No Rest for the Wicked: Part Thirteen

The shadowy figures crept down the long, dark corridors of Greyminster Park, intent on their terrible mission. Their faces were set like flint, evil in their hearts. As they crept further into the mansion, they muttered arcane spells of protection.

"It is here..." the men paused by a large door. "He is sleeping..."

They tried the door, but it would not open. The men took a step back, one of them taking aim at the lock. His silenced pistol fired, the bullet shattering the lock. They stepped up to the door again, one man leaning on the door, turning the door handle. The door remained stubbornly locked. The man muttered a curse.

"It's bolted." The voice of Sparrowhawk caused the men to turn. The men looked, dumbstruck at the leather-clad figure.

"Who the hell are you?" the man who had tried to open the door raised his gun.

"Scary warrior girl," Sparrowhawk struck out with her whip, tearing the gun from the man's hand. Her boot slammed into the man's jaw, and he slept. "You guys need to realise that I've dealt with slouches like you before. You can pick a lock, but try unbolting a door from the other side."

Another man drew, only to be knocked cold by a blow from Hawkie's gauntleted fist. A short struggled followed, but the men, dependent on their guns, and expecting the element of surprise, were outclassed from the beginning. Sparrowhawks fists and feet seemed to be everywhere at once, knocking the men back against very hard walls.

"Yes," Sparrowhawk struck a pose, leaning on the door frame. "I'm good."