It all began with the sound of gunfire shattering the silence of the alley. Barney, with clinical coldness, opened fire on the four wounded men, leaving them dead in the mud without a sound. Amid the rising smoke and the sharp stench of gunpowder, a fifth man broke into a panicked run, trying to escape into the dark. But Barney remained unbothered; his clean-up crew was already stationed at every corner. Swiftly and precisely, his men cut off the fugitive, dragging him back by force to stand face to face with the investigator.
Barney looked at the terrified mercenary with complete detachment, his voice carrying an absolute death sentence:
— "Did you really expect to escape with your life? Your failure means your execution."
Before the man could fully process the words, one of Barney's henchmen delivered a heavy blow to the back of his skull with a wooden truncheon, knocking him instantly unconscious into the dirt.
With practiced intelligence, Barney began staging the crime scene. He brought out a heavy leather bag filled with counterfeit bank notes—prepared beforehand by the organization—and wedged it into the unconscious man's left hand. Into his right, he pried open the fingers and forced them around the grip of a discarded weapon. The setup was perfect: to any responding officer, it would look like a bloody dispute over stolen loot, a betrayal among thieves where one turned on his comrades but was knocked out in the struggle. A flawless deception to mislead Scotland Yard.
Leaving his men to vanish into the shadows, Barney walked with confident, measured steps toward the police station. He entered the warmth of the precinct with a perfectly fabricated look of shock, requesting an immediate audience with the commissioner.
— "Sir, I've just witnessed a horrific slaughter down the old district connecting alley," Barney reported, his voice tight with well-acted adrenaline. "I saw a rogue gunman shooting his own associates in cold blood. It seems greed blinded him; he slaughtered them all for a bag of cash they were carrying. I couldn't just stand by. I lunged at him, engaged in a desperate struggle, and managed to crack his skull with my truncheon. He's down there now, unconscious next to his weapon and the money."
The commissioner, thoroughly deceived by Barney's staged bravery, swallowed the lie whole. He immediately ordered a dispatch force to secure the scene and arrest the unconscious scapegoat. Before Barney left the office, the commissioner praised him in front of the entire night shift, calling him a fine example of a brave investigator who risked his life for justice. Internal satisfaction washed over Barney; the trap was perfectly set.
As Barney turned to leave, the commissioner called out, his brow furrowing:
— "Wait, Barney. Where is Miller? Why hasn't he reported for the night shift with you as usual?"
Barney didn't hesitate. His features softened into a mask of pure, brotherly concern:
— "He was taken violently ill just before the shift, sir. A sudden, severe fever. He's in a terrible state at home, which is why he couldn't make it tonight."
The commissioner nodded sympathetically, his respect for Barney deepening for stepping up to handle a crisis alone in his partner's absence.
Seizing the moment, Barney tip-toed toward the precinct's public telephone booth, claiming he needed to reassure his anxious mother. As soon as the heavy wooden door clicked shut, isolating him from the bustling station, he dialed a secure, unlisted number. The man on the other end was Jack, the ruthless right-hand of the syndicate's elusive leader, John Dread.
Barney relayed the success of the frame-up and the police containment. Jack listened in heavy, cold silence before responding:
— "Good. I'll dispatch a cleaner to the flat immediately. Chris and Edward won't see the morning."
A sudden flash of hesitation cracked Barney's cold exterior. He gripped the receiver tightly, lowering his voice to a harsh whisper:
— "But Rose... Chris's sister. She has absolutely nothing to do with this. Don't touch her. Leave her out of it."
On the other end of the line, a malicious smile spread across Jack's face. He instantly recognized the tremor in Barney's voice—an attachment to the girl. An ideal, exploitable weakness to keep their rogue cop on a tight leash should he ever contemplate betrayal.
— "Don't worry, investigator," Jack replied smoothly, his tone dripping with false reassurance. "The marksman will only take care of Chris and Edward. The girl remains untouched."
The line went dead. Barney stepped out of the booth feeling a surge of dark relief. With Chris removed from the equation, he reasoned, the path would be entirely clear for him to slide into Rose's life as her protector. He was utterly blind to Jack's true intentions.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the district, Chris climbed the creaking wooden stairs of his apartment building, trying to steady his ragged breathing. From the depths of his heart, he prayed that Rose would be fast asleep; he wanted to spare her the burden of seeing him look like a ghost on this bloody night.
Yet, as he slid his key into the lock, the faint, melodic strains of an old phonograph playing a soft classical waltz reached his ears. Opening the door quietly, he caught sight of Rose spinning gracefully in the center of the living room, her eyes closed, looking like a fragile butterfly trying to escape the grim, soot-choked reality of London.
Rose froze as the draft from the door cut through the room. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment as she rushed to turn off the gramophone.
— "Chris! You frightened me... why are you back? I thought you'd be tied up at the precinct all night."
Chris forced a tired but warm smile onto his face, keeping his voice soft:
— "A sudden bout of dizziness, Rose. A slight spell of vertigo... I couldn't finish the shift, so the sergeant sent me home to rest." He paused, looking at her books. "Tell me, shouldn't you be asleep? Don't you have university preparation?"
Rose crossed her arms, pouting playfully:
— "I have no lectures tomorrow anyway. Besides, it's terribly boring when my big brother has no time to spend with me anymore."
— "What can I do, Rose?" Chris sighed, stepping inside. "The streets outside are getting worse by the day. We just have to endure this storm until things clear up."
Rose stepped closer, squinting suspiciously:
— "You don't look very sick to me."
Chris tried to feign a cough and a heavy stumble, but his attempt at acting was miserably rigid. Rose burst into a melodious, ringing laugh that seemed to banish the shadows of the room for a fleeting moment. Placing her hands on her hips, she teased:
— "You're a dreadful liar, big brother. Just as terrible as when you were ten. 'Sick'?"
In her mind, however, a bright thought bloomed: He's lying because he went on a romantic date! He's finally trying to live a little, to find some happiness away from his grim job. I won't press him; he'll tell me when he's ready.
— "Alright, 'Mr. Sick man,'" Rose smiled warmly, "get to bed. I'll brew you some hot broth to clear that dizziness."
— "Actually," Chris stuttered slightly, his eyes darting toward the hallway, "I... I realized I left my wallet in Barney's coat pocket back at the station. I need to slip out quickly and retrieve it."
— "Oh, honestly! Leave it until tomorrow," Rose protested. "Aren't you supposed to be resting?"
But Chris was already backing toward the front door, his insistence only confirming Rose's romantic theory. She assumed he was slipping out to buy a late-night gift for his mystery lady.
— "Fine, go," she laughed, waving him off. "But remember to knock properly when you get back. Don't go giving me another fright. And work on your acting—it's truly pathetic!"
Chris nodded with a faint, heavy smile and stepped back out, closing the door. The moment the latch clicked, the waltz music started up again inside. Chris let out a long, shuddering sigh, the warmth vanishing from his eyes as he turned to face Edward, who was sitting silently in the shadows of the living room corner.
— "How is she?" Edward whispered, a deep, painful longing shining in his eyes.
— "She's fine," Chris replied bitterly, his gravelly voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "But this is no time for nostalgia, Ed. We have to move. Now."
From the corner of his eye, through the dirt-streaked window pane, Chris had caught something that made his blood run cold: a faint, unnatural silhouette shifting on the rooftop of the abandoned brick warehouse directly across the street.
The two men slipped out of the flat in absolute silence, gliding down the dark staircase toward the alley below.
Meanwhile, crouched on the freezing, soot-stained roof of the warehouse opposite, an unknown sniper adjusted his position. He peered through the basic optical sight of a heavy sporting rifle, aiming directly at the lit window of the Miller apartment. With detached, professional calm, his finger hovered over the trigger, waiting for the shadows inside to cross the glass line.