Safety Tools (and more) for "Graveyard Shift", a new game coming soon!

Next week (or perhaps even as soon as this coming weekend), we're going to release a new mini-RPG. It's a zombie horror game, and we've been discussing "Safety Tools" and whether or not they really need to be in something released by NUELOW Games.

It's clear we're releasing a horror game. It's clear from the earliest stages of character creation that it's a horror zombie survival game, inspired by films like Evil Dead, Return of the Living Dead, and any number of second-rate (and even a few first-rate) Italian George Romero rip-offs. We don't think there's going to be any surprises for any players as far as what they are getting into.

But, just in case someone misses all the obvious clues and hints, here are some Safety Tools. We are very unlikely to put these in the game, however.

SAFETY TOOLS

Horror games can be intense. Use these tools to keep everyone comfortable:

Step Out: Anyone can tap out of a scene that’s too much, at any time, no questions asked.

Lines and Veils: Discuss what topics are off-limits (lines) or should happen off-screen (veils)

Check-Ins: The GM should periodically ask if everyone’s okay
Breaks: Take them when needed

Remember: The goal is to have fun being scared, not to actually traumatize anyone.

And, as a preview, here's the Quick Reference rules that may be cut from the booklet:

QUICK REFERENCE

Stats: BODY, MIND, NERVE. Distribute 9 points between them, minimum 1 and maximum 5.  
Making a Skill Roll: Roll dice equal to your stat. 4+ is a success. Need at least 1 success.
Combat: Your BODY/NERVE vs. Undead Threat Level. Winner by most successes.
Advantage: Roll twice, pick the best result. 

Disadvantage: Roll twice, pick the worst result.
Physical Injury: Lose Health equal to difference in successes (usually 1-3).
Sanity Loss: 1-3 points depending on the horror witnessed.
Flashlight: 6 uses before battery dies.
The Night: 6 hours from 11 PM to 5 AM. Dawn ends the nightmare.
Victory: Survive until dawn.

A must-have feat for d20 System action hero characters!

DRAMATIC SLOW-MOTION DIVE
You've mastered the art of diving dramatically through the air while firing weapons, even though physics suggests this shouldn't help (or even be possible) at all.

   Prerequisites: Dex 13+, at least 3 levels in any class (or combination of classes)
   Benefit: Once per encounter, you may declare a Dramatic Slow-Motion Dive as a full-round action. You leap through the air in an unnecessarily theatrical manner while firing your weapon. You take a -4 penalty to AC/DR until your next turn, but you gain a +4 bonus to all ranged attack rolls made during this action and automatically confirm any critical threats. All allies within 30 feet who can see you must succeed on a DC 15 Will save or spend their next action saying "Whoa" or "Did you see that?" instead of acting.
   Special: If you miss all your attacks, you land prone and take 1d6 non-lethal stun damage. Your allies may mock you mercilessly.

A brand-new horror story by Hundal & Miller!

 A tale of terror by L.L. Hundal & Steve Miller. If you like it, consider checking out Shadow Stories and Moonlit & Other Stories -- anthologies with stories by them writing together and separately.

'Til Death

The cemetery gates had been locked for hours, but Veronica knew the gap in the fence behind the maintenance shed. She'd used it three times before—once to confirm the burial, once on what would have been their anniversary, and now tonight, when sleep proved impossible and the bourbon wasn't working anymore.

Her heels sank into the soft earth as she navigated between headstones, their shadows stretching long and skeletal under the half-moon. October had stripped most of the leaves from the oaks that lined the cemetery's eastern border, and their bare branches clawed at the sky like arthritic fingers. The air carried that particular autumn smell—decay and damp earth and something else, something that made her think of endings.

Robert's plot was in the newer section, where the grass hadn't fully established itself and the headstones still looked too clean, too new. She'd paid extra for the marble angel, though she couldn't say why. Perhaps because his mother had been there, watching with those red-rimmed eyes, silently accusing. Perhaps because appearances still mattered, even when you were standing over the grave of a man who was supposed to be gone.

She stood at the foot of the grave, swaying slightly. The bourbon was catching up with her now, warming her from the inside despite the October chill. Her black dress—the same one she'd worn to the funeral—clung to her curves, and she was suddenly, acutely aware of how alive she felt. How free.

"Hello, Robert." Her voice sounded strange in the silence, too loud and too intimate at once. "I know it's been a while. Nine months, two weeks, four days. Not that I'm counting."

A laugh escaped her, sharp and bitter. She pressed her hand to her mouth, but it bubbled out anyway, echoing off the surrounding headstones. As the echo died, she took a swig from the bourbon bottle she was clutching in her other hand.

"God, you'd hate this. Me standing here, drunk, talking to your corpse like we're having one of our little chats." She took a step closer, her heel catching on the edge of the grave marker. "You know what's funny? Sometimes I actually miss you. Not you-you, but... having someone there. Someone to cook for. Someone whose dry cleaning I had to pick up."

The wind picked up, rustling through the dead leaves scattered across the cemetery grounds. Veronica wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold despite the alcohol in her system.

"But then I remember." Her voice dropped, hardening. "I remember the bruises I had to cover with makeup. The ribs you cracked when I overcooked the roast. The time you held my head underwater in the bathtub because I'd smiled at the waiter. The hospital visits I explained away as clumsiness, as accidents, as anything but what they were."

She crouched down, running her fingers over the engraved letters of his name. Robert James Holloway. Beloved Husband. The lie of it made her stomach turn.

"So no, Robert. I don't regret it. I don't regret finding that number in the back of that dive bar in Newark. I don't regret the meetings in parking garages, the cash withdrawals, the careful planning. And I definitely don't regret spending thirty thousand dollars—your thirty thousand dollars, from that account you thought I didn't know about—to have someone put a bullet through your skull."

The memory of that phone call still sent a thrill through her. It's done, the voice had said. Professional. Detached. She'd asked if it had been quick, and the voice had paused before answering. Quick enough. He didn't suffer.

Good, she'd thought. But not good enough.

"You know what would have made it perfect?" She stood, brushing dirt from her knees. "If it had been a woman. A hit-woman. Wouldn't that have been poetic? You, who always said women were weak, who said I was nothing without you, taken out by someone with tits and a trigger finger."

She laughed again, the sound carrying across the empty cemetery. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted, and she wondered if anyone could hear her. If anyone would care.

"The undertaker wanted to fix your face. Did you know that? He said he could make you presentable, that he could fill in the hole, use makeup and prosthetics. But I told him no." She smiled, remembering the man's shocked expression. "I told him to leave it. To let everyone see what you really were—a man with a hole where his brain should have been. Closed casket, Robert. You didn't even get a proper viewing."

The satisfaction of that moment still warmed her. His mother had wept, had begged to see her son one last time, but Veronica had been firm. The damage was too extensive, she'd said, her voice appropriately broken. You wouldn't want to remember him that way.

"I hope that hole is still there." She kicked at the grave marker, her heel leaving a scuff on the marble. "I hope it's with you wherever you are. I hope every time you look in a mirror—do they have mirrors in Hell?—you see it. That perfect, round reminder that you're not invincible. That you're not God. That you're just a dead man in a box."

The wind gusted harder, and Veronica stumbled slightly, catching herself on the angel statue. Its cold marble face stared down at her with blank eyes, and for a moment she felt a flicker of something that might have been shame. But no. She'd earned this. She'd earned her freedom, her life, her right to stand here and spit on his memory.

"You're probably in Hell right now." She straightened, smoothing down her dress. "I hope you are. I hope you're burning, Robert. I hope every day is agony. I hope you're surrounded by demons who do to you what you did to me, over and over, for eternity."

The thought made her bold. Made her reckless. She took another long pull from the bourbon bottle, letting the burn settle in her chest, fortifying her. Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached down, finding the hem of her dress.

This was it. This was the line. Once she crossed it, there was no taking it back—no pretending she was just a grieving widow, no hiding behind propriety or shock or the convenient amnesia of trauma. She'd be choosing to desecrate his grave, choosing to stand here naked and defiant in the dark. Choosing to reclaim what he'd tried to own.

She thought of his hands on her. His voice in her ear, whispering mine, always mine. She thought of the fear, the smallness he'd made her feel. And then she thought of that perfect, round hole in his skull, and something crystallized inside her—cold and sharp and absolutely certain.

She hurled the bourbon bottle at the headstone. It shattered against the granite with a satisfying crack, and she hiked her dress up around her thighs. The night air was cold against her skin, raising goosebumps along her legs.

"You remember these legs, Robert? You used to say they were your favorite part of me. That they were the reason you married me." Her voice dripped with venom. "Well, guess what?"

She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties—black lace, expensive, the kind he used to buy her before the honeymoon phase ended and the real Robert emerged. She slid them down slowly, deliberately, stepping out of them and holding them up in the moonlight.

"You'll never touch them again." She let the panties fall onto the grave, watching them settle against the fresh earth. "You'll never touch any of this again. And all those side-whores you thought I didn't know about? Jennifer from your office? That bartender at O'Malley's? The personal trainer you were fucking in our bed? They're done with you too. You're nothing now. Just bones and rot and that beautiful, perfect hole in your head."

She pulled her skirt higher, exposing herself to the night, to the grave, to the memory of the man who'd tried to own her. The gesture was crude, obscene, and absolutely liberating.

"This is mine now, Robert. My body. My life. My—"

A sound cut through her declaration. A scratching, scraping noise that seemed to come from beneath her feet. Veronica froze, her skirt still bunched around her waist.

But the sound came again, louder this time. Deliberate. And the earth on the grave—the fresh earth that had been smooth and undisturbed moments ago—seemed to shift. To bulge upward, as if something beneath was pushing against it.

"No." The word came out as a whisper. "No, that's not—that's not possible."

Run, her mind screamed. Run now.

But her legs wouldn't obey. She stood frozen, watching in horror as the grave continued to shift and buckle. Her panties, still lying on the disturbed earth, began to slide down the mound as the dirt beneath them gave way.

A hand burst through the surface.

Veronica screamed, the sound tearing from her throat raw and primal. The hand was gray, desiccated, the skin hanging loose on bones that looked too white in the moonlight. Dirt clung to it, falling away as the fingers flexed, curled, grasped at the air.

She stumbled backward, her heel catching on a root. She went down hard, her palms scraping against stone and earth, but she barely felt it. All she could see was that hand, now joined by another, both clawing at the earth, pulling, dragging something up from below.

"No, no, no, no—" The words tumbled from her lips as she scrambled to her feet, her dress still hiked up around her waist, her legs shaking so badly she could barely stand.

The thing—because it couldn't be Robert, it couldn't be, the dead didn't rise, the dead stayed buried—pulled itself further from the grave. Shoulders emerged, covered in the remnants of what had once been an expensive suit. The fabric was stained and rotting, hanging in tatters from a frame that was far too thin, far too angular to be human.

And then the head.

Veronica's scream died in her throat, replaced by a sound that was more animal than human. The face that emerged from the grave was Robert's face, but wrong, so terribly wrong. The skin had pulled tight against the skull, gray and mottled, the lips drawn back in a permanent grimace that exposed yellowed teeth. One eye was sunken, milky white, while the other socket was empty, just a dark hollow that seemed to stare at her anyway.

And the hole. The perfect, round hole in his temple, just above where his left ear had been. She could see through it, could see the dark cavity of his skull, could see things moving inside that she didn't want to identify.

The corpse pulled itself fully from the grave, dirt cascading off its body as it rose unsteadily to its feet. For one terrible moment it stood there, swaying, that empty eye socket fixed on her—and then its legs gave out. The thing collapsed forward onto the ground with a wet, heavy sound, and immediately began to crawl.

Not slowly. Not like something weak or dying.

It moved with a grinding, relentless speed that defied everything she understood about the world. Its arms pulled it forward, fingers digging into the earth, dragging its ruined body across the cemetery floor. The sound it made—the scrape of fabric against dirt, the crack of joints, the wet rasp of its breathing—was worse than any scream.

Veronica ran.

 

She didn't think, didn't plan, just turned and bolted through the cemetery, her heels sinking into the soft earth with every step. Behind her, she could hear it following—that grinding, dragging sound, getting closer, always closer, moving faster than anything crawling should be able to move.

This isn't happening, she thought wildly, dodging between headstones. This is the bourbon. This is a nightmare. This is—

She glanced back and immediately wished she hadn't. The thing that had been Robert was pulling itself across the ground with inhuman determination, its body pressed low to the earth, moving like some terrible insect. Its arms reached out toward her with each lurch forward, those gray fingers grasping, and she could see her panties clutched in one hand, the black lace stark against the dead flesh.

She screamed again and pushed herself harder, her lungs burning, her legs aching. The cemetery stretched out before her, suddenly vast and maze-like. Where was the parking lot? Where was the gap in the fence? Everything looked the same in the darkness—headstones and shadows and dead grass.

Left, she thought desperately. The parking lot is to the left.

She veered right instead, panic overriding logic, and found herself running deeper into the cemetery, toward the older section where the stones were weathered and crumbling and the trees grew thick and close. The ground was uneven here, treacherous, and her heel caught on something—a root, a stone, she didn't know—and she went sprawling.

She hit the ground hard, the impact driving the air from her lungs. For a moment she just lay there, gasping, tasting dirt and blood where she'd bitten her tongue. Then she heard it—that wet, dragging sound, getting closer. The scrape of dead hands pulling a dead body across the earth.

"No." She pushed herself up, ignoring the pain in her hands and knees, ignoring the way her dress had torn, exposing even more of her skin to the cold night air. "No, please, no."

She ran again, this time in the right direction. She could see the lights of the parking lot now, could see her car sitting alone under the single working streetlamp. So close. Just a little further.

The thing behind her moaned, a sound that was barely human, barely anything at all. But she heard words in it, or thought she did. Syllables that might have been her name.

"Ver...on...i...ca..."

"Shut up!" she screamed over her shoulder. "You're dead!"

She could see the gap in the fence now, could see freedom just beyond it. Her car keys were in her purse, which was—where was her purse? Had she brought it? She couldn't remember, couldn't think past the terror that had her in its grip.

Twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten.

She was going to make it. She was going to—

She dropped to her knees at the fence gap, already pushing herself through, when the hand shot out from ground level and locked around her ankle.

Veronica shrieked as she was yanked backward, dragged out of the gap, her body slamming against the earth. She kicked out wildly, her free foot connecting with something that gave with a wet, sickening sound. But the grip on her ankle didn't loosen. If anything, it tightened, those dead fingers digging into her flesh with strength that shouldn't have been possible.

She was dragged backward across the ground, her nails scrabbling at the earth, leaving furrows in the dirt. She twisted, looking back, and found the thing that had been her husband pressed against the ground beside her, its body stretched out along the earth, pinning her.

That hole in its head wept something dark and viscous. The empty eye socket seemed to bore into her, and the remaining eye—that milky, dead eye—held something that might have been recognition. Might have been rage.

Its mouth opened, the jaw working with a sound like grinding bone, and it spoke. The voice was hoarse, ruined, like gravel being dragged across concrete, but the words were clear enough.

"Remember... the pool..." Its face was inches from hers now, and she could smell it—rot and earth and something chemical from the embalming. "How you... couldn't breathe... how I held you... under..."

"No!" Veronica kicked again, her heel connecting with its shoulder. The joint gave with a crack, but the thing didn't release her. It just adjusted its grip, pulling itself closer along the ground. "Let me go! You're dead!"

"I know... where you go..." The corpse's head tilted, considering, its body still pressed flat against the earth. Its remaining eye fixed on hers with terrible clarity. "Every coffee shop... every friend's house... I always... knew..."

It reached toward her with its free hand, those gray fingers trailing up her exposed leg, over her thigh, higher. The touch was cold, so cold it burned, and Veronica felt bile rise in her throat.

She wrenched her body sideways with everything she had left, her ankle twisting in that cold grip. For a moment—just a moment—the corpse's hold faltered as its body shifted on the uneven ground. She felt the fingers loosen.

That was all she needed.

Veronica tore herself free and scrambled backward, her bare feet scraping against the cold earth. She didn't look back. She ran—past the headstones, past the angel monument, toward the gates that suddenly seemed impossibly far away. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her heart hammering so hard she thought it might burst in her chest.

She burst through the cemetery gates and into the parking lot, her keys already in her shaking hand. The car door slammed behind her, the lock clicked, and she fumbled the key into the ignition.

The engine roared to life. She peeled out of the lot, tires screaming against asphalt, and didn't stop until the cemetery was miles behind her.

But as she drove through the empty streets of the sleeping city, his words kept circling back, relentless as a predator. I know where you go. Every coffee shop. Every friend's house. She gripped the steering wheel tighter, her knuckles white, and tried to convince herself it was just the bourbon talking, just her own fear echoing in her skull.

Except it wasn't. Because he was right. He'd always known. He'd always been there—in the background of her life, watching, tracking, controlling. And now, impossibly, he still was.

She pulled into her apartment complex and sat in the car for a long time, engine off, hands still shaking. The parking lot was empty. The building was dark. Everything was normal.

Tomorrow she'd go to the coffee shop on Fifth Street. Her mother's house on Wednesday. The therapist's office on Thursday afternoon at two.

And he would know.

She'd killed him once. She'd buried him. She'd danced on his grave and poured bourbon on his headstone and reclaimed every piece of herself he'd tried to destroy.

But she would never escape him.

--

If you enjoyed that chilling bit of horror, you can find more from the same team of writers in Shadow Stories and Moonlit & Other Stories.

A Tale of the Ghost of Hong Kong -- By Steve Miller

Here's a new story of the Ghost of Hong Kong, one of the world's most lethal assassins. You can find other stories featuring here on the blog, or you can check out the 15-story anthology.

The Target

The first blow came without warning—a knife-hand strike that would have crushed Mae Ling Chen's larynx if she hadn't sensed the displacement of air and twisted away at the last microsecond. The edge of Harland Coates' hand caught her shoulder instead, sending a jolt of pain down her arm that she immediately compartmentalized and filed away for later consideration.

Former CIA, she reminded herself as she pivoted into a defensive stance. That means Langley's hand-to-hand program, probably supplemented with private training. Dangerous.

The hotel's back corridor was narrow, lined with industrial carpet that muffled their footfalls as they circled each other. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting harsh shadows that made reading Coates' body language more difficult. He was older than her by perhaps fifteen years, but he moved with the fluid economy of someone who'd spent decades refining violence into an art form.

"You don't want to do this," Coates said, his voice carrying the flat affect of someone stating facts rather than making threats. His hands remained loose at his sides, ready but not aggressive. "Whatever they're paying you, it's not enough."

Mae Ling didn't waste breath on a response. She'd been hired to eliminate Harland Coates, a former CIA operative who'd allegedly gone rogue and sold classified intelligence to the highest bidder. The dossier had been thorough—his training, his known associates, his last three confirmed locations. What it hadn't mentioned was the possibility that he might be innocent, and Mae Ling had learned long ago not to question the contracts that came through her handler.

She struck first, a testing combination—jab, cross, low kick—designed to gauge his defensive reflexes. Coates deflected the punches with minimal movement and checked the kick with his shin, the impact producing a dull crack that echoed in the confined space. He countered immediately, driving forward with a palm strike aimed at her sternum that she barely managed to redirect.

The exchange accelerated from there, both fighters abandoning caution for controlled aggression. Mae Ling's Muay Thai background emphasized powerful strikes and clinch work, while Coates demonstrated a hybrid style that blended Krav Maga's brutal efficiency with what looked like Jeet Kune Do's intercepting philosophy. They traded blows in rapid succession, each strike blocked or deflected, each counter met with a counter-counter.

Coates drove her backward down the corridor, his longer reach giving him a slight advantage in the confined space. Mae Ling felt the wall behind her and used it, planting her foot and launching herself forward with a flying knee that forced Coates to stumble back. She pressed the advantage, landing a solid elbow to his ribs that produced a satisfying grunt of pain.

But Coates was far from finished. He caught her next strike, twisted her arm, and sent her crashing through the swinging doors that led into the hotel's kitchen.

The kitchen was a maze of stainless steel surfaces and hanging pots, the air thick with the smell of garlic and searing meat. A sous chef looked up from his station, eyes widening in shock as Mae Ling rolled to her feet and Coates came through the doors behind her. The kitchen staff scattered, shouting in Cantonese as the two fighters resumed their deadly dance among the prep stations.

Mae Ling grabbed a chef's knife from a magnetic strip and hurled it at Coates' center mass. He twisted, the blade passing close enough to slice through his jacket, and countered by kicking a pot of boiling stock off a burner. Mae Ling dove aside as scalding liquid splashed across the floor where she'd been standing.

They crashed through the kitchen like a localized hurricane, upending equipment and sending dishes clattering to the tile floor. Coates used the environment ruthlessly, throwing obstacles in Mae Ling's path and using the narrow aisles between stations to limit her mobility. She adapted, vaulting over a prep table and catching him with a spinning back kick that sent him stumbling into a rack of hanging pans.

The noise was tremendous, a cacophony of metal on metal and breaking ceramics that surely had to be drawing attention. Mae Ling didn't care. She was committed now, her professional pride demanding that she complete the contract regardless of the complications.

Coates recovered faster than she'd anticipated, grabbing a heavy cast-iron pan and swinging it like a medieval mace. Mae Ling ducked under the first swing, felt the wind of its passage ruffle her hair, and drove her fist into his kidney. He grunted but didn't drop the pan, bringing it around for a backhand strike that she barely blocked with her forearm. The impact sent a spike of pain up to her shoulder, and she knew she'd have a bone-deep bruise tomorrow.

If there is a tomorrow, she thought grimly.

They grappled among the ovens, each trying to gain a dominant position. Coates was stronger, but Mae Ling was faster and more flexible. She slipped his attempted rear naked choke, drove her elbow into his solar plexus, and used his momentary breathlessness to break free. She grabbed a sauté pan and swung it at his head with all her strength.

Coates caught the pan, twisted it out of her grip, and threw it aside. "Listen to me," he said, breathing hard. "You've been set up. We both have."

"Save it," Mae Ling replied, launching a high kick at his temple.

He blocked it, but the force of the impact drove him backward through another set of swinging doors. They tumbled together into the restaurant's main dining area, a elegant space with white tablecloths and crystal chandeliers. Diners screamed and fled as the two fighters crashed through their midst, upending tables and sending wine glasses shattering to the floor.

Mae Ling used a chair as a weapon, swinging it at Coates' head. He ducked and drove his shoulder into her midsection, lifting her off her feet and driving her backward. She felt the window behind her, the glass radiating cold against her back, and realized his intention a split second too late.

They went through the window together in an explosion of shattered glass, tumbling through the air for one weightless moment before hitting the pavement of the alley below. Mae Ling managed to twist in mid-air, landing on top of Coates and using his body to absorb most of the impact. They rolled apart, both coming to their feet despite the punishment they'd taken.

Mae Ling tasted blood in her mouth and felt a dozen cuts from the broken glass, but nothing seemed broken. Coates looked equally battered, his jacket torn and his face sporting several lacerations. They faced each other in the alley, both breathing hard, both knowing that the next exchange might be the last.

But before either could move, the alley flooded with light and the sharp commands of police officers filled the air. Mae Ling counted at least six officers, all with weapons drawn and pointed at them. She raised her hands slowly, watching Coates do the same from the corner of her eye.

"On the ground! Now!" The lead officer's voice carried the authority of someone used to being obeyed.

Mae Ling complied, lowering herself to the pavement with deliberate slowness. Rough hands grabbed her arms, wrenching them behind her back as handcuffs clicked into place. She didn't resist. There was no point—not with this many officers and not when she was already exhausted from the fight.

As they hauled her to her feet, she caught Coates' eye. He looked at her with an expression she couldn't quite read—not anger, not fear, but something closer to resignation mixed with grim determination.

This isn't over, his look seemed to say.

Mae Ling turned away, allowing the officers to guide her toward the waiting police vehicles. Whatever Coates thought he knew, whatever game he believed they were playing, it didn't matter. She'd failed to complete her contract, which meant she'd need to try again once she'd dealt with this inconvenience.

--

The police station was a typical mid-sized precinct, all fluorescent lights and institutional green paint that seemed designed to drain hope from anyone who entered. Mae Ling sat in the holding cell, watching the officers process paperwork and make phone calls. They'd separated her from Coates immediately, placing him in the adjacent cell where she could see him through the bars but not speak to him without being overheard.

She'd been through this before, in half a dozen countries. The key was patience and the right connections. Her handler would be notified of her arrest within the hour, and arrangements would be made. She'd be released on some technicality or transferred to a facility where escape would be easier. It was simply a matter of waiting.

Coates, however, seemed less patient. He paced his cell like a caged animal, his eyes constantly scanning the precinct's layout, cataloging exits and counting officers. Mae Ling recognized the behavior—he was planning something, which meant he either had resources she didn't know about or he was desperate enough to try something foolish.

After perhaps half an hour, Coates moved to the bars separating their cells and spoke in a low voice that barely carried to her ears. "You've made a mistake."

Mae Ling didn't respond, keeping her gaze fixed on the far wall.

"They're coming," Coates said. "The people who hired you. They used you to flush me out, and now we're both in their crosshairs."

Mae Ling turned to look at him. His face was drawn, sweat beading at his temples despite the cool air. Not the expression of a man running a con.

"The contract came through channels you trust," he continued, his words coming faster now. "Intelligence too good to question. They knew exactly how to make you bite."

She kept her face blank, but her mind began to race. The handler's insistence. The perfect intel. The urgency that had felt like opportunity but now tasted like a setup.

"They want us both in one place, locked down, limited security." Coates gripped the bars between them. "We're not prisoners here. We're bait that's already been swallowed."

Mae Ling felt fury rising hot in her chest. She'd been played. Used like a damned amateur.

Before Mae Ling could respond, the lights went out.

The precinct plunged into darkness, the sudden absence of fluorescent humming replaced by startled exclamations from the officers. Emergency lighting kicked in after a few seconds, bathing everything in a dim red glow that turned the familiar space into something alien and threatening.

Then the gunfire started.

The sound was unmistakable—the rapid staccato of automatic weapons, multiple shooters, coming from the front of the precinct. Officers shouted, drawing their weapons and taking cover behind desks. Return fire echoed through the building, punctuated by screams and the crash of breaking glass.

Mae Ling was on her feet instantly. Coates had been right, she decided. The realization brought no satisfaction, only a cold fury at having been manipulated.

The firefight intensified, moving deeper into the precinct. Mae Ling counted at least four distinct weapon signatures—the distinctive hollow cough of suppressed submachine guns, military-spec hardware. The police were outgunned and unprepared for a military-style assault. This wasn't a rescue operation; it was an execution squad.

One of the officers who'd arrested them—a young man with a fresh face and frightened eyes—appeared in the detention area, his service weapon drawn but his hands shaking. He looked at Mae Ling and Coates with wild eyes, his finger tight on the trigger.

"Call them off!" he shouted, his voice cracking with fear and adrenaline. "Call off your friends or I swear to God I'll shoot you both right now!"

"They're not our friends," Coates said, his voice calm despite the chaos erupting around them. "We're targets, just like you. Just like everyone in this building."

"Bullshit!" The officer's gun wavered between them. "You're with them! You have to be!"

Mae Ling stepped forward, ignoring the weapon pointed at her chest. "Listen to me. Those shooters out there are professionals. Military contractors, probably. They're here to kill us, and they'll kill anyone who gets in their way. That includes you and every other officer in this precinct."

"She's right," Coates added. "You can shoot us and die when they get here, or you can let us out and maybe we all survive this. Your choice, but you need to make it now."

The officer looked between them, his face pale in the emergency lighting. Another burst of gunfire echoed through the building, closer now. Someone screamed, the sound cutting off abruptly.

"How do I know you're telling the truth?" the officer asked, but his voice had lost its aggressive edge. He was scared, and he knew he was out of his depth.

"You don't," Mae Ling said. "But in about thirty seconds, those shooters are going to reach this detention area. If we're still locked up, they'll kill all three of us. If you let us out, we might have a chance."

The officer's hand trembled as he reached for his keys. He unlocked Coates' cell first, then Mae Ling's. "If you're lying—"

"We're not," Coates said. "Now get down and stay down. This is about to get ugly."

Mae Ling and Coates moved into the precinct's bullpen with the practiced silence of predators. The emergency lighting cast everything in shades of red and black, turning the familiar office space into a maze of shadows and blind corners. Bodies lay scattered among the desks—officers who'd been caught in the initial assault, their weapons still holstered or clutched uselessly in dead hands.

Mae Ling knelt beside the nearest corpse, a female officer who'd taken three rounds to the chest. She retrieved the woman's Glock 17, checked the magazine, and chambered a round. Her hands moved on autopilot while her mind churned with cold fury.

Coates did the same with another fallen officer's weapon, his movements efficient and practiced.

They heard the shooters before they saw them—two men moving in tactical formation, their suppressed weapons sweeping the bullpen methodically. Mae Ling caught Coates' eye and gestured, a simple hand signal that he understood immediately. They split up, using the desks for cover as they flanked the approaching assassins.

The first shooter never knew what hit him. Mae Ling rose from behind a filing cabinet and put two rounds through his head before he could react. The anger made her faster, sharper—every movement channeling the humiliation of being played. The second shooter spun toward her, his weapon coming up, but Coates was already there. Three shots, center mass, and the man went down.

Mae Ling moved to the bodies, retrieving their weapons—Heckler & Koch MP5s with suppressors and extended magazines. Top-tier hardware. European procurement. The kind of arsenal that spoke of deep pockets and deeper connections. Someone had invested serious capital in this operation, and she'd been stupid enough to be their opening move. She tossed one to Coates and kept the other, the familiar weight of the submachine gun a comfort in her hands.

"How many more?" she asked quietly.

"At least four," Coates replied, his eyes scanning the bullpen. "Maybe six. They'll be moving in teams, clearing rooms systematically."

More gunfire erupted from the front of the precinct, followed by the distinctive crack of a flashbang grenade. The assault team was being thorough, which meant they had time and resources. This wasn't a quick hit—it was a complete sanitization operation.

Mae Ling and Coates moved deeper into the precinct, using the chaos to their advantage. They encountered another pair of shooters near the evidence room, and this time the fight was harder. The assassins moved with practiced efficiency, coordinated and lethal, using suppressing fire and tactical movement to try to pin them down.

But Mae Ling and Coates had something the shooters didn't—desperation and the intimate knowledge that comes from years of operating in hostile environments. They worked together with an instinctive coordination that surprised Mae Ling, each covering the other's blind spots, each anticipating the other's movements. The irony wasn't lost on her. She was fighting alongside the man she'd been sent to kill, protecting him from the people who'd hired her.

Coates laid down suppressing fire while Mae Ling flanked left, using a overturned desk for cover. She moved with controlled aggression, each tactical decision fueled by the cold burn of her rage. She caught one shooter reloading and put a three-round burst through his chest. Not for survival. For the insult of being manipulated like an amateur. The second shooter tried to retreat, but Coates was already moving, cutting off his escape route and dropping him with a controlled pair of shots.

They paused to catch their breath, both breathing hard from the adrenaline and exertion. Mae Ling's earlier injuries from their fight were making themselves known now, a dull ache in her ribs and a sharp pain in her shoulder every time she raised the MP5. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the fury coiling in her chest. Someone had looked at Mae Ling and seen a puppet. A useful idiot to point at a target. That mistake was going to cost them everything.

"You're hurt," Coates observed.

"I'll live," Mae Ling replied. "How many left?"

"Two, maybe three." Coates ejected his magazine, checked the remaining rounds, and slapped it back into place. "They'll know we're armed now. They'll be more careful."

As if to punctuate his words, a voice called out from somewhere in the precinct's maze of corridors. "Coates! We know you're here! Come out and we'll make it quick!"

Neither Mae Ling nor Coates responded. Talking would only give away their position.

They moved toward the voice, using the building's layout to their advantage. Mae Ling had memorized the precinct's floor plan during her initial processing, a habit that was now paying dividends. She led them through a series of offices and conference rooms, circling around to flank the remaining shooters.

They found them near the precinct's rear exit—two men in tactical gear, their weapons trained on the corridor they expected Coates and Mae Ling to emerge from. It was a good ambush position, but they'd made the mistake of assuming their targets would take the direct route.

Mae Ling and Coates emerged from a side office, catching the shooters in a crossfire. The fight was brief and brutal. One shooter went down immediately, Mae Ling's burst catching him in the side where his body armor didn't cover. The second shooter was faster, diving for cover and returning fire.

A round caught Coates in the shoulder, spinning him around. He went down hard, his weapon clattering across the floor. The shooter rose from cover, his weapon trained on Coates' prone form, finger tightening on the trigger.

Mae Ling didn't think. She moved on pure instinct, her MP5 coming up as she squeezed the trigger. The burst caught the shooter in the throat, above his body armor, and he went down choking on his own blood.

She rushed to Coates, helping him to his feet. Blood soaked his shoulder, but the wound looked clean—through and through, missing the bone. "Can you move?"

"Yeah," Coates grunted, retrieving his weapon with his good hand. "Thanks."

Before Mae Ling could respond, a voice called out from the darkness. "This isn't over!" The accent was Eastern European, the tone filled with cold certainty. "ORACLE won't stop until you're dead, Coates! And you, Ghost, you picked your side! You'll pay for your choice!"

Mae Ling heard footsteps retreating, running toward the rear exit. She started to pursue, but Coates grabbed her arm with his good hand.

"Let them go," he said. "We need to get out of here before backup arrives—theirs or the police's."

Mae Ling hesitated, every instinct screaming at her to pursue and eliminate the threat. But Coates was right. They were in no condition for a prolonged engagement, and staying here would only lead to more complications.

They made their way to the rear exit, moving through the carnage they'd created. The precinct was a slaughterhouse, bodies of officers and assassins scattered throughout. Mae Ling felt a pang of guilt for the dead police—collateral damage in a war they hadn't known they were fighting.

The night air hit them like a physical force as they emerged into the alley behind the precinct. Sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer. They had minutes at most before the area was flooded with reinforcements.

Coates leaned against the wall, his face pale from blood loss. Mae Ling tore a strip from her shirt and fashioned a crude pressure bandage for his shoulder. It wouldn't hold for long, but it would keep him mobile for now.

"We need to move," she said.

"Agreed." Coates pushed himself off the wall, swaying slightly. "There's a safe house about three miles from here. We can—"

"No," Mae Ling interrupted. "We're not going anywhere together until you tell me what the hell is going on. Who is ORACLE? Why do they want us both dead? And why did they use me to flush you out?"

Coates looked at her for a long moment, his eyes searching her face. "It's a long story."

"Then you'd better start talking," Mae Ling said, "because we're going to meet again, Coates. Soon. And when we do, you're going to explain everything. Every detail, every connection, every reason why I was manipulated into hunting you."

"Fair enough," Coates said. He pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to her. It was blank except for a phone number written in pencil. "Call this number in forty-eight hours. I'll tell you everything I know about ORACLE, about why they want us dead, and about the people who've been pulling your strings."

Mae Ling took the card, memorizing the number before tucking it into her pocket. "Forty-eight hours. If you're not there, I'll find you anyway."

"I don't doubt it," Coates said with a ghost of a smile. "You're good, Chen. Better than I expected. That's probably why they wanted you for this."

They heard voices from inside the precinct—more police arriving, securing the scene. Mae Ling and Coates moved in opposite directions without another word, disappearing into the Hong Kong night like shadows fleeing the dawn.

As Mae Ling ran through the back alleys, her mind raced with questions. ORACLE. The name meant nothing to her, but the implications were clear. Someone with significant resources had manipulated her into hunting Coates, had used her as a tool to flush him out of hiding. And now that same organization wanted her dead for the crime of surviving their trap.

She'd been played, used like a amateur. The realization burned in her gut, a cold fury that demanded satisfaction. Someone would pay for this manipulation, for turning her into an unwitting pawn in their game.

But first, she needed answers. And in forty-eight hours, Harland Coates would provide them.

The game was far from over. It had only just begun.

--

If you liked this story, you should check out The Ghost of Hong Kong anthology!