock, as he stills and watches the door like he’s hoping I don’t know he’s in there. Might work fine if he hadn’t closed the shutter after his buddy died, but I guess he ain’t in his right mind. “Alright then,” I say with a shrug. “Guess you’ll die.”

  Don’t kill him right away, which feels a little cruel seeing how it might give him false hope, but in my defense, it ain’t all that intuitive lining up a shot through the wall using a perspective that ain’t my own. From my Clairvoyant bird’s eye view, I gauge the distance between the door and the fella crouched right next to it, then return to my own senses to try and figure out where to shoot. Drawing the Naga with one, smooth motion, I give the heavy hand-cannon a nice little heft while cocking the hammer and taking a moment to appreciate the craftsmanship that went into its construction. The Naga is a big gun, the grand-daddy of all Ranger sidearms in fact, with a shiny steel barrel contrasting nicely with the gilded frame and polished redwood grip, one so thick my fingers can just barely close all the way around it. A single-action revolver, the Naga comes with the holy trinity of Intensify, Empower, and Maximize alongside Penetrate and Toppling to deliver a Bolt that’ll pierce through armour and knock you off your feet whether you’re alive or dead. Add in Concussive to really ruin your day even if you survive the shot and you got a nasty anti-caster sidearm that shoots as quick as you can work the hammer.

  The real cherry on top though? The whole reason the Naga packs on 5 extra points worth of Metamagicks and uses a 45-60 instead of a 44-40 cartridge? That there would be the Siege Metamagic, which combined with everything else lets it deliver a powerful Bolt clean through steel, brick, and ceramic even. It’s like Penetrate on steroids, and since this weapon got that too, it’ll pierce through buildings like a hot knife through butter to kill or disorient anyone hiding inside.

  My first Bolt misses the mark with a sharp and explosive crack, but the fella inside don’t get to shooting right back as the concussive force got his head ringing and eyes bleeding since the Bolt flew right in front of his face. My fault for getting greedy and going for a headshot, so after checking in with Clairvoyance again, I readjust my aim and put two into him centre mass. Kills him clean it does, and I use the remaining three bullets in the cylinder to take out the two locks and the bolt securing the door in place. Take it slow and steady I do, placing my shots one by one by one. Not because of the Naga’s massive recoil, or having to thumb back the hammer before each shot. No, despite having a kick comparable to Cowie’s, my Wildshaped Hand absorbs it all without so much as a flinch. Steady as a rock it is, and with a grip strong enough to crush bapples with ease, because even though it looks like flesh and blood, it’s a Conjured object wrapped around a wooden frame that don’t bleed or bruise when I hit it with an axe.

  Doesn’t let me hit any harder than usual, because the increased strength applies only to the hand itself. There’s also a bit of give in the wrist, as I don’t think it’s properly anchored to the rest of my arm, but it’s so negligible you wouldn’t really notice unless I bent my hand back a full 180 degrees to touch my forearm with my knuckles. Which I can do pretty easily, so long as I ignore the sharp and indescribable pain that comes with, one that leaves me weak in the knees with tears in my eyes.

  The rest of the time? All I get is a sharp ache, one that hurts about as much as it did when I first lost the hand, if not a little more since now I actually got something there to accidentally bang on things. Not ideal, but who knows. Could just be growing pains, new Conjured nerves still working themselves out, and the pain will lessen with familiarity. If not, then whatever, because pain ain’t nothing compared to the hole in my chest left from Josie’s passing, especially since I got a line of that Red Sun balm spread across my upper lip. Astrid wasn’t kidding when she said it’ll work up a hunger and thirst, though to be fair, I can’t rightly remember the last time I ate.

  What can I say? Don’t got much of an appetite these days.

  The door don’t swing open right quick after I shoot out the locks and bolt, but I take my time reloading my guns and packing away my brass to bring away. Not entirely out of frugality. More to avoid leaving anything behind, as fingerprints are still a thing that can be tracked and what not. I’m wearing gloves and have been any time I’ve been handling my gear, but you never know when one mistake might give it all away. As for the door, I simply push with my Wildshaped Hand without any regard for the sharp metal shards that might be in the way, and the steel door screeches open as it tears away from what little remains are still securing it closed. Inside are two bodies lying in a stark and bare hallway that goes left to a second door facing the same direction as the first, meaning in order to open it, I gotta be standing right in front of it. There also a couple slats in the wall along the way, bigger ones meant to shoot through, so there’s no doubt in my mind that there are mafiosos lined up behind them just waiting for me to walk by.

  Not a bad setup, all things considered, but being a hot summer night and all, the idiots inside the secure safe room cracked open a small window that opens up into the hallway, probably in the vain hopes of getting some airflow into what most certainly is a most stifling room.

  The more I see of the Pugliano operations, the more I realize how cheap Ignazio really is. Man won’t even spring for a ceiling fan for the people who guard his casino’s money, so air conditioning is most certainly out of the question. Small wonder why he’s got so many amateurs on payroll, ones too stupid to close the window when it’s clear they’ve come under attack; professionals would cost more, and we can’t be having that.

  Almost disappointed with how easy this is, I send a Mage Hand to drop a flaming Molotov through the open window while I keep my gun trained down the hallway at the second door. Panic ensues inside as the guards get to screaming, and I got plenty of time to set up as they scramble to get out. The first two fellas who step out die from the first Blast of my Whumper, as they both fighting to squeeze out at the same time, and the next one dies when he sticks his head out for a look-see like he thought I wouldn’t notice. Rather than do the same, I toss the Clairvoyance slat at the door and let it bounce into the room, where I wait a tick before looking in to find that the room got no more guards sitting pretty in the closed room, because I done burnt the 4th man in there. Ain’t much else there besides some drop slots for cash that feed into the room, and a mail slot where they can place money into a box for people on the other side to take.

  Oh, and round about 10 grand in small bills sitting on the table, as well as way too many coins I can’t be bothered to carry or count.

  A good amount of cash considering how the average man makes $1200 a year, so 10 to 15 grand should be more than enough to cover the casino’s normal operating costs. This ain’t the Pugliano vault either, just what this casino needs to keep on hand, so I head inside to pocket the cash and leave the change to burn along with the rest of the room. Fire won’t spread out to the casino proper or buildings on either side, since the room is all thick stone, steel beams, and lead plates to prevent such a thing from ever happening, but the strongest fortress in the world won’t change nothing if you leave the windows open. Here I was thinking I’d have to really work to crack this particular nut, but same as the restaurant, I’m in and out in under 3 minutes.

  Which is good because I done felt a Ward go off on my way in through the second door. Was always a possibility, but even if them fools didn’t make things easy, I would’ve been long gone before backup arrived. That’s why I insisted on coming into town myself after all, so I could get a feel for the roads and time it takes to get from one place to the next while planning my every move. I got a couple more stops to make tonight, all planned out to a tee, though I will admit that the end game is still up in the air, as it depends on what happens with the group that rode out to wage war. Wasn’t expecting the Don to lead the charge, nor bring Francis along for the ride, so I gotta hope the message gets to them before they set sail for Riverrun. Assuming they come back, I’m not sure how to handle it. I could head out and set up for an ambush to hit them on their way into town, or wait for them to come in and hit them in the streets, maybe even right at the gates and get them just when they think they home free.

  We’ll have to play it by ear, but one thing’s for certain. I need to make sure I take out the leadership before I skedaddle, because the clock done started ticking, but the countdown ain’t for the Puglianos. No, I got 48 hours before the Rangers respond and send someone after me, or at least that’s the quickest turn around time I can expect. Truth is, I’d expect them to respond faster under normal circumstances, but seeing how they need the local Sherrif to invite them over, I get the feeling that Brightpick’s Sherrif Barrone won’t all that eager to call the Rangers in while the folks he’s taking bribes from are embroiled in a clandestine gang war. No, he’ll wait to hear from the Don or one of his representatives before he makes the call, because the Mafia will need time to clean up before the Rangers arrive. Still, I’d like a 24-hour head start on the Rangers to get away and meet up with Clayton, since any shorter would be cutting it real close.

  So I gotta step things up a bit to stay on schedule for the long night ahead, which is just fine by me as I head on towards my next target to continue my bloody business. I’ll kill every mafioso I come across and dismantle everything the Puglianos own in town. Restaurants, casinos, bookmakers, and brothels, I’ll burn it all to the ground and show the world what happens when you fuck with me and mine.

  If fear and violence is all they understand, then it’s high time everyone learned that Howie Zhu speaks it better than most.