Stronges extended her left hand and the sound of metal clanking along the floor resounded in the basement like a woman's scream when she saw me walking behind her.
Then, a door from one of the rooms, bursted open. Instead of a fearsome beast, out dashed a torrent of thick, industrial-grade black chains. They zipped across the floor and wrapped themselves around her left hand with an almost excessive enthusiasm, like a puppy who just found its owner's leg.
Stronges looked at the chain-covered hand, then at the assembled group, and delivered her line with all the subtlety of a truck horn:
"It's time to make some heads roll."
With Jack's dead body now draped over her right shoulder like a slightly deflated, extremely heavy scarf, she started walking.
All of us followed behind her, feeling less like an elite strike team and more like a very moody conga line.
