Sector H8 scuttlebutt had it that the Hellhounds worshipped the Wrong Gods and that they were doing unspeakable things to captive hivers in their flesh-labs. This alone was enough to garner the interest of grizzled gunsel Jonn Gunn - the Corpse Guild putting a hefty bounty on the deviant gang for skimming cadaver farm profits was an added incentive.
Gunn had heard that the Hellhounds were making a play for the Catch 22 gambling den, as were the Hi-Viz Jackers, and he decided to throw in his lot with the latter crew. He met them at the Haggler's Town toll crossing and had their measure almost straight away. In his career as a merc, Gunn had crossed paths with countless gang bosses like Vints Courraine - not a bad fighter, but as proud and vain as a spire noble. Such types were, Gunn found, usually backed up by a crew of less showy but more competent men, and so it was here - Akilles, Tzig and the rest all had the weary look of those used to indulging their leader's overambition. They rolled their eyes even as Vints struggled on, revived by slopper fayre but still not fully recovered from the chest wound he'd copped off a Cawdor chainglaive.
Within a shift, the crew had arrived at Catch 22. On the way over, there'd been talk of the Hellhounds' pet brute, a hulking monstrosity stitched together in the lab by an unhinged doc who was no less fearsome, and dark thoughts pressed on the Jackers' minds as they entered the abandoned gambling hole. Rawshaq's Rogues had vacated the place a cycle ago, and already the power feeds had partially cut out. Shadows drenched the warren of gaming rooms, and inhuman growls and gurglings echoed through the halls.
Still, the job was simple - find the master codes for the zero-g roulette and other gambling tech, which would most likely be stashed in one of the crates scattered through the site. Find the codes, control the games, control the den. Thing was, the Hellhounds were fixing to do the same thing.
Vints took Gunn and Ijax down a needleways shortcut, but they ended up rejoining Akilles and Tzig as Dwice and Ivan scuttled around, gathering up two crates. The Jackers were edgy, but Gunn didn't blame them for their nerves - the indeterminate cries were now accompanied by rhythmic, guttural chanting. The Hellhounds had arrived, and were on the warpath.
Gunn listened, unimpressed, as Vints directed Ivan and Dwice to hang back and guard the loot while he led the rest of the crew through the heart of the den. A narrow door led into the main chamber - displaying a lack of caution that had Gunn shaking his head, Vints strode forward, beckoning Tzig to ready Lil' Quake, his grenade launcher, and accompany him.
Standing just behind the pair as Vints opened the door, Gunn could just about make out the far wall of the chamber. His instincts told him something wasn't right - there were too many blind corners and ambush spots in this darkened warren.
He clocked it just before the others - a wide door hissing open on the far side, revealing a line of silhouettes. Two or three hunched cultists, and a towering horror, all bloated, malproportioned muscle and jagged chainblade edges.
Naturally, Vints hadn't noticed. As he stepped forward, he was banging on about the pain he intended to bring to the Hellhounds, and didn't even see the triple-pulse of plasma fire as it boomed across the chamber.
It hit him square in the chest, and he dropped like a rockcrete block.
Tzig didn't take this well, cursing and ducking back the way they'd come. The far door was hissing shut again, and Gunn saw an opportunity - he darted through the door and scrambled a few feet to the cover of an alcove wall, next to a needleway vent. Looking back at the door, he saw Akilles Lebow taking up cautious position, heavy stubber trained on the far wall.
'Lebow,' barked Gunn. 'Get in here! You and Ijax.'
Akilles shook his head. 'You think I was born last shift? The boss man's out of the fight and I saw that beast through the doorway, same as you! I'm gonna hang here and wait for them to come at us.'
The far door hissed again and another plasma volley flashed, blasting chunks out of Akilles's doorway cover. 'Sumpdammit!' he yelled, ducking back.
'They'll outflank us, man,' called Gunn. 'If we move now, we might keep 'em from mobbing us! Lebow? Dammit, Lebow!'
But Akilles was behind the doorframe, out of sight. Gunn weighed up his options. The Jackers were playing a cautious game, too cautious, he reckoned, but he wasn't fit to take on the whole Hellhound crew by himself. Probably better to run back and help the Jackers on their terms - as long as that was viable.
Which wasn't too long as it turned out. There were further shouts from the doorway Gunn had come through - the Hellhounds were rushing the flank already, bringing flamer and heavy stubber fire to bear. Ivan Kohl had gone out of action, and young Dwice was desperately asking Akilles what to do. Ijax Merckx was a flash of retreating orange, yelling how he'd rather save his own hide, and then Akilles was back at the doorframe.
'Gunn!' he called. 'There's just me and Tzig and Dwice back here. They're coming from the right, dunno how many.'
For Jonn Gunn, that settled it. 'Frag it, Lebow - you Jackers are on your own.'
He hauled the cover off the needleway vent and dived in. Just as well Vints had showed him these tunnels before the scrap.
The remaining Jackers hauled boots and their wounded out of Catch 22 a moment later, leaving the gambling den in the clutches of the notorious Hellhounds.
As for Jonn Gunn, he hadn't carved out his career in the underhive by running suicide jobs. He could live without the Corpse Guild's pay. More to the point, he could live. Not for nothing do the downhive bounty hunter fraternity call it Gunn's Law:
Can't earn no cred if you're dead.