Braveheart stepped out of the alley first, the hood shadowing most of his face. Behind him the nine crusaders followed in a single column, boots clattering on the pavement, rifles hugged to their chests.
Snowflakes clung to their tabards and chain mail; the red crosses looked wet and new.
They moved through the chill of Boxing Day morning and into the open street.
People turned.
A mother dragging her child toward the bus station froze. A pair of teens stopped chewing their chips.
Someone laughed nervously—then realized no one else was laughing.
Phones didn't rise; in 1989 there weren't many. There were only faces, open-mouthed, whispering.
"Jesus Christ," someone said.
A man muttered, "Comic-Con's early," and backed away.
Braveheart ignored them all. He kept his eyes on the curve of the street, on the high stone frontage of the Royal Bank of Scotland.
The crusaders followed close, armour clicking, a tiny storm of metal and breath.
By the time they reached the gates the street had gone quiet except for their boots.
Behind the iron bars, Billy McNab stood in his security coat, cigarette halfway to his mouth. He squinted at the sight: nine knights and what looked like a homeless man leading them.
"What the bloody hell is this?" he said, half to himself.
Braveheart gripped the bars. "Billy! Get over here, man!"
That voice—hoarse, familiar, impossible.
Billy's stomach dropped. "What the… Douglas? Douglas, that you?"
He came closer, blinking hard, seeing now the beard, the eyes, the mad grin.
"What the fuck are you doing, man? Who are these—these crusader people? Are those real guns? How did you—"
"Open the gate, Billy." Braveheart's tone went low, urgent. "Do it now. Nothing else. I'll give you your cut after, yeah? For the job."
Billy stared. "The job? You're doing it now? You didn't tell me you were—"
"That's the point." Braveheart's smile was almost kind. "Now nobody can blame you for anything."
"Doug, I can't just—there's folk watching, I—"
Braveheart turned his head slightly. "Point your weapons at him."
The crusaders moved as one. Nine muzzles rose, black mouths gaping through the bars.
Billy stumbled back, hands up. "Whoa, whoa—Jesus Christ!"
"You either hand over those keys," Braveheart said, voice calm as scripture, "or they'll turn you into Swiss cheese before you finish your prayer."
Billy's breath came short. He fumbled with the ring at his belt, yanked it loose, and threw it over the gate. "Okay! Okay! Christ almighty!"
Braveheart caught the keys one-handed, turned, and slid the main lock open. The gates swung with a slow groan.
He faced the crusaders. "You know your work. Get the money. I'll wait with the van."
He started off, then glanced back. "Oh—and knock out Billy. Makes it look clean."
Then he was gone, boots crunching back up the street.
Sir Egg stepped through the gate, heavy and unhurried. Billy blinked, trying to find a sentence, but the butt of a rifle came down before one formed. The hit landed square on his temple. He made a small surprised sound and folded to the grass.
People screamed. Someone shouted for the police. The air filled with panic, car doors slamming, feet scraping across pavement.
Two of the crusaders planted themselves by the gates, rifles level. The other seven ran for the grand front doors, red crosses bright against the white and the stone.
The morning light flashed on steel and bayonets.
Edinburgh had woken to the strangest sight in its history: nine medieval ghosts armed with assault rifles, charging a bank in the name of a sleeping baby under a bridge.
The beautiful wooden doors of the Royal Bank of Scotland exploded inward as Sir Egg hit them full force. Timber burst; brass fittings skittered across marble. People screamed. Seven figures spilled into the hall, armour clicking, white tabards bright under modern light.
Sir Egg planted himself in the hall's belly, three crusaders to his left, three to his right. He pinched a ten-pound note between his gloved fingers and raised it high. Around him rifles gleamed and lifted, bayonet points new and bright. He shouted in a church-rough Middle English hardly anyone could parse:
"Whar is the siller! By God's name—whar's the siller our God hath set us tae claim? Yield it now—or feel His haly wrath!"
Behind the counters, faces froze in terror. Others peered from doorways, startled into foolishness by curiosity.
A female manager in a suit and tie stepped out first, hands half-raised, trying to calm the storm. "Please—calm yourself. I don't know what sort of game this is, but this is a bank. This is not a place for people in costumes playing robbers. Leave now, or we'll press charges and call the police."
At the back, Guthrie peered from a staff door. He'd seen guns before; these were real. He turned and hurried for the office safe and the single revolver—an old policy, a useless comfort. His boots on marble sounded like consequence.
Sir Egg stared at the strange woman—cropped hair, painted eyes, a metal ring glinting at one nostril. The sight made him draw back a step, as if he'd met a beast out of a bestiary. She was shorter; it wasn't her size but her voice—cool, corrective—that disgusted him. With a growl, tenner still in hand, he backhanded her with his plate-covered gauntlet. She dropped to the marble in a loose heap, out cold.
A young clerk, fingers gone cold, gasped and slid her hand beneath the desk. She pressed the panic button.
The alarm tore the air. Red lights bled; speakers spat a mechanical wail. The crusaders flinched, steel shoulders hunching, visor slits snapping upward. The noise knifed their ears and found the only words they had for it: sorcery and assault. Their mouths found prayers; their hands found violence.
Targets appeared like sins in a sermon. People behind the counters ducked too late. The seven AK-47s erupted, full-auto fire chewing the hall into splinters and noise. Old words were shouted under new thunder. Bodies dropped; some hit counters on the way down, some dove just in time, most froze where they sat and died where they'd been—caught by fear, then by rounds.
Others not yet in the hall scrambled deeper into the bank, white-faced and voiceless except for the thin whine of panic.
The sound inside was frantic, furious, absolute. Paper flew like wounded birds; a Christmas tree toppled in a spray of baubles; a mug that said BEST DAD exploded to powder when a round took it through. The crusaders, drunk on noise and recoil, swept their muzzles side to side and emptied their magazines. None of them had fired a gun before; now they felt invincible.
Guthrie never reached the holster. A wild round punched the corridor door and spun into his leg; he went down with a curse. The younger guard who'd been in the hall had flung himself beneath a counter and stayed there, shaking.
Then, as brutally as it began, the firing stopped. Magazines ran dry; the click of empty bolts ticked across marble. Sir Egg stood chest heaving, the tenner limp in his fist, eyes wide with a dawning weight. Some of his people stared at the ruin as if it were proof that their God was strong. Others reloaded without looking.
Outside at the gates, the two women on lookout heard the alarm's scream and the inside thunder. The day narrowed. Cars slowed. People froze. Camcorders rose—big, boxy, red tally lights blinking—and heavy SLRs lifted like black eyes. The women gripped their rifles as if the metal itself might tell them what to do.
They traded a glance that tasted of terror and confusion. The city pressed from every side; the square was a mouth of faces breathing steam. One swallowed, finger twitching near the trigger.
They lifted their rifles.
And they opened fire.