“Team A, you are a go. Decoy b is in the net,” squawks the walkie.

The men in the van and other vehicles look like unassuming middle aged nobodies. They blend in to most crowds in the western world like water slipping into a lake. Who notices a few more white guys?

They wear a variety of sweaters and cardigans, khakis and coats. Armed with silenced pistols and stun guns, they get out of their nondescript sedans. So disparate that they are almost identical. Someone watching would describe them moving in sync. Professionals.

By different routes, they filter into the mall. Their quarry will believe that the squad has been neutralized. They still believe that this group is run by a lone group of weirdos. And, to be fair, the breakers are monsters to a man. It’s unfortunate, but a necessary part of the network.

“They are heading to the second level. Eyes up, it looks like they have outrunners.”

The men act as if they are browsing. Asking clerks for sizing options. For color options. Arriving to the designated area before the target.

If their security is pointed outward, it should afford our ambush a few vital seconds of surprise.

The underboss should never have been seen by the girl. But, he was the only available agent in place when it all started going south. This is a fuck up and normally we would have cut him away but This group… This Darkling Spire has raided a couple of our lower lever houses. If we let them, they will burn down all we have built.

“Check-in.”

“1, 2, 5, 7, 4, 8,….”

“Does anyone have eyes on 3 or 6?”

“kshhhh”

“I see 3 sitting in the food court…”, the sound of suppressed gunfire cuts the walkie off.

Fuck. “Abort, Abort, abort.”

The sound of the lock on the van breaking spins me around. The splash of peach leaves me speechless as the voice of the target says, “Pel said I was going shopping. He always gets me the nicest things.”