Four-Stroke woke the team with a sharp knock and an even sharper glare. The sun had just barely started to rise; if Rede had to guess, they had slept five, maybe six hours. According to Four-Stroke, the first round of jackers were coming back, and they’d need somewhere to sleep. The team arose, gummy-eyed and stumbling, and let themselves be shepherded into Ronan’s car.

Ronan himself was still awake. Rede wondered if he’d actually slept. He squinted at a map on the wall, twisting his fingers in his beard and occasionally shifting his weight from one leg to the other. He barely looked up as the team walked in.

The five paddlers stood awkwardly in the middle of the car, unsure where to sit. Shay, on the other hand, marched up to stand beside Ronan, planting her hands on her hips and scrutinizing the map with just as much intensity as the broker at her side. The scene should have been comical, but Rede didn’t have it in her to laugh.

Before now, Rede hadn’t had time to ask herself who Shay really was. Given the nonstop rollercoaster of drama the girl had brought along with her, they hadn’t exactly had time to play icebreaker games. Rede knew her first and last name, the story of her brother’s death, and the fact that she had an unhealthy obsession with weapons. That was basically it. Rede wondered how long Shay had known how to act like one of these people, to push and weave and play their game. She had said she’d known Ronan for a while; maybe she’d been a part of this industry before Drew died. Maybe Drew himself had been. Honestly, Rede wouldn’t be surprised.

“I know for sure the blues don’t reach that far in,” Shay was saying matter-of-factly. “Last time someone checked my PFPL was, like, two months ago.”

Ronan was nodding along. “That’s for sure. My people’ve been saying that, too. Definitely not a good sign that you-know-who is switching priorities.”

Rede’s stomach roiled with anxiety. Shay and Ronan’s conversation required context she just didn’t have. Neither did any of the rest of the team, which was definitely not ideal, but the knowledge that she wasn’t alone in her ignorance filled Rede with a selfish sense of pleasure.

The radio on Four-Stroke’s belt crackled to life. The voice on the other end was garbled and full of static, but Rede could still make out the words: “Heading back in. Coast is clear. ETA fifteen. Over.” A click, and the radio lapsed back into silence.

“Guess that’s our cue to leave,” said Thanh.

“Not until it’s fully light out,” Mara insisted. “The more people who’re awake, the less likely Ducky is to go after us.”

Ronan glanced at Shay. “Are you going with them?”

“Duh.” Shay rolled her eyes. “They don’t have a shooter.”

“Who the fuck is going to attack a canoe in broad daylight twice in a row?” Thanh demanded.

“Look, normally I’d be with you on that one,” Ronan said, “but you’re dealing with a pissed off Ducky right now. Wouldn’t take my chances if I were you.”

“Ugh.” Thanh’s lips thinned. She glared at Shay. “Look, if we don’t get our heads blown off by that motherfucker, I’m going to grill you like Saint fucking Lorenzo.”

“Noted.” Shay adjusted her goggles.

It was too fucking early for Rede to deal with this. She turned her attention away from their exchange to crack open the door. Dawn had broken already; rays of reddish-orange light shot across the floor, accompanied by a gust of wind whose familiar chill eased the knots in her stomach. She went to push the door further open.

“Hey,” Four-Stroke snapped. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Rede paused, though she felt more surprise than fear. “I just wanted to take a look outside.”

If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

“Let her do it. You’re supposed to be on watch anyway,” Ronan said. “Go take your post. She can wait for the others with you, if she wants.”

Four-Stroke gave a curt nod. He pushed Rede’s hand aside to open the door and stepped into the cold-sharpened air.

Rede followed a couple steps behind. The dirt under her feet was streaked with frost, glittering feebly and crunching under her shoes. Puffs of steam left her mouth with every breath. Was it already this late in the year? Come to think of it, she wasn’t sure what month it was. Keeping track of the date wasn’t exactly Rede’s number one priority at the moment, but she’d thought she’d be able to remember that much, at least.

Four-Stroke stopped just before the ground started to slope downward. He stood with his hands on his hips and stared out across the sea of ruined buildings. In the process, the bottom of his jacket hiked up a bit, exposing the handgun tucked into his waistband.

Apparently, her stare didn’t go unnoticed: the jacker turned to glower at Rede, the wrinkles in his forehead deepening with his frown. “What?”

Rede made a vague gesture toward the gun.

Four-Stroke grunted. “What, is the safety off or something?”

“No,” Rede said, though she had no idea how to tell. “I just didn’t expect to see it.”

Four-Stroke snorted, shaking his head.

Frustration, hot and quick, rose up inside her. “It’s not my fault,” Rede muttered bitterly. “This wasn’t my scene.”

“Yeah, I can tell.” Four-Stroke’s gaze didn’t leave the river.

Rede, on the other hand, didn’t stop looking at the gun. She thought back to their encounter with Ducky’s people, the sense of helplessness and panic intensifying with every gunshot; then, mere hours later, the choking grief when she realized how exactly Lacey had died. She remembered Inna’s desperation to comfort her, Mimi’s face tight with the effort of holding back tears. The powerlessness, the vulnerability, the horror of knowing that your only option was to put your life in the hands of a stranger. They don’t have a shooter, Shay had said. But that didn’t have to be true.

She took a cautious step toward Four-Stroke. “Can you show me how to use that?”

Four-Stroke’s eyes flicked toward Rede, eyebrows lifting slightly. “Do you even have one of your own?”

“I can borrow Shay’s.” Rede sounded more confident than she felt.

The jacker gave her a calculated look. Finally, he shrugged. “Sure. What’s the harm.” He pulled out the gun and turned it around, showing her every angle. “This is a Glock 21. Forty-five caliber. Accurate as fuck, little enough to hide easy.” He turned the grip toward Rede. “Want to try?”

Wordlessly, Rede closed her hands around the pistol. Its weight surprised her. She brought it closer to her face to see the details, making sure to keep the barrel pointed away from them both — she might be inexperienced, but she wasn’t stupid.

Four-Stroke noticed her curiosity. Face inscrutable, he let Rede look her fill before he started pointing out each part: the safety catch she’d failed to notice earlier, the magazine slot, the open sight at the end of the barrel.

“Now you hold it like this…” He guided her shooting arm straight out, her free hand supporting the bottom of the grip. It reminded Rede of her first day of OC practice; the thought made her giggle.

“The safety’s on right now,” Four-Stroke said. “You won’t be able to shoot. Just put your finger here on the trigger, to see what it feels like.” Rede did. “Now remember, everyone says pull to shoot, but you’re not pulling. You’re squeezing.”

Rede wasn’t sure she knew the difference, but she tried anyway.

“Feels all right?” Two-Stroke asked. She nodded.

The jacker unclipped the walkie-talkie and switched it to a different channel. “Four-Stroke here. Firing practice shots. No hostiles. Over.” He released the button, returned the radio to his belt, and took a step back behind Rede. “Okay, turn off the safety like I showed you and fire a couple shots.”

“Where am I aiming?” Rede asked.

He shrugged. “Wherever. The magazine in there’s actually just blanks. No real bullets.”

Rede’s mouth fell open with incredulity.

“Hey, the main reason we use these things is to scare people off.” Four-Stroke shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’ve got real bullets, but that’s just for actual threats. Nine times out of ten, just the sound of a gunshot is enough to get someone off your back.”

“Fine.” Rede rolled her shoulders. “Can I at least have some kind of target? Just to practice?”

Four-Stroke squinted into the distance. “How about that shabby ass chunk of asphalt over there?”

Rede looked where he was pointing. The asphalt in question was about twenty or thirty feet away, a ragged triangle poking out of the water like a dystopian mockery of an iceberg.

That was a workable target. Rede took a deep breath, closed one eye, and moved the uppermost point of the asphalt between the two little notches that formed the sight. Another deep breath, then a squeeze.

It took more force than she thought it would. Her shoulder settled further back in its socket as the shock ran up her arm — an odd sensation, and unique. The reverb from the shot rang in her ears.

“Nice. You’ve now fired your first ever blank,” Four-Stroke said drily. “How’d it feel?”

Rede lowered the Glock. “Good.”