The morning sky was a deep lavender. A town with charming roofs, brightly painted homes, and a tall belltower used to tell time and gather beneath, slept at the foot of the enormous mountains, its lights twinkling like stars in the dim countryside. Alter swerved the car off the road and parked at the bottom of a gently sloping hill. They walked to its top and saw, tucked away in the curves of the land, a water-wheel powered textile factory. The wheel had fallen out of place and stood lopsided in the shallow river, acting as a poorly built dam instead. The building itself with its large gaps in the brick walls had suffered destruction by animals. Twigs and bits of shriveled grass littered the floor from where birds and other critters built nests and freely roamed as puddles accumulated over time underneath the holes in the ceiling and each step blew up a plume of dust. But there were signs people other than curious local children had been in this ruin, signs of repair. Fresh wood, a healthier brown shade, boarded up gaps in the roof and the path to the staircase was swept clean of grey cotton-like dust and pools of water. Their intelligence pinpointed this as the hub for the smuggling of illicit goods and Arwen had given reassurances the information was legitimate. Nothing was stored amongst the machines. The second floor, then. Alter couldn't peer into the offices because of his lower vantage point but he could hear them.

"In the back. Five apiece," he muttered, heading left to sweep the area just in case.

They would regroup at the stairs. He heard a flurry of movements, metal scraping into the wooden floor. Bullets peppered the ground. Alter lunged behind the machines. Someone appeared at the end of the row gun in hand. Alter fired.

"Fall back! Do not engage." Bullets pierced the walls, denting metal.

Alter waited for the hail to end. It never did.

He bellowed at Arwen, "Two maxim guns! How did you not know-"

Arwen roared, the noise threatening to drown his words, "I am no prophet."

He leaped aside. A stick of dynamite exploded where he had been and the blast flung him on his back.

Too many blunders old-

A bullet embedded in the floor inches away from his foot. They hadn't accounted for two machine guns. It was near impossible to acquire them in Arseny, even more difficult to smuggle across the border. The accuracy was terrible.

The parts, brought here and then assembled?

Arwen shouted, "You take the guns! I'll clear a path."

He threw smoke bombs on the floor and lobbed a couple hand grenades that detonated mid-air from a slew of bullets. And he was gone. Alter cursed.

I'm to fight two machine guns with no air support?

Rapid inhalation of crisp air cleaned the dust clogging his nose. How at such close range does one take out machine guns?

Aim for the head.

Sweat clung the coat to his body. He took it off, readying himself. He had to be fast and unpredictable. Faster than the bullets spraying his path. Outmaneuver certain death. Alter squeezed his coat. Fire invigorated his veins. He threw it towards the entrance, vaulted over the machines as bullets strafed it, and slid through a puddle, mud splattering his pants. Alter made it to the end of the row, preparing to dash straight and hide underneath the overhang. A person materialized out the smoke. Alter shoved his gun aside and pressed his own into his head. He dropped to the floor with the body and swung his rifle off his shoulder. He slid cartridges in as he waited for the machine gun to move on. The smoke was vanishing. He threw the body high into the air. Bullets ripped it. Alter stood. Aimed.

Bang. Bang.

Intense pain ripped his leg knocking him off balance and he banged his head against a machine.

Shit.

He felt that.

Alter heaved himself up, hearing nothing except Arwen's familiar footfalls.

"You're bleeding."

Alter massaged the bump growing on his head. Blood gushed from the wound in his leg.

"I'm fine."

He crumpled.

Arwen stiffened his muscles to hold up the injured man's heavy body, "Are you alright or do you need medical attention."

Alter winced. "I think an artery was hit, but I'm just dizzy. It's already healing."

And it was. New cells, wiggling like sea anemones on the ocean floor, began closing the hole.

Alter squinted at Arwen, black clothing drenched in burgundy. "Why are you so filthy for someone who only fought people?"

Arwen showed Alter a knife. "Using this was easier than a gun."

They headed for the entrance. Alter stopped. He heard something, something faint, quiet, something he nearly missed had his brain not finally dulled the pain. A heartbeat.

"You've lost your touch, Arwen."

"What?"

"You missed one."

Arwen unsheathed his knife. "I did not."

"You dealt a crippling blow. It wasn't enough to finish her off."

They peered down at the woman. She clutched the side of her neck, struggling to seal the wound with a flimsy scrap of cloth she had torn off her pants. Blood seeped down her wrists. She saw them through her delirium and tried to crawl away, skittering on the blood-soaked floor in a pathetic display. Her injury was too severe. Arwen knelt to finish her off. Alter stopped him.

"I have a better idea."

He went up the stairs and entered a room full of fine white powder, old untraceable pistols taken from battlefields, and oil drums. He took what he needed and went back down, stumbling once when he leaned too heavily on his tender leg. Alter busied himself with his contraption while Arwen spoke.

"Make it quick. The ASSR's investigations are underway, though it's more appropriate to say arrests are underway. We're to receive an update from Maks as soon as we return."

"I'm done."

Alter stepped back. He had the criminal propped up with explosives. He flooded the floor with oil and at the entrance, Alter struck a match and flicked it behind him.

Fwoom.

Black smoke polluted the bright blue sky.