Arc hurried over to the cell windows and tugged on the bars, hoping at least one of them would be loose enough for him to wrench it off. If he could free one of them, he could thread it through the others and give himself better leverage to pull the rest of the bars out. To his dismay, they were as sturdy as they looked.

“Damn,” said Arc angrily, wiping his hand across his face.

He looked around and knew that he could break his way free with an Arcane Shot, but that would immediately alert the bandits to his attempted escape. They would be easily sniped out in the open but, in the confines of the tight rooms and corridor, he would probably take a few bullets before wiping out his enemies. Perhaps if a bandit came to check up on him, he could talk his way to freedom, but he wasn’t overly optimistic about that prospect. No, he would have to be more cunning than that.

“Looks like there’s nothing else for it,” said Arc, looking to the barred door.

He sat himself against the wall furthest from the door, making sure his spellcaster was still concealed. It was his only real lifeline in here and, if he got desperate, he would use it, but not a second before. Had Cryer not been watching him so diligently as he approached the door, he wouldn’t have been in this mess. His plan would have been exacted before setting foot inside.

The minutes rolled by and Arc hummed a couple of tunes to keep himself entertained. After an hour, the most he had heard from any of the bandits was the occasional chuckle booming out, but nobody even walked down the corridor. Would he be getting fed or would they just execute him so they didn’t waste resources? No, if Benson wanted him dead, he’d already be dead.

The single hour turned into two and then into three, and only then did footsteps approach the door. Cryer walked into the room, his rifle in his hands as it had been on the roof. His left eye twitched as he stopped three feet from Arc’s gate. He didn’t say a word as he watched the spellslinger continue to sit.

“Have you got a bucket?” asked Arc.

“A bucket?” replied Cryer.

“Well, I presume I won’t be let out to piss and I’d rather not sit in my own filth. If the bucket sits in the corner and doesn’t get thrown out, that’s fine. I just don’t want to be swimming in it.”

“Hang on,” said Cryer, walking back out of the room.

He returned thirty seconds later with an empty beer bottle that would be good for two usages before it was full.

“That’ll do nicely,” said Arc. “Would you mind rolling it in here?”

“Don’t move a muscle,” said Cryer, approaching the bars cautiously and leaning down.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Cryer put his arm inside the bars and rolled the bottle over to Arc, who stopped it with his foot. If he was to break out, he would have to make sure the bandits lowered their guard. That meant playing the obedient prisoner for as long as it took for them to open the door.

“Why’d you come in here in the first place?” Arc asked Cryer as he picked up the bottle and set it upright on the floor.

“To make sure you were still here,” replied Cryer.

“What, did Benson think I’d escaped?”

“He said it was worth checking just in case. You may say that you’re an envoy, but we could have let someone dangerous into our midst.”

“Dangerous? Nah, only to monsters. I’d prefer not to be locked up, of course, but I’ll do as I’m told until he decides to let me go back to Pembroke. If it takes a week, it takes a week. Kenny will be paying me either way. You can relay that back to Benson.”

“Sure,” said Cryer, turning to leave. “If you’re ever looking to sign up, I’m sure something could be arranged.”

Arc shook his head. “I appreciate the offer, Cryer, but John Welling likes the simple life of taking things one job at a time.”

“Suit yourself.”

With that, Cryer departed, closing the door behind him. Arc was alone with his thoughts once more. He thought about what Jack and Julie might be doing back in Pembroke. No doubt, Jack had said something stupid and got himself in trouble with someone. Julie was probably trying to keep him in check, and failing miserably.

As obstinate as Jack could be, he had a fondness for the young man. He reminded Arc of himself ten years ago before he was taught how to handle himself in the wasteland. So many things had chanced for him since he was a boy, but he was glad to be alive and knew that today was not his day to die. And when that day did come, it would not be in this cell.

Unable to hold it in any longer, Arc stood up and grabbed the bottle. He relieved himself and set it in the far corner before returning to his seat against the wall, feeling much better. Now all he needed was some food and a drink of water before turning in. The sun was setting and he had a roof over his head, so it would hopefully be a restful night.

*

Arc lay flat on the floor of his cell, feeling miserable. He hadn’t had as much as a drip of water or a crumb of food since he was locked up five days ago. He spent every waking moment wondering if he would have been better risking being shot by Cryer in order to take out every single one of the bandits. He ran many different scenarios over in his head, but that was the one that stuck out to him the most.

He had thought he was being clever coming inside to try and get the bandits to lower their guard, but he knew now just how naïve he had been. They were ruthless monsters, every last one of them. If he didn’t think that due to his imprisonment, the female prisoner that had been brought in two days ago assured him of that. He hadn’t heard from her since she was dragged away screaming, but a gunshot in the early hours of the morning told him that he would never hear from her again.

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Arc bolted upright as the door opened and Benson walked in.

“You hungry, John?” asked Benson, flicking his sunglasses atop his head.

“Yes,” said Arc, but he wasn’t going to beg.

“You’re awfully resilient, aren’t you? Something tells me you’ve got without food and water before.”

“This isn’t my first time being taken prisoner,” said Arc coldly. “And I’m sure it won’t be my last. Although I’m starting to wonder if Kenny’s paying me enough to do his dirty work.”

“You’re still sticking to that story, eh?”

Arc felt his stomach drop. “What?”

“You ought to have taken off that orange scarf of yours, Arc the Hawk,” said Benson with a smirk. “You think I didn’t know who you were the second you walked through that door? You really thought I’d betray Colt the Scourge for a chance to take over when I’ve got things so good?”

Arc held back his temper, but he was furious. He had been kept captive for almost a week and the entire time he had thought the bandits would lower their guard, but they were just toying with him. No doubt Benson had already sent word to Colt about the his prisoner.

“Ah,” said Arc, letting out a dry laugh. “I was marked for death the second I stepped inside this building. Is that right?”

“Yea, ‘fraid so,” sighed Benson while nodding his head. “I must admit, I had a few doubts, but when we found a spell cartridge in your jacket, that confirmed who you were. A real shame, but that’s the way it goes.”

“It is a shame,” said Arc, standing up and walked over to the bars. “Although, it’s probably for the best. I don’t think you’d have been well suited to taking over Colt’s position.”

Benson’s smirk faded. “Why’s that?”

“You may have caught my scarf, but there’s something you failed to consider.”

“What are you—”

Arc reached through the bars and grabbed Benson by the collar, pulling him in with one hand while whipping out his spellcaster with the other. He put the weapon to the side of the bandit’s head and pulled the trigger, splattering the bars, the walls and himself with blood as Benson’s head exploded from the point-blank Arcane Shot.

The spellslinger put his spellcaster between his neck and shoulder, wedging it tightly as he used his now-free hand to rummage through Benson’s many pockets. He could hear footsteps rushing down the corridor as he reached for the key, but he found something even more useful than that.

As the door flung open and a pair of bandits rushed in, Arc fired four shots—two at each of his foes—from Benson’s gun, making them drop to the floor. He felt no remorse for the wicked gang members as their lifeless bodies collapsed; he heard through the walls just what sort of monsters they were.

Taking the key, he unlocked the door and threw it open. As more footsteps rushed towards the room, Arc grabbed Benson’s body and held it in front of him as a shield while keeping the bandit’s body held out in front of him as a shield.

“What the—” cried a bandit before taking a bullet to the neck.

He stumbled backwards, crashing into his comrades.

“Gavin?” asked one of the men in horror before walking into the room with his gun raised, followed by five others.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” said Arc, peeking out from behind Benson’s open, blood-dripping neck hole. “Would you be so kind as to go fetch my equipment?”

Knowing the response would be a resolute declination, Arc shot again. As the bandit fell, he knew he was out of bullets and didn’t have the time to reload as Cryer leapt over the corpses of his fallen friends.

Arc hurriedly dropped Benson’s gun and pulled out his spellcaster. “You neglected to take this from me when you imprisoned me,” he said, holding out the Golden Hawk. “Now, five of you are dead. I would say that’s nearly half your forces gone, Cryer. I’m a reasonable man and will leave if you bring me my equipment and tell me where Colt is.”

“I don’t know where Colt is!” roared Cryer, pointing his rifle at Arc’s forehead.

“No need to get angry,” said Arc calmly. “You can still get out of this alive if you bring me my stuff.”

Cryer’s cheek was twitching and he grinded his teeth, holding back what he wanted to say. He didn’t know what spell cartridge Arc had loaded into his gun; a single wrong move could spell the death of everyone in the building.

“What’s it going to be?” asked Arc.

“Morgan, bring him his possessions,” said Cryer heavily.

Arc and Cryer silently watched each other, both of their fingers resting on the triggers of their guns. Both men would have loved nothing more than to shoot each other, but they knew that was in neither of their best interests at the moment.

When Morgan had brought Arc’s possessions, he set them on the floor by the door, making Arc laugh.

“Do you think I’m stupid?” asked the spellslinger. “Set them in the corner and then all of you get out.”

Morgan did as told and then Cryer took a couple of careful steps backwards before closing the door behind him.

Arc ran to the corner, put on his jacket, belt and bag. He quickly checked to make sure that his revolver, knife and ammo were all still there—they were—before picking up Benson’s body once again. He held the bandit up with one hand and kept the Golden Hawk in the other.

He marched over to the door and then lifted a foot, kicking it open. All was quiet and he didn’t like that. He threw Benson’s body into the corridor and it was immediately hit with a barrage of bullets.

“That was a mistake,” called Arc, picking up another body for a shield.

“Hold you fire!” ordered Cryer.

“You’re lucky I’m in a forgiving mood,” said Arc, stepping out into the corridor with his new corpse shield. “Everyone stay where I can see you.”

Arc moved forwards and the bandits backed away, none of them daring to raise their guns again. They walked backwards into the main room as Arc walked towards them. Once there, he pivoted and walked backwards to the front door of the outpost without taking his eyes off the seven men that wanted him dead more than anything other than their own survival.

“Farewell, gents,” said Arc, dropping the body in the doorway, stopping the door from falling closed.

He stepped back into the outdoors, relieved to breathe fresh air once again, but he wouldn’t let himself be complacent until he was well out of sight of his enemies. No, these bandits were a conniving bunch, it was in their nature.

As Arc continued walking backwards, keeping his eyes fixed on the men waiting in the main room, he saw one of the ones sitting on the sidelines twitching. A second later, the bandit was on his feet and shot Arc in the chest, but the bullet plinked onto the ground after striking him.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” said Arc coldly. He tapped the trigger of the Golden Hawk and the runes on the gun glowed blue as it unleashed the spell within.

A huge fireball erupted from the muzzle, leaving a roaring trail of flames as it streaked towards the doorway. The bandits all yelled and dove for cover, but it was for nought. The fireball flew into the centre of the room and exploded, taking the outpost and all of its occupants with it.

Bricks rained down upon the desert and smoke billowed into the sky, flying free from the now-open roof. Arc stood silently by, keeping his spellcaster held out. If there was a single soul left alive inside, they wouldn’t be for much longer as the flickering flames burned their flesh.

Arc watched for a minute before daring to approach. He stepped over a low wall that had been much taller not so long ago, and into the main room where the flames were now dying down. He tried counting the bodies, but they were in too many pieces and too badly burned to be counted accurately.

“Good enough,” said Arc, satisfied that his enemies were dead. “You’re next, Colt.”

Arc walked back into the desert, throwing the trail of his blood-stained scarf over his shoulder. His first order of business upon returning to Pembroke was to get his treasured scarf washed. The second order was to make sure that the twins hadn’t gotten themselves into as much trouble as he had gotten himself into.