"The ultimate test of man's conscience may be his willingness to sacrifice something today for future generations whose words of thanks will not be heard."

- Gaylord Anton Nelson

12:51 a.m

7 days earlier

32 rounds. Either the henchman did not know how to count, or he ran out of bullets. Whatever the case, Tim felt the extended 33 rounds magazine of the pistol made the gun slightly back heavier and was uncomfortable with its grip. He sighed in recognition that the 'gangster gun' was his best option of a weapon at that point and tucked in into his belt.

Clay had been untied. But with both their injuries, it was impossible for Tim to move him and himself without suffering from pain and further damage to their bodies. He had no choice but to hold the fort, awaiting Stella and her backup. He looked at his watch. Twenty minutes had passed since he called her. Fifty since the now dead and bloodied henchman had his last contact with Adam Pearlman.

As if on queue with his thoughts, Pearlman's voice rang out from Tattoo's radio. “Hey moron, what's taking you so long?”

Tim thought fast, reaching over to the radio on the corpse's belt, careful not to look at the pulp that was now the thug's face in worry that he might vomit.

With his best imitation of the man's thick accent, Tim radioed back, “Still packing things, boss.”

It seemed Pearlman bought it, for he radioed back, “Damn it. We've got to get to the docks in thirty minutes. I'm coming over to help.”

“No!” Tim panicked, his voice croaking slightly. He cleared his throat, “I'll be done in five minutes.”

Only silence replied him. The beat of his own heart and each breath he took was as clear to him as the ticking of the hands on the thug's Rolex. He could see his window of success closing. Adam had probably figured out his plans and was making preparations to return and take him down, having seen through his dreadful attempt at voice acting.

His worry was eased when Adam finally replied, “Fine,” and Tim let out a breath of relief. “By the way, your accent is terrible. See you in ten, Timmy boy.”

False hope was the most cruel thing in Tim's view. And it seemed Adam Pearlman was someone who was willing to play the card for a psychological advantage. Determined not to fall into the throes of the man's game, Tim started to plan. He could try to move Clay out of the storage room, but felt they would not get far, given their weight and injuries. The room was too small to be a good place to set up a defence. If Adam was desperate enough and willing to sacrifice some of his stash of Somnidin, a simple Molotov would be enough to turn them to ashes. Though he was betting that the drug dealer would not resort to such means so as to preserve his goods, Tim did not want to take that chance. The confined space also meant the likelihood of any gunfire exchanged to hit the immobile Clay.

Stepping out of the now unlocked door, he clicked his tongue in disappointment as he found themselves in the centre storage locker of a row of fifteen. With no clear hiding space left or right of him, he was stuck with the option of barricading the door. That was also not a good option, as Adam would likely have the keys to open the larger garage door.

With the addition of moonlight, he turned to face the shelf-filled room. His mother taught him that sometimes, to move fast, he had to go slow. He breathed calmly, scanning the place for something he could use. Behind him, the open road had no hiding place. The inside of the room however, was too cramp. He kept floating back between those two locations and plans. Then, from the corner of his eyes, something glinted. And he grinned.

XXX

01:01 a.m

7 days earlier

Adam strolled down the aisle of storage lockers calmly and with the confident gait of a king. He caught sight of black cat running by the opposite end. He smiled at the display. Never having understood the reasoning of people of old for believing that a black cat signified misfortune, he instead found the creature slick, clean, and a pleasant view for the eyes. As much so as the suit that he wore and favoured. It was a symbol of wealth to him. The ability to afford a colour that was a blend of everything.

As he passed storage locker 5, he pulled out his 38. Magnum from the holster under his blazer, feeling the heavy weight of the firearm in his hand. He liked the gun for its sheer power, an was as confident in its explosive strength as he was in his ability to wield it.

He was also confident that Tim would stay in the vicinity. Either in the storage locker itself, or around the far corner. That was the problem with good guys. They had something else to protect. Adam called those things 'burdens'.

He reached the door, trying the knob. Not to his surprise, it was locked. “Come on Timmy!” he called out to the occupant inside, banging the door. From his pocket, he retrieved the remote control that would open the garage door. “Don't make me come in there!”

In a prone position, Tim lined his sights, his left wrist resting over his right, holding down the entirety of his arm against the coming recoil. With a shorter barrel, the key to accuracy, as was taught by his air rifle club, was a steady arm. But he wasn't shooting a pellet anymore. He could feel the awkward weight of the extended magazine and the heavy implications that came when Adam drew his gun. The idea that he was about to attempt to take someone's life crossed him. And he fired.

Adam's right shoulder jerked as the bullet grazed just over the top. Tim fired two more rounds from his perch on the opposing flat roof, both shots ricocheting off the concrete floor.

The drug dealer turned and spotted the teen above. He fired hastily, the larger, more powerful magnum round blasting off a chunk of the concrete roof.

Tim put up the stepladder he used to climb up in front of him, using it as a poor makeshift shield between him and Adam, knowing full well the thin metal would do nothing to stop the bullet. But he hoped it would do enough to disconcert the man's aim. And it worked.

His opponent's next two shot missed any and everything around him entirely, allowing him the time to recover. He got onto his knees and unloaded half his magazine onto Adam in a hopeful barrage, forcing the man to run towards the building Tim stood on, and running out of Tim's sight beneath him.

Not willing to give the man any room to recuperate, Tim jumped to his feet and fired over the edge. He heard the distinct sound of bullets striking concrete. Looking over, Adam had disappeared. Instead, the man had ran off towards the left, attempting to escape the disadvantage in elevation by creating distance.

Tim gave chase.

Adam fired over his shoulder, the bullet grazing the edge of the roof. Tim shot another five wild rounds at the opponent, the bullets spraying all over the place, except on their mark. He was no action movie hero, and once again cursed films for portraying gunfights as easy, with guarantee kills every shot.

From the horizon of the storage lockers, streaks of red and blue light flashed against the buildings opposite. At the same time, half a dozen light turned on from the apartments around them, eager shadows popping to the windows to catch a glimpse of the action. The sirens of the police vehicle wailed into the night. Backup had arrived.

Suddenly, the garage door behind them exploded from its hinges, blasting out and slamming like a crashing car into the locker facing it.

From the smoke, Clay stumbled out, holding his broken arm to his chest, his free hand gripping the same bloodied steel pipe Tim used earlier to murder the henchman.

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Clay saw Adam first, a glint of mania in his eyes as he eyed the drug dealer's gun. Clay began running towards Adam, shouting, “Shoot him! SHOOT HIM DAMN IT!”

From Adam's escape route, a muscle car braked sharply at the junction, blocking the exit. From the passenger's side, the red haired detective, Julianne Smith, jumped out. “Stay in the car!” she shouted to the back seat.

From the driver side, Oliver Hardy stood from the seemingly undersized door, his muscular figure overshadowing all the combatants that had gathered, like a juggernaut amongst gladiators. He stepped towards the convict with his gun raised. “Adam Pearlman! You are under arrest!”

His partner did the same. However, she pointed her firearm up at Tim instead. “You too boy!” the female detective was on the verge of running over, eyes gleaming with mad excitement. “Put down your gun or we'll shoot!”

But the two former prisoners weren't listening. For trailing Clay was a cloud of dust, slowly twisting and turning like a small twister. Denser and and denser it got until it started to form the rough silhouette of a person. Lines of sand coiled around the mini-twister, moulding the finer details. Then, colours set into the grains, and the form of The Brother appeared before them, baseball bat and all.

The detectives, especially Oliver, stared in wide-eyed disbelief at the phenomenon, rushing forward and changing their targets to the forming creature. Adam however, was the only adult that kept his poker face throughout the dust show.

Clang.

Instinctively upon hearing the sound, Tim turned his gun to The Brother and started firing. Clay jumped to the ground as Adam and the detectives did the same thing, unloading their rounds into the general direction of the creature. Bits of The Brother's skin chipped away with each impact, but quickly turned to sand instead, as if the dust was an armour that it wore. And the bullets were nothing but pellets that scrapped the coating.

“Brother!” Stella called out in worry, climbing out of the car with her crutches under her arms.

“Get back in the car!” Oliver demanded.

“Not until you get my brother here!”

Tim was the first to stop firing. Not because he ran out of bullets, but because he realized they were doing absolutely no damage to the dream entity. Adam followed, taking the opportunity to reload his gun. Even Oliver stopped. The Brother continued its slow, confident walk towards the group, but started to speed up the closer he got to Clay.

Still, Julianne continued shooting, pulling her trigger constantly in a blind frenzy. Even after her gun had ran out of bullets, she continued to fire blankly, the trigger clacking against the barrel with no effect. “That thing shouldn't be here!” she yelled, her voice shaking with fear.

Taking the panic as an opportunity, Adam ran past the two flustered detectives. With a strong backhand, he smashed the butt of his gun into the head of the distracted Julianne and the female detective crumpled to the floor like paper. With gun loaded, he headed straight for Stella.

“Brother!” the girl screamed as the dealer grabbed her by the throat, bringing her in front of him as a human shield. Her crutches dropped to the ground as she desperately stood on one leg to maintain balance.

“Shit,” Oliver cursed, turning his attention to the hostage situation. “Let her go, asshole!”

Adam replied, licking his lips, “Give me your keys then!”

“You're not exactly the big problem here!” Oliver replied, implying at The Brother.

“And we just shot that thing to hell!” Adam screamed back. “It's still coming, and I know when to make a retreat. Now give me your keys!”

Tim jumped off from his rooftop perch, landing painfully on his already tired and injured legs. He ran over to help his best friend to his feet. “Come on!” he heaved through gritted teeth, the muscles of his body starting to give way. “Stella needs you!”

Like magic words, Clay found the strength to stand. Gripping the steel pipe tighter than before, he turned to analyse the hostage situation. “Can you make the shot, kid?”

Tim turn to look at the confrontation between Adam and Oliver, then to the approaching Brother, before replying sternly, “I need time.”

“I'll do you one better,” Clay said with brimming confidence. From his pocket, he retrieved two bottles of Somnidin, passing them to Tim. Without looking at his friend, he said, “Don't need them anymore,” before walking off to face The Brother.

Tim trusted Clay. And that trust was a two-way street. He turned to face Adam, their distance far enough apart that the older man did not even have Tim in his immediate vicinity of attention. Tim notched his gun arm over his free forearm, using it as a stabilizer. He took his aim, lining the sights to encompass Adam's head within the two iron pieces, then raised the gun just a millimetre higher.

Clay approached The Brother. Pipe in his hand, he said, “Let's do this, Harrison Smith.”

He raised the pipe just as The Brother raised its bat. The two metal clashed as Clay swung to block the attack. He swung back up, the pipe smacking The Brother across the jaw. But instead of the burst of dust and sand that was expected, trickle of blood drew from its lips. Clay took a step back. The Brother, taking the opportunity, struck his bat right onto Clay's head. Stars danced in front of his eyes from the blow, his knees nearly giving way as he heard the cracking of his skull.

From behind them, Stella screamed, “Brother!”

The gun still felt awkward in Tim's hand. Back heavy. Then he realized the reason. Ejecting the crude extended magazine, he re-aimed his shot, a single bullet in the chamber. The pistol felt balanced.

Another blow from the bat onto Clay's injured right shoulder. Gritting through the pain, he wrapped his broken arm around the metal weapon and yanked as hard as he could, pulling the weapon out of The Brother's hands and sent it clanking over the ground. He was sure he had dislocated his shoulder. And the blood that profusely bled from his arm told him he might have broken it beyond recovery. But the adrenaline pumped ferociously through him, numbing him from all pain and thought.

Tim pulled the trigger.

Clay swung his pipe.

The bullet bounced off the top of Adam's magnum, sending the weapon flying. Ricocheting off the firearm, the round changed its course straight through the criminal's eyes.

Knocking The Brother off its feet, Clay slid his hand up the length of the pipe, soaking his palm in the blood of the henchman until he held the weapon in reverse. With a primal yell, he sent the weapon piercing down into The Brother's face. The creature exploded into a cloud of dust, the force of the burst knocked Clay off his feet and sent him flying a few meters back, the teen landing with a loud crunch on the concrete ground, where he continued to lay, unmoving.

Adam, with his brains punctured and no longer in control of his body, released Stella from his grip. The teen hopped and staggered over towards Oliver, but past the detective entirely, sweeping away the man's offering hand, and headed straight for her brother. She tripped, fell face flat on the ground, sobbing at her helplessness. Oliver picked her up in his arm as one would a basket of kittens, carrying her over to Clay as Adam's deceased body fell to his knees, gravity dragging it to lean against the car door, its temporary resting place.

Tim turned to his friend, lying unconscious on the floor, the surrounding ground covered in a layer of dusts. Oliver set Stella down beside him and the girl gently cupped her brother's face in her hands.

From behind, Julianne reared, groaning as she slowly regained consciousness. Tim looked to the kind giant, Detective Hardy, who told him, “Run. Get out of here.”

Tim looked to Stella, who through tears, and despite needing comfort and a shoulder, nodded to Tim. “Go.”

Though they had won the battle, Tim felt they had lost the war. With a heavy heart, he turned away from the group and ran.