A Bar Called O'Malley's #1

Rain glosses the pub windows black. The Woman in Dark Coat stands in the open doorway, silver case lifted between steady hands, while Patrick, Scott, Darcy, and the terrified Hooded Patron keep their weapons trained on her.

Behind the bar, the cellar door buckles hard enough to rattle bottles. A splinter shoots free, and the Hooded Patron flinches back with a gasp.

The woman does not look at the weapons, only at Patrick, like she is measuring how fast he can move before the cellar gives way. The silver case catches the light, bright and clean against the storm-dark room.

Patrick vanishes in a crack of blue-white motion. He strips the silver case from the woman’s hands before she can tighten her grip, and a heartbeat later he is already skimming across the pub toward the far side, case tucked under his arm.

She pivots too late, coat snapping in the draft, and the doorway is suddenly empty of her prize. Scott starts toward her with a curse, while the cellar door behind the bar hammers once, loud enough to shake dust from the beams.

Patrick lands near the opposite wall, case in hand, rain shining on the floorboards by the front entrance. The woman stares after him, cool face breaking at last into sharp calculation.

The cellar kicks again, harder this time, and the whole pub seems to brace for what comes next.

Darcy snaps into motion behind the bar, yanks the hidden weapon into aim, and fires. The blast cracks through the pub, smashing into the woman’s coat and driving her off balance at the threshold.

She catches herself on the doorframe instead of falling, but the shot tears a smoking rip through her sleeve and sends the silver case skidding in Patrick’s grip.

The cellar door answers with a brutal kick, splitting another plank and coughing dust into the room. The pub’s lights flicker once under the impact.

The woman bares her teeth, retreats one step into the rain, and lifts a hand as if weighing escape against a second shot. The cannon still smokes, and the room waits for her choice.

Patrick thumbs the latch and the silver case gives with a soft click. The lid swings open in his grip, spilling cold light across his knuckles and the bar top.

Inside rests a compact black device, all angular seams and a single dead indicator, nestled in foam cut to its shape. A thin wire trails from one side, scorched at the end.

Her voice comes sharp from the doorway, but she does not advance. Behind the bar, the cellar door bucks again, hard enough to rattle the bottles.

Rain hisses in through the open threshold, the cannon stays trained, and the woman lifts her empty hands just high enough to show she is waiting to see who blinks first.

Patrick angles the open case toward the doorway, making the black device unmistakable in the rain-lit gap.

The cellar door answers with a brutal kick from below, wood fibers popping as dust shakes loose over the bar.

Patrick holds steady, and the woman’s irritated stare flicks to the device, then to the sagging cellar door. Her hand lowers a fraction. The standoff shifts, and she gives ground by choice rather than force.