Although it was a safehouse, they were supposed to have the place all to themselves for the night. Something wasn't right in the house.. There was a creaking of footsteps that shouldn't be there.
"Hank", he with the dark short hair, slipped out of bed and crept along in silence to the source of the intrusive sound.
"Joe", now a blond, shushed and gave a wave silently to the others.. "Bob", weirdly bald, silently pointed to the door that lead to the office.. The floorboards creaked as a weight shifted, somewhere beyond their sight. Footsteps..? "Hank" gave a quick glance in.
There was a tiny window high in the wall which barely helped chase away the gloom; It was latched open to let in what breeze there was on this hot summer night of Ohio. Not unusual, but he frowned: It was plenty big enough to let anyone in.
They each knew the office. It was barely a crawl space hidden behind an wooden door; it held a tiny desk, behind which usually sat a tiny old man called "Jeb". He often wore a transparent green brimmed hat, set low over his bushy white brows. The thing barely held his unruly white hair at bay as he bent his wrinkled head over splayed papers.
Only they had just buried "Jeb" that morning, ancient body found cold in the night. The old man had died a peaceful death, one which "Hank" found he envied at times.
"Hank" looked back at the others, and gave a short nod to "Bob". "Bob" turned to the innocently propped up cello case set in the corner of the hall, and eased it to the ground.
He looked over and smirked. Later he would make a jibe at "Bob's" odd musical tastes, for the case was certainly not filled with gilded wood and singing string.
"Bob" had instead his packed his case with gunpowder and lead.
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