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I think the last marksman managed to puncture a lung. Might have hoped the Luperni hired hands were altogether less keen on doing such a damnable good job. I'm impressed with their professionalism, but I'd rather they put less effort into treachery and threats.
And now they're prowling the streets, hounding us. Tracking the blood, cutting off the avenues. The whistles of the search parties are too loud, too close. Calling this place a safehouse is starting to be decidedly optimistic. Time to move.
I need to make it to the dock.
Let's hope my hired hands and the few loyalists still in the city can keep the path clear.
