No one could remember why it was called Gustav's Square.
It might have been that the scarred and graffitied plinth in the middle of the square had held a bronze statue of some forgotten Imperial Hero.
It might have been the decaying and faded graffiti that read "Gustav was here" (itself perhaps reflecting the long gone statue).
But no one remembered, or for that matter cared.
As an open space, it was normally filled with a market. Farmers and traders from the mainland came over the long concrete bridge and sold their wares to the saner residents of the city, ensuring they were back across the water before nightfall or the occasional day time gun fight. Sometimes rumours dissuaded them from even making the journey.
Today it was quiet, empty, abandoned.
The sound of diesel engines caused the pigeons that poked around the square to take to the air.
A Technical, scratched and battered, nosed into the square. The gunner in the load bed swung his pedestal mounted DashK heavy machine gun round nervously, trying to cover all the windows, doors and rooftops.
A pick up truck entered the square, a large tarpaulin covered shape surrounded by four men with Soviet era assault rifles.
As a second Technical began to enter the square, intending to pass the other two vehicles, a loud shot rang out. The gunner in the first Technical fell backwards as his gun disintegrated. Before he hit the ground there was a second shot. The bonnet popped open on the pick up and the engine died. As the four men in the back of the pick up went from stunned incredulity to panicked action, a third shot shattered the wing of the second Technical and the tyre beneath it.
As the gunner in the second Technical scanned for the firer while cringing from the expected fourth shot, one of the gunmen from the pick up shouted about the dust cloud on a distant roof top. All of them opened fire on the supposed target, the twin machine guns on the listing Technical having the better placing. Suddenly there was a brief plume of smoke and flame, followed by a second small explosion.
The gunmen started to celebrate their skill (and their survival).
Behind a small shelter of sandbags, metal plates and water containers, a figure glanced at the expended pyrotechnics and the thick smoke they had produced, making sure that they would not set the roof alight. The fire alarm below continued to ring as it had done for the last two minutes.
Picking up her AMR she jogged towards the roof hatch.
Behind the celebrating gun men, figures began to appear in the door ways, their movement quiet and professional.
