Paul had been having dinner at a local establishment after concluding a meeting at the bank. The sort of place that stayed open late for merchants, brokers, and anyone who preferred to conduct quiet business after the respectable part of the city had gone to sleep. The meal itself had been decent enough. Bread, a thick stew, and a bottle of dark beer that the owner insisted came from a private brewer who did not bother with taxes. Paul did not particularly care where it came from so long as it tasted good and did not poison him.

  The meeting at the bank had gone well. Numbers balanced. Accounts moved. Lines of credit quietly arranged. That was Paul’s work. Not knives. Not fists. Not the sort of loud violence that came to Humber as easily as he breathed the air.

  Paul preferred numbers.

  Numbers were clean. Numbers obeyed rules. Numbers could not decide they suddenly wanted to stab you in the kidney.

  Still, Rafsborough had a way of reminding a man that numbers were only part of the world.

  He stepped out into the night air and adjusted his long coat, the fabric settling comfortably around his thin frame. The streets were quieter now. Lanterns burned along the main road, casting pools of yellow light that left long stretches of shadow between them. His STV sat about a block away in a private lot behind the buildings. A short walk.

  Paul began heading that direction at an easy pace, boots tapping lightly against the stone.

  Small Paul, they called him.

  The name had started as a joke. He was not particularly tall. Not particularly broad either. Standing beside Humbert was like standing next to a carved statue of muscle and bone. Beside Grump, who carried himself with a dignified kind of dense solidity, Paul looked almost delicate.

  Small Paul.

  The man who read books. The man who balanced ledgers. The one who solved problems with quiet conversations instead of broken teeth.

  It suited him fine.

  Let people think that.

  He turned down the narrow side street that led to the parking lot.

  The moment he stepped into the darker stretch between buildings, the hairs on the back of his neck rose.

  Paul did not stop walking.

  Years as a Stormtrooper had carved certain instincts into him. They were not thoughts exactly. More like alarms buried somewhere deep in the spine. A tightening in the muscles. A subtle shift in how the world felt around him.

  Danger.

  He kept his pace steady as he entered the lot.

  The STV sat where he had left it, parked near the far edge beside a brick wall. A few other vehicles rested nearby, their shapes barely visible in the weak lantern light spilling over from the street.

  Paul walked toward it.

  A figure stepped out of the shadow near the vehicle.

  "Oh. Hey. Look who it is," the man called. "Grumplestein’s little numbers cruncher."

  Paul glanced toward him. He was a rough-looking customer in worn clothes, with a hard expression. This man had seen some fighting in his day, had lived a life of violence.

  Then his eyes flicked briefly to the sides.

  Another man pushed off from the wall to his right, drifting casually into the open space of the lot.

  Behind him, footsteps approached.

  Three.

  Paul stopped.

  "We know your boss is making some moves," the first man continued, rolling his shoulders as he walked closer. "So our boss wanted us to have a little talk with you."

  Paul noticed the flash of metal on the man’s right hand.

  Brass knuckles.

  He let a nervous smile creep across his face.

  "Oh?" Paul asked, his voice uncertain. "And who might your boss be?"

  "Doesn’t matter who he is," the man replied. "What matters is we work for the Tavern Network."

  The name settled into place in Paul’s mind. He knew it, of course. People don't generally talk about it so openly, but in Paul's line of work you hear things. Pimps and drug dealers, running illicit goods and dealing in human flesh.

  Interesting.

  "And this," the man continued, "is a warning to leave Network business alone."

  Behind Paul, the footsteps suddenly quickened.

  Paul moved.

  He spun sharply, his right hand snapping down his sleeve.

  A small pistol slid neatly into his palm.

  The man behind him froze mid-step.

  He had been raising a truncheon, ready to bring it down across the back of Paul’s skull.

  Now he found himself staring into the narrow black circle of a snub-nosed two-shot pistol.

  His eyes widened.

  The little gun barked.

  The bullet punched into the man’s eye.

  It burst the globe and entered the brain behind it. The small bullet bounces around inside the man's brain, turning it to mush as the thug dropped, collapsing to the pavement like a puppet with its strings cut.

  To Paul’s right, the flanking man reacted fast. He pulled a long knife and rushed forward with a shout.

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  Paul simply angled his body.

  He extended his arm.

  The second shot cracked through the night.

  This time, Paul aimed lower.

  The bullet struck the man square in the groin.

  The thug’s charge stopped instantly. His mouth opened in a silent scream as his body folded around the sudden explosion of agony. One of his testicles ruptured inside the scrotum, the pain so violent his legs collapsed beneath him.

  He hit the ground convulsing and retching.

  The man with the brass knuckles was already moving.

  He rushed Paul with a snarl and swung.

  Paul ducked the blow easily and stepped back.

  The thug advanced again, trying to close the distance.

  Paul tossed the empty pistol directly into the man’s face.

  The thug flinched, instinctively bringing his hands up to block the object.

  That was enough.

  Paul’s other hand slipped into his sleeve.

  He drew a telescopic baton.

  With a flick of his wrist, it extended with a sharp metallic snap.

  The first strike shattered the man’s hand even through the brass knuckles.

  Bone cracked loudly.

  The thug screamed.

  The second strike came down across the side of his skull.

  The impact dropped him instantly.

  Silence returned to the lot.

  Paul walked over to the man writhing on the ground, clutching his groin.

  The thug looked up at him through tears and vomit.

  Paul said nothing.

  He simply began stomping.

  The third strike crushed the man’s skull against the pavement.

  Paul stepped back and adjusted his coat.

  Three bodies lay scattered across the lot.

  He let out a quiet sigh.

  "Fools," Paul muttered.

  He looked down at the dead men.

  "Just because I am the least of the Chilliad," he said softly, "does not mean I am not much greater than you."

  ***

  Grump's office was not an office in the traditional sense. Rafsborough did not reward men like Grump with polished desks and tall windows overlooking respectable streets. Instead, his headquarters occupied the upper floor of an old warehouse that had once been used to store salvage hauled in from the rails and the wasteland beyond the city. Broken machinery, stripped vehicle parts, crates of scrap metal, and things no one had quite identified yet had passed through the place over the years. The windows were narrow and barred. The brick walls were thick. The place smelled faintly of oil, metal, and old dust.

  Which suited Grump just fine.

  Paul stepped through the heavy door and closed it behind him. The room was warm from the coal stove in the corner. A large map of Rafsborough had been nailed to one wall, colored pins marking districts, taverns, warehouses, and streets that mattered to men who operated outside the polite parts of society.

  Grump stood in front of the map with his hands clasped behind his back.

  Humbert leaned against a support pillar nearby.

  Even at rest, Humbert dominated the room. The man looked like he had been built from someone's idea of a god of war. Thick shoulders. Heavy arms. His sleeves were rolled halfway up his forearms, the muscles beneath them layered and dense like braided cable. A simple vest hung open over his shirt. The posture was casual, but there was nothing relaxed about the power coiled in that body.

  Paul shut the door and removed his coat.

  "Evening," he said.

  Grump turned his head slightly.

  "You took your time," Grump said.

  Paul shrugged lightly.

  "I ran into a small complication in the parking lot," he replied.

  Humbert straightened a little.

  "How small?" he asked.

  Paul draped his coat across the back of a chair and walked over to the table where a lantern burned beside a stack of ledgers.

  "Three men," Paul said. "They wanted to talk."

  Grump turned fully now, his expression sharpening.

  "Did they get their conversation?"

  Paul nodded.

  "Briefly," he said.

  He poured himself a small glass of whiskey from the bottle sitting on the table. His hand was steady. No sign of the nervous energy he had shown earlier that evening.

  "They were from the Tavern Network," Paul continued. "Said they were delivering a warning."

  Grump's mouth twitched slightly.

  "Of course they were," he said.

  Paul took a sip of whiskey.

  "Three of them," he said. "One with brass knuckles. One with a knife. One with a truncheon."

  Humbert snorted softly.

  "Ambitious," he said.

  Paul leaned back against the table.

  "They tried to box me in," Paul said. "One in front, one flanking, one coming up behind."

  Grump gestured for him to continue.

  Paul spoke calmly, describing the encounter with the detached tone of a man explaining a minor accounting problem rather than three deaths.

  "The one behind me moved first," Paul said. "I had the sleeve gun ready. Two-shot pistol. You know the one."

  Grump nodded once.

  "First shot took him through the eye," Paul continued. "Second one charged with a knife. I put the round into his groin. He went down."

  Humbert's grin spread slowly.

  "Creative," he said.

  Paul lifted a shoulder slightly.

  "It seemed efficient," he replied.

  "And the third?" Grump asked.

  Paul finished the whiskey.

  "He tried the brass knuckles," Paul said. "I let him focus on the empty gun. Baton finished the rest."

  Humbert let out a quiet chuckle.

  "You always look so polite," he said.

  "That helps," Paul replied.

  Grump walked over to the table and rested both hands on it. His eyes studied Paul carefully.

  "Anyone see?" he asked.

  "No," Paul said. "Private lot. Quiet street. I moved the bodies behind a cargo truck before I left."

  Grump nodded slowly.

  "Good," he said.

  He walked back toward the map on the wall.

  "So," Grump said. "The Tavern Network finally took notice."

  Paul crossed his arms.

  "I had heard the name," he said. "But not much more than that."

  Grump gave a short laugh.

  "Of course you hadn't," he said.

  He tapped the map.

  "They keep themselves quiet," Grump continued. "They run taverns. Not fancy ones. The sort where sailors drink until their pay disappears. The sort where no one asks questions if a man rents a room upstairs for an hour."

  Paul nodded slowly.

  "Prostitution," he said.

  "Among other things," Grump replied.

  He pointed to several colored pins scattered across the city map.

  "Drugs," Grump said. "Gambling. Information."

  Humbert stepped closer to the map, folding his massive arms across his chest.

  "How many?" he asked.

  Grump tapped several locations.

  "At least eight taverns," he said. "Probably more. Each one is a front. Each one feeds money upward."

  Paul studied the map.

  "Who runs it?" he asked.

  Grump smiled slightly.

  "A man named Calder Vale," he said. "Old operator. Been in Rafsborough longer than either of you. Longer than me, too."

  Humbert cracked his knuckles slowly.

  "Never heard of him," he said.

  "That is because he is smart," Grump replied.

  He paced slowly in front of the map.

  "Vale does not swing fists," Grump said. "He collects debts. He owns taverns. He lets drunk men and desperate women make him rich."

  Paul nodded thoughtfully.

  "Stable business," he said.

  "Exactly," Grump replied. "Stability is the point."

  Grump turned back toward them.

  "Our problem," he continued, "is that my recent activities threaten that stability."

  Humbert grinned.

  "Meaning you are taking over the city," he said.

  "Meaning," Grump corrected, "I am reorganizing inefficient power structures."

  Paul smirked slightly.

  "Of course," he said.

  Grump ignored the tone.

  "The Tavern Network has survived for years because no one pushed them," Grump continued. "The guards get their cut. The politicians get their quiet donations. Everyone stays comfortable."

  He tapped the map again.

  "But if I control Rafsborough," he said, "then every tavern answers to me instead."

  Humbert looked pleased with that idea.

  "I like that," he said.

  Paul looked thoughtful.

  "Which means Vale cannot allow you to succeed," Paul said.

  "Correct," Grump replied.

  Silence settled in the room for a moment.

  Humbert finally spoke.

  "So what happens next?" he asked.

  Grump smiled.

  "Now," he said, "we find out how stubborn the Tavern Network really is."