The ice settled further into the bottom of my glass with a soft clink. The mixture had become more water than bourbon at this point. I wasn’t gulping it down. I was barely sipping it, in fact. There were more pressing matters to attend to than being polite and finishing the drink set in front of me.

Marty’s normally mirthful attitude had entirely evaporated. “Y-you’re not serious, right?”

I didn’t respond. He already knew the answer. The radio behind the bar filled the void momentarily, Bing Clawsby’s handsome croon about the call of whippoorwills foretelling his return to his ‘blue heaven’ doing little to soften the mood.

“You can’t just do that. Look, I know it’s a bad situation, but—” My sharp gaze instantly cut his words short. He went rigid, then lowered his head. A mutter escaped his lips. “It ain’t right… none of this is right…”

Marty was usually a good man to confide in, someone with whom you could share private information. Someone who could lend an ear or even a shoulder when necessary. Someone who was loyal, a good friend. But tonight, he was making me regret having spilled the beans to him.

I rotated on the barstool, glancing over my shoulder in the direction of my prey. It was a quiet night at Santiago’s, unusually so due to the nasty cold making its late winter rounds. At least half the guys were out sick, either with the illness or caring for a family member with it. But I wasn’t sick in the slightest, and neither was Lorenzo.

Adorned in his usual blackened leather jacket and cow-licked mop of greasy hair, he laughed about God-knows-what with a handful of other Herdsters on the opposite end of the restaurant. The liquor was flowing liberally that evening—Charles’s absence meant no one needed to keep up pretenses or act too professional.

Hypocrites. Fucking hypocrites, the lot of ‘em.

Marty’s head hovered above the bar table between us, speaking in the hushed tone we’d been maintaining for the past several minutes. “Pierce, listen to me.” I didn’t face him. “You’re just now starting to make some progress in the business, movin’ up the ladder. How long have you been a Herdster? Ten years? And now you’re gonna throw it away on account of—”

I whipped around and growled. “Who’s gonna tell ‘em?”

He shook his head. “Come on… Charles would have to be a moron to not put two and two together.”

I resumed my reconnaissance. Charles could have his suspicions. He wouldn’t have proof. That was good enough for me.

“Please don’t do it.” His beseeching whimper fell on deaf ears. “We can figure something else out.”

The last time Marty sounded so broken up was when I told him what happened to Franky’s wife. I didn’t tell him everything, but given his family’s close proximity to mine he deserved to know. Marty had to choke back tears; he and his wife had just found out about their own pregnancy, after all, and he was looking forward to our families having similarly-aged kids. He was gonna make a good father.

Franky… woulda made a good father, too.

My little brother had showed up at my front step in the piss-early morning almost two months prior, banging on the door and sobbing uncontrollably. He reeked of booze and I couldn’t get a coherent word out of him. I bunked him down in the guest room so he could sober up.

In the morning proper, a couple boys in blue showed up, asking questions about Franky’s whereabouts. I lied, telling them I had seen neither hide nor hair of my brother for a few days. The pair wandered off with a tip of their caps. They knew not to give Herdsters too much trouble, so that was the end of it. However, I still had to deal with Franky and figure out what happened to stir him up so badly.

He nursed his cup of afternoon coffee, hands trembling so badly that the warm liquid sloshed over his fingers. “I fucked up,” he kept muttering. “I didn’t mean to do it, I was just so angry.” The tears fell in waves, accompanied by more muttered apologies and excuses but no clear answers. Bianca rubbed his back to comfort him while giving me one of her looks. This was bad; we just didn’t know how bad yet.

Things didn’t start making sense until I drove to his place later that evening. It was a handsome little two-story home, the perfect starter house for a newlywed couple. My knock went unanswered. His wife worked, despite being very pregnant. It was a minor point of contention between Franky and I, never serious enough to turn into a full-blown argument but a disagreement in philosophy nonetheless. I knew that a woman’s place was in the home, caring for the kids and keeping things running smoothly. Franky acquiesced to his petite little velociraptor gal’s aspirations of becoming a police officer. A foolish pipe dream.

I knocked again, listening for any rustling footsteps or calls of “Just a minute” from the other side. None came.

Franky was over the moon for Aubrey when they met. He would speak to me with wide eyes and a beaming grin, telling me all the wonderful traits of this sharp-toothed broad. It was a little unusual, an herbivore getting with a carnivore, but my brother was always a romantic at heart. He wasted no time putting that baby in her after their wedding, either. Us Signorelli’s had always been good shots, as my father liked to put it on account of his seven children.

However, it seemed like Franky’s infatuation gave way rapidly as time went on. He sang her praises less and less, replacing it with grumbles about her nagging or prodding him. I tried to assuage his concerns, letting him know that the hormones go a bit crazy when a lady’s pregnant; hell, Bianca ground my nerves to dust on more than one occasion while she was lugging Russell around in her belly. But he didn’t seem to get the point. He’d toss back a shot and call Aubrey a bitch as he poured another.

Tired of waiting, I tested the doorknob. It wasn’t locked. I cautiously called out my presence as I pushed the door open; the scene waiting for me on the other side rapidly solved the mystery.

I quickly stepped over the blood that had soaked into the carpet and ascended the stairs without putting any weight on the splintered banister. An assortment of Franky’s clothes flew into a luggage trunk along with the piece I knew he kept tucked in the top shelf of his closet. We’d sort out the rest later. I hustled back downstairs, careful not to plant a shoe print at the scene, and tossed what I salvaged into the back seat. My car vanished around the corner before any neighbors started getting curious.

God damnit, Franky. You fool. You drunk fucking fool.

“I’m gonna get better. I’m gonna fix myself up, and I’m gonna do better for her.” The lament of an alcoholic was always full of remorse and promises to do right, but I knew my brother better than that. His sober spell lasted all of twenty four hours before he started sneaking swigs from our liquor cabinet. I tolerated it, being an even bigger fool than Franky for it. But why wouldn’t I? He had just lost a kid. That said, I didn’t understand why he never went to the hospital to see his wife. Then again, he never went to see mom, either.

I kept going to work while he sat around my house and drank my booze. It was a month before Bianca finally put her foot down and said he had to go. She didn’t have the endless patience that I did for my kid brother. I got him situated in a one-bedroom apartment halfway between my place and the Local 237. Told him he needed to get his shit together and start coming to work again, or else there wouldn’t be a work to come back to.

He did start coming to work again. Even seemed to be cutting back on the drinking. Wasn’t getting blind-stupid drunk every night, at least. Just his usual brand of tipsy, bringing laughter-filled anecdotes to the other guys at Santiago’s after our shifts.

And then he disappeared.

No… he didn’t just disappear. He was killed. My brother wouldn’t vanish out of the blue.

Another bout of chuckles from the jacket-bound skinnie and his company jostled me from the burning memories. The fury bubbled, causing me to gnaw on my tongue to suppress a scowl. I rose from my stool with a shove and beelined toward the door. I could feel Marty’s pleading eyes trail me out of the restaurant. The biting evening cold greeted me with open arms. I tugged at my collar and trudged through the near-ice slush on the frigid sidewalk toward my waiting car.

The engine churned. I revved it a few times to help warm it up before cracking open the dashboard vents. I flicked on my headlights, slid into the sleepy road and turned the nearby corner. A block down, another turn, then two blocks further, another. I doused my headlights, pulling to a stop a block and a half away from Santiago’s front visage. The dimmed bulbs of its namesake sign threw enough light at the stoop below it so that I could identify folks as they left.

At least, I’d be able to easily identify the outline of a fucking skinnie.

A half hour passed before I watched Marty hunch through the door, lowering his elongated neck so as to not clobber his skull on the frame. It was a usual move for him, but one that carried a new motion as he craned his head around to look for my car. It wasn’t where I had parked it on our arrival. He seemed to breathe a sigh of relief before turning down the nearby alley to his own method home. Its tail lights disappeared down the street and I returned my focus to the present mission.

Lorenzo. The sleaze ball wormed his way into the organization with toothy grins and honeyed words. He fancied himself a cool customer who was often tasked to handle wet work for the Herdsters. Those of us who had previously taken such heavy work knew the gravitas it required, the respect and civility necessary even when you were putting a bullet in the forehead of a thief or traitor. It wasn’t something in which you reveled, something you gloated about openly. Lorenzo was a fool who earned a spot at the table through tenacity and vile spirit.

Of course, I knew why he was being assigned such jobs recently. It wasn’t because of his skill, or his professionalism. It’s because he was a skinnie. And that meant he was more disposable than anyone else. Hell, had this not happened, I was on the verge of speaking to Charles about moving him up in the organization. Lorenzo’s charm had even started to endear him to me; it was hard to dislike the guy despite being a spear-chucker. He got along with Franky, too; the pair of them could banter back and forth endlessly…

My fingers tightened around the steering wheel, squeezing the racing blood back down my arms. This fucking skinnie probably walked right up to my brother on the street with the greeting of an old friend before murdering him. He’s gonna pay. The slimy little fuck will pay with his life.

I’m gonna avenge you, Franky. You had your problems, but I owe you that much.

An hour of churning hatred later, several figures exited Santiago’s. The interior lights doused but the sign remained illuminated long enough for me to watch the skinnie turncoat tuck his greasy hair under a flat cap and stuff his hands into his pockets. He looked both ways before sauntering across the road and slid behind the steering wheel of the handsome 1957 Ford Fairlane he’d been gifted by the Herdsters, its dual green and white tones making it an easy vehicle to trail. Meanwhile, my jet black DeVille would blend right in with the other sparse late-night traffic. At least long enough for it to matter.

It was a short journey, coming to a close in a cramped parking lot behind a pair of dilapidated apartment structures. The stench of rotting garbage that forced its way through my closed windows told me all I needed to know about what sort of creatures took up residence here. They wouldn’t be any trouble.

Cracked asphalt met the bottoms of my shoes as I rapidly left my car and closed the distance between myself and the still parking Ford. Lorenzo had only just shut his driver’s side door behind himself when I arrived. My delivery was already in hand.

He glanced from me to it, then back to me with a charming grin. “Evenin’, Pierce. Thought you already went home for the night. What’s the occasio—”

“Shut the fuck up, skinnie. You know why I’m here.”

He played at innocence. “I don’t. You just saw me at Santiago’s, didn’t ya? You and your buddy Marty were sulking in the opposite corner from me and the boys. I was gonna get you a drink, but you seemed to always have one in hand.”

My thumb massaged the hammer of my vengeance. “Admit to me that you did it.”

His hands indignantly found his hips. “Admit what?”

“Your bullshit games aren’t gonna make this end any better, skinnie. Tell me what you did to Franky.”

He balked, bringing a hand to his chest. I tensed up, in case he made a play for his piece, but instead he simply tapped his sternum. “Buddy, I’m just as confused as you are as to why he hasn’t been showing up to work recently.”

I could no longer keep the barrel from pointing anywhere but his head. I spoke through gritted teeth. “I’m not bluffing. Tell me.”

He sighed. “Pierce, Pierce, Pierce… You gotta take a breather. I don’t know if it’s the booze or that nasty bug that’s been circling around that’s got you not thinkin’ straight, but we gotta handle this more professional-like. What sorta info do you think you’d get from me while pointing that iron at my skull?”

“The truth, if you’re interested in keeping your brains inside of it.”

He shook his head, holding his hands at his sides in a show of placation. “I don’t know where your brother is. I didn’t do anything to him, and if someone else did, they didn’t tell me about it.” His eyes softened and he offered a warm smile. “He probably just ran off for a while. Needed a break from everything, from his lousy apartment and the stresses of—”

The thunderclap of steel striking brass rattled the nearby windowpanes. A crescent of crimson painted the muddied slush behind him as he rocked backward. His stiffened body almost held an angelic pose, arms stretched to his sides and gentle smile gracing his lips. The illusion dissolved instantly as his body rolled against the side of his car’s hood, crumpling in a tangled heap next to its front tire. I took two steps closer, aiming the pistol center mass before squeezing out the other four rounds in rapid succession. Each puncture released more encased oxygen and once-vital fluid. They were unnecessary, but cathartic.

I gazed at my handiwork for a moment, taking in every detail, searing it into my memory for eternity. I needed to remember this for as long as I lived.

It wasn’t until the nearby lights concealed by curtains began flicking on that I hustled to my car, tucking my revolver into my pocket. I’d dispose of it shortly thereafter in my usual memorial graveyard. As I fired up the engine and rapidly reversed out of the parking lot, I let out a deep, shuddering sigh. It was neither one of relief, nor of contentment. It was a promise. A promise that I would never allow anyone else in my life to be hurt by someone like Lorenzo again.

Never again. I’ll never trust a fucking skinnie again.

—

Three seconds is all it takes to cross the warehouse; my stride is long, and my blood is boiling. He can’t eke out a protestation before the back of my fist collides with the side of his head, sending the skinnie sprawling across the floor. His limbs bend and contort beneath him, coming to rest in a tangled mass. He doesn’t move. Whether dead or unconscious, I don’t fucking care. I’ll do more—

A flash of movement from my peripheral causes me to instinctively lurch backward, barbed tail swinging around to sweep across my traversed path of retreat. The talons come within an inch of my snout; the velociraptor they’re attached to leaps back and away from my defenses. Her pupils are pinpricks, her maw flashing in primal fury. She crouches over the misshapen mound of flesh, claws scrabbling against the concrete and feathers standing on end.

She hisses. “Don’t you dare come any closer! I’ll rip your fucking throat out!”

My pulse remains heightened and my awareness is honed; after all, a predator is feet away baring its teeth at me. My tail swoops about in unpredictable arcs, ready to soar toward my opponent with a spin of my hips. However, I manage to raise an eyebrow at Aubrey. “What is this skinnie to you?”

“Don’t call him that! He’s mine!”

I pause. “What? Don’t tell me you’re going back to the barbaric days of eating the fucking things?”

Her lips curl further upward and she spits. “Shut the fuck up and get away from us! I swear to God, I will kill you, Pierce!”

Out of an overabundance of caution, I take a single step back, hands held to my sides and tail defensively positioned. I consider drawing iron on her, but I don’t think that the situation has come to such measures quite yet. It’ll be a safety valve.

At the sign of my slight retreat, she seems to regain a modicum of sanity, quickly dropping to her knees behind the skinnie and scooping his motionless body into her arms. She cradles his neck and shoulders, quickly assessing the damage. He’s still breathing, although through a tepid snore. A knot is already swelling through his cheek and eye socket, slowly discoloring the disgusting, spongy skin surrounding it.

Her growl has become a whimper. “Sammy… talk to me. Come on, Sammy, wake up…”

She’s calling him ‘Sammy’, huh? The implication sends a wave of queasiness through my gut. I turn my attention to the purse and camera laying nearby, then to the half-opened closet door nestled underneath the pulley platform above. I make a bid at offering an alternate explanation. “You’re working with Samuel, then. A spy. I knew he was a dishonest little rat, just like every other skinnie.”

Her eyes flare up and her teeth bare again as she gently sets the human down. “I told you not to call him that!”

I grin and shake my head dismissively. “I’ve got no clue how you got tangled up in this mess, Aubrey, but you’d better leave. I need to handle this traitor properly—”

In a dizzying burst of speed, she lunges forward, lashing out with her talons. My sharpened tail makes contact with her arm but she spins in response, deftly negating its inertia and avoiding its spines while resuming her attack. The pause gives me the opportunity to unholster my .357, but not enough time to bring it to bear as her fist makes contact with my forearm. I try to close my fingers around the weapon before it soars away; its smooth wooden grip slips past my nails and it glides through the air. Before it clatters to the pavement, my other palm extends outward, catching Aubrey square in the chest and repelling her back. She stumbles, gasping for air that I forced out of her sternum with the blow.

My eyes snap to the snub-nose revolver that came to rest about ten feet away. Using the moment of opportunity, I dash toward it, but before I can bend down and scoop it up the telltale sound of a racking slide pulling a bullet into the chamber freezes me in place.

“Don’t… fucking… move…” She labors the words past heaves for air. I slowly, very slowly straighten my back and bring my hands up in a show of surrender, turning just enough to see the gun in her hands, pointed square at my head. I see. That handbag wasn’t just a fashion accessory, after all.

“You don’t want to do this, Aubrey. You shouldn’t be here.”

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

She sidesteps closer to Samuel, bringing herself further into my line of sight, purse pistol still trained on me. Her breathing is more composed; she’s a tough broad. “Neither should you. I never wanted to see you or your piece of shit brother again, for as long as I lived.”

I bare my own unsharpened teeth in a scowl. “Don’t say that about Franky.”

“Do you have any idea what that monster did to me? To my baby?!”

My lips uncurl slightly. “I do. I’m… sorry that happened.” My words momentarily give her pause. “He was a flawed man. I can’t excuse what he did to you, but he was dealing with his own demons, too.”

Her eyes go out of focus for a moment, then return to me. “Was?”

Before I can reply, the heap on the ground stirs. It mutters in barely more than a whisper. “Aubrey…?”

Aubrey’s attention jolts to the human and the firearm she wields lowers ever so slightly. The momentary lapse is all I need, instantly closing the gap before swirling around and bashing the side of my tail into her gut. She gasps, having barely avoided its spikes because of her slender frame. The concussive force still hurls her several feet across the warehouse; she crashes into the side of a large wooden crate on top of a pallet. She keeps her feet beneath her, reeling from the blow.

Her gun isn’t in her hands anymore. Neither is mine, but there’s no time to grab it; I have to press the advantage while there’s one to press. I dash toward her, catching her in the side with a fierce right hook. She cries out, bringing her arms up to defend herself; a left fist into her shoulder knocks her off balance and sends her to her ass. I don’t enjoy hurting a woman, but when said woman is a predator who’s held you at gunpoint and still has razor sharp teeth in her maw, there’s little choice in the matter.

I follow her down, planting a hand on the side of her head and smothering her into the concrete. My other arm wrestles her hands together, pinning and disarming the most lethal parts of her. She shrieks and flails, gnashing fruitlessly at my side and grasping for anything. Her legs kick and her tail thrashes.

I bark the command as I hunch over her. “Stop fighting, Aubrey, or I’ll make this a lot worse.”

She doesn’t listen, struggling like a lunatic against a straight jacket. So be it.

I lift a foot and bring it down on her right knee.

Her scream is deafening. It accompanies her complete surrender, the energy that was being spent on trying to free herself suddenly converting to squeezing herself into a helpless ball. Her leg spasms; she clutches at it while sobbing uncontrollably. I watch the reaction with some surprise. I didn’t think I used enough force to break or dislocate anything. The same tactic on other resisting dinosaurs usually straightens ‘em up but doesn’t lead to much more than a limp that lasts a couple days.

I blink past the pause. “Are you gonna settle down now? I don’t want to hurt you any more than tha—”

A loud clap is accompanied by a spray of splinters breaking off the corner of the nearby crate only a few feet away from my face. I jolt upright, releasing the velociraptor by my feet who responds by curling up further and cradling her leg. The source of the interruption wavers and sways, the human holding it struggling to keep his eyes open. He uses his free hand to wipe away some of the mist of unconsciousness from his face.

“Get… get away from her… I mean it…”

I oblige, taking two long steps away from Aubrey and closer to my resting revolver. I doubt he noticed it; he just grabbed that little semi-automatic that Aubrey had dropped next to him and started blasting. I growl. “Why are you shooting at me, Samuel? I’m your partner.”

He takes shallow, rapid breaths. He hasn’t gotten to his feet yet; instead, he supports himself on an elbow while keeping the pistol in his other hand aimed in my general direction. “Why are you here, Pierce? You… weren’t supposed to do this job tonight…”

I shake my head. “You told me about this job, remember? I asked you for the details and you told me. Why wouldn’t I be here? I needed to know what was going on. I needed to see what Charles was sneaking around to do, and whether it was something we could leverage against him.”

The cogs in Samuel’s head turn, albeit slowly. “He… wanted me to burn this place…”

I need to keep him talking, I’ve got an advantage now. “Samuel, what was being shipped out of here? What was Charles so invested in that he needed so many guys here, but not me?”

He pauses. The pistol remains trained at me, but he strains his eyes as he digs through his seemingly-clouded short-term memory. I probably shouldn’t have clocked him in the head, but it is what it is. After a moment, he regains focus on me.

“Guns.”

“Are you certain?”

He nods. “A fuckload of guns. Crates and crates. I never saw inside ‘em, but overheard some of the crewmen muttering about their big haul of weapons.”

I bring one of my surrendering hands to my forehead. Raptor Christ… Charles is involved in gun running now? It’s one thing for the Herdsters to skirt the law and dance with danger, but this is an entire different fucking league.

I push aside the bubbling fury. “You said he told you to burn this warehouse?” The smell of gasoline was evident from the moment I stepped foot near the loading door, and the red cans nearby further pointed to the truth.

He gestures toward the few crates lingering in the building. “Documents. He said—” His eyes widen suddenly. “Don’t fuckin’ move, Pierce. I swear to God, I will put the rest of these bullets through your skull if you move an inch.”

Looks like the haze has finally passed. He clambers to his feet, legs still swaying underneath him slightly. However, the gun in his hand aims steadier than ever. He stumbles across the warehouse toward Aubrey, not taking his eyes off me until he arrives at her side. He crouches next to her, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“Aubrey… are you okay?”

She responds in a sob. “Sammy… I’m glad you’re alright…”

“It’s okay, honey. We need to get out of here. Can you walk?”

She starts to push herself up onto her elbows, her knee violently quaking with each movement. I steal a glance toward my waiting pistol; in response, Samuel’s arm tightens.

“I said don’t move, mother fucker. You can sucker punch me all day, but you do not lay a finger on my woman. I oughta blast you in half right here.”

I nearly gag at the words. “Your woman? Aubrey is married to my brother.”

His eyes widen and his back goes rigid. “You mean to tell me… your brother is the piece of shit that hurt her? The vile fucking filth that shoved a pregnant woman down the stairs?!”

My chin lifts in defiance. “If you’re going to kill me for the sins of my brother, so be it. You skinnies are all the same, anyway.”

Samuel’s breathing is labored. Fire burns in his gaze. It’s a look I know all too well… he’s preparing himself for what he’s about to do. I stand tall, my thoughts drifting to my beautiful wife and my two loving children. I know they’ll be okay, even if I don’t come home.

A claw clutches at Samuel’s arm. He gasps and averts his stare only slightly. Aubrey quivers as she tries to pull herself to her feet.

“Don’t. Don’t do it, Sammy. You’re better than this.”

In response, he throws his free arm around her waist, helping to hoist her up slowly. He never once releases the trained sights from my body. Impressive technique for a skinnie who’s never shot a man before. Even so, I consider making a dive for the revolver. If things turn for worse, it’s an option.

Aubrey winces in pain, sucking air past clenched teeth as she hobbles with her weight almost entirely on her left leg. The two of them shimmy toward the side door of the warehouse, business end of the small pistol squared on me the whole way. They reach the exit; Samuel quickly removes his free hand from Aubrey before twisting the handle and pulling the door open.

I turn my akimbo hands upward in a shrug. “I guess this is it, then. It was a pleasure workin’ with ya.”

He doesn’t reply. The two of them slip through the door, tugging it closed behind them. I finally lower my arms, letting out a sigh. While I could scoop up my revolver and chase ‘em down… what’s the fuckin’ point? They didn’t shoot me. Hell, they barely laid a finger on me. And now I don’t have to see either of them again, traitorous skinnie or velociraptor whore.

I assess my surroundings, stepping over to one of the half dozen crates near the back wall. It’s nailed shut pretty tight, save for the hole Samuel’s stray bullet planted in it; I line myself up before sending a spike from my tail into the same corner. The force dislodges the lid enough for my fingers to slip between and pry it up.

Papers. Thousands upon thousands of papers, dumped into it like a garbage bin. I fish one out randomly and scan its surface. Something about a zoning permit application dated two years ago. A quick rummage reveals more similar ink; nothing incriminating to my uneducated eyes, but a prosecuting lawyer’s wet dream, I’d imagine.

It’s not worth taking any of this with me. I should go; hell, I probably already overstayed my welcome. I turn toward my still abandoned revolver, moving with swiftness and—

The unfamiliar roar was sudden and surprising. And, it seems, somewhat disarming, having entirely halted my forward momentum. I stand stock still, almost as though I was involuntarily playing at being one of those street performers who collect nickels and imitate statues. My heart beat quickens, pumping adrenaline to every corner of my body. Strangely enough, there is no pain. Only an odd, spreading feeling of wetness near my stomach.

I turn to face the calamity. A gray triceratops I know all too well stands at the opened seaside loading doors, the gentle lap of ocean waves at his back. Next to him, a smirking spinosaurus in a police uniform who also holds a pistol, though he seems to be aiming it at both me and the third onlooker.

Marty. He holds his empty hands toward me, a frozen gasp upon his normally friendly face. He spins in Charles’s direction. “Why?!”

The lit cigar between his lips rolls lazily to and fro. He holds a revolver in his palm, grip and trigger draped in a handkerchief that barriers his scales from its surfaces. Its muzzle emits a wisp of smoke, an echo of its war cry. Without looking down, I know where the bullet landed.

It still doesn’t hurt.

Charles takes a step into the warehouse, aims the revolver in my direction, then fires it four more times. Each reverberation jostles the rotted wood around us, dislodging ancient dust from the rafters high above. I wince in realization that my final thoughts aren’t of my family but instead of goddamn dusty beams, but the wince is quickly supplanted by confusion. I’m still upright, and nothing further seems to be wrong with my scales or guts. I’m fairly certain my brains are still inside my head, too.

With a grin, Charles tosses the revolver at Marty’s feet. Marty stares at it for a moment, then at our boss in utter bewilderment. “Charles, what are—”

“In due time, Martin. In due time. I’m setting the stage, you see.” His seemingly jovial words carry venom.

Marty gazes at me with remorse. “God, Pierce. I’m so sorry. I don’t know—”

“Shut up, you pencil-necked prick.” The spinosaurus takes immense pleasure in his turn of phrase.

Marty turns to the cop, only to jump back at the realization that a gun is trained on him. His hands lift in surrender and he protests. “What the fuck is this?!”

“As I said, Martin. We have some matters that need addressing.” The triceratops saunters, as though on a leisurely Sunday stroll through Central Park. His hands are clasped behind his back, still gripping the white handkerchief. “Where do we begin? I suppose the most pressing matter is the one of an uninvited guest in attendance at our evening rendezvous.”

His menacing purple eyes stare me down. I don’t respond, instead doing my best to perform a slow check of my remaining function and mobility given my current predicament. I flex my fingers; those still work. I shift my feet slightly; good there, too. My tail twitches, uncooperative of the direction I just gave it. That part might be out. I can still fight my way out of this, as soon as I get the opening.

“Somehow, despite not being informed of this non-publicized Herdsters task, you have managed to find yourself in our midst. A startling coincidence, if I do say so myself.” He frowns. “Perhaps you were on a late night seaside jog? Your attire suggests such.”

I grimace. The fucker is toying with me. “Yeah. That’s exactly it. A coincidence.”

He smiles. “Of course, seeing that this particular pier is about thirty miles away from your home, that must have been some trek!” I don’t respond, and his smile fades. “So, it… wasn’t a jog. In that case… someone must have told you about the meet-up?” At this, he turns an accusatory eyebrow toward Marty.

Marty stutters. “I-I didn’t! I didn’t t-tell Pierce anything! I didn’t want him getting w-wrapped up in this, why would I?!”

A sigh escapes Charles. “That is the question. Why would Pierce get himself wrapped up in this?” He lazily turns to face further into the warehouse before casually striding toward the back of the space. “I had my doubts about his loyalty in the past, considering the foolish and short-sighted actions he seemed frequently prone to taking, but…”

He stoops down and plucks a black and silver brick from the concrete. “This seems damning.” His icy gaze returns to me. “Wouldn’t you say?”

My fingers tighten into fists. My breathing is becoming more labored. He’s wasting time on purpose. I have to do something, but I can’t risk Marty getting hurt. “That camera isn’t mine. There was another—”

“Another what?” Charles’s free hand sweeps across the empty warehouse. “There’s no one else here. Not even Samuel! Though I’m guessing you scared him off, given the gun shot we heard a few minutes ago. And here I thought you two were becoming friends… no loyalty among the wicked, I suppose.”

I grit my teeth. “Samuel didn’t do anything wrong.”

Charles shrugs. “I’m inclined to agree with you. After all, he was in sight the entire time as we got the supplies loaded on the ship, and he was going to burn this building to ashes.” His falsely pleasant grin turns wicked. “He’s expendable. I’m not worried about it.”

Despite my hatred toward skinnies and the animosity I held toward Samuel because of his involvement with Aubrey, I can’t help but growl. “Whatever you do to me, leave him out of it.”

My words are dismissed with a hand-wave. “No matter. What does matter, right now, is what you just brought up. Sneaking around draped in black, spying on our operations… hiding in broom closets to collect incriminating photographs…” He gestures toward the closet door partially pinned by a crate. “This just won’t do. It’s not becoming of you, Pierce, a man of your integrity.” He taps a finger to the bottom of his snout in fake thought. “So… what are we going to do with you?”

I know Charles. He’s planned this. He knew I’d find out about his scheme and show up here. I fell right into his trap. “Just kill me and be done with it. Save me the theatrics.”

His grin widens. “You’re right. I know exactly what I’m doing, and we’ve almost got everything ready. There’s only one more detail.” Filled with a sense of superiority, he closes the gap between himself and my waiting revolver. I lurch forward, only to stop as the spinosaurus’s arm tightens. He only has to turn a few degrees to put me in his sights. I’m probably a dead man anyway, but…

Marty. I gotta get Marty out of this. My friend stands petrified, his elongated neck quivering in fear. I only hope that he’s still got his piece on him and can find an opportunity to draw. He’s never been a fast shot, but he’s always been dependable. He’s always had my back when I needed him, when it mattered most.

Charles stoops, sets the camera down and retrieves my revolver, laying the handkerchief on its grip before lifting it from its resting place. “You know, Pierce. All of this could have been avoided if you simply knew to leave well enough alone. You had to go and kill one of my best enforcers, all because of your good-for-nothing brother. A worthless drunk who brought shame on the Herdsters with his reckless lifestyle choices and abysmal work ethic. Top it off with what he did to his unborn child…” He clicks his tongue. “Honestly, I did the world a favor.”

My eyes widen. The warehouse is starting to spin, but I bite down on my tongue to regain balance. “What did you just say?”

His gaze offers sarcastic understanding. “I said, I did the world a—”

“No. About his child. How did you know about that?”

Puzzlement crosses his face, followed by rapid understanding embellished by a wicked grin. “Oh dear. This only makes things more delightful.”

I turn to Marty. The color has drained from his face. He stares at me, mouth ajar, tears threatening to fall from his eyes. “I… I didn’t know…”

There were only a handful of people in the world who knew what happened to Aubrey. Me, the doctors, my brother, Bianca, Aubrey herself, and…

“Marty.”

“I swear to God, Pierce. I didn’t know what he was gonna do. I didn’t mean for—”

He’s interrupted by a thunderous guffaw. Charles laughs so hard he has to brace himself with his free hand against his knee. The spinosaurus ignorantly joins in with a chuckle of his own, unaware of why his ally is so amused.

“I planned for much of this to happen, but this could not have been more perfect. Even I didn’t account for this. Oh, mercy!” He wipes a laughter-induced tear away from his face before regaining his composure. “Yes, Pierce. Your friend betrayed you. He told me all about what Franky had done, and asked if I could help.”

Marty is frenetic. “On Raptor Christ and Mother Mary, I swear to you that I didn’t mean for that to happen! I wanted Charles to help Franky! I wanted to get him help for his drinking!”

My head hangs in resignation. It’s betrayal on all sides. This is how I die, not by a bullet, but with a separate knife planted in my back from every person I thought I could trust in this cursed city.

A hand claps to my shoulder. I struggle to lift my neck. Charles stares at me, a strange amount of compassion in his eyes. “I understand what you’re feeling. I really do. And that’s why I’m going to do what I’m about to do.” He lifts the revolver, sweeping its barrel across my face. I don’t flinch. I’m ready for this to be over.

He takes a deep breath. “As much as I want to kill you, Pierce… I can’t. Trust me, I would if I could. You’ve been a thorn in my side for far too long. Hell, Eggsy would still be with us if you didn’t have the connections you do. But here we are. It took planning, and an awful lot of manipulation… but you know me. That was never a problem. You are the problem. One I’m going to solve.”

My eyes go out of focus. I will myself to bring a fist to the bottom of his jaw, but all my arm does is twitch uselessly. Charles glances at the blood pooling at my foot, then back at me. “You won’t die. The ambulances will be here in a few minutes, and you’ll get stitched up, and then you’ll go to prison for life. You’ll be out of my hair, and you’ll still be alive.”

Marty’s shaking voice cracks. “Prison? For w-what?”

Only now do I notice the empty shoulder holster underneath Marty’s raised arms. I glance down at the spent revolver by his feet. Five shots. One bullet in me, the other four in the crates and wall behind me.

Charles’s eyes find Marty. They are apologetic. Repentant. Almost remorseful.

“Murder.”

The handkerchief tightens on the trigger of my gun. Everything goes silent. Marty’s elongated neck snaps backward, shuddering in response to the errant signals the remnants of his brain are sending to the rest of his body. His arms stiffen. His legs buckle. Only muscle memory and raw, wasted adrenaline keep his feet underneath him, balancing in a grisly throe. The spinosaurus steps back, both fascinated by the sight and cautious of which direction the body is going to eventually tumble.

It settles on falling backward. My friend’s expressionless, lifeless face vanishes behind his stomach as his neck droops to the concrete like a cut rope. Blood pours from the splayed scales on the back of his skull.

Three more shots rip through the night air, the bullets soaring harmlessly over the foaming ocean. I try to fall to my knees, but Charles catches me, hoisting me up. He drops the revolver at my feet and stuffs the handkerchief into his breast pocket before shoving his fingers into my own. He fishes out my spare ammunition, rattling it around in his grip before stepping back and letting me continue down to the concrete.

His words are icy. “This is your fault, Pierce. And now you’ll have to live with that. No one will believe you when you say that I caused this. The police belong to the Herdsters… well, the ones that matter, anyway.” With this, he throws a sideways grin to the waiting spinosaurus. “Officer Preston here will be among the first responders, and he’ll help the detectives piece together exactly what happened. Two disloyal Herdsters, disgruntled with one another, get into a gun fight in a warehouse they planned to burn down. One died, the other was injured, but it’s clear as day that they were the only two here.”

Almost in response to a passing thought, he strides across the warehouse and scoops up the camera he left where my revolver was lying. “Well, as soon as we dispose of this, it’ll be clear as day.” He turns to the one he called Preston. “Let’s go make a phone call and get you in position. Once he’s in custody, make sure the warehouse still goes up in flames. It’s awfully easy for gasoline-soaked boards to accidentally catch fire.”

“You got it, Mr. Rossi.” The spinosaurus displays his teeth gleefully as the two wander out of the warehouse. I fruitlessly clutch my side, trying to apply pressure to the bubbling wound that only now begins aching, as though someone is slowly plunging a butcher knife between my ribs. I force the pain into the recesses of my mind as I stare helplessly at the shape of my friend.

Marty… I’m so sorry. You deserved better than this.

My teeth nearly crack from the force applied to them. I can’t waste energy on tears. Not right now. I have to get out of here. I have to avenge Marty. He deserves it. His wife and his unborn child deserve it. I heave and grunt as I attempt to swing a knee beneath me. The leg doesn’t cooperate. My tail, normally so adept at helping keep balance and get me back to my feet, is a worthless sandbag stapled to my back.

I turn the sorrow into fury. Get up, Pierce. Get the fuck up. You’re not gonna go to prison on account of this mother fucker. You’re gonna get up—

“Pierce…?”

The meek voice behind me is instantly recognizable, and the last one I wanted to hear. As much as my body yearns for a bullet to the back of the head, my conscience won’t abide it. I manage to rotate enough to bring Samuel into view. His arms dangle limp at his sides. He still clutches Aubrey’s pistol, but doesn’t bring it upon me. Instead, he stares at Marty’s lifeless form. His lip trembles.

I don’t bother making excuses. It looks how it looks. He’ll solve the puzzle a toddler could solve and bring an end to my miserable—

“How could he do this? How… how could Charles do this?!”

I struggle to speak. “You… saw?”

He nods. “I was at the side door. I heard the gunshots and saw everything after that.”

“And you… heard, too?”

“Most of it, yeah…”

“Then you know… this isn’t gonna end well… for either of us…”

“Yeah. I know.”

He steps closer to me and kneels down. My hand instinctively finds the revolver in front of me and tightens. I plant my other blood-soaked hand on his shoulder, causing him to stumble with my weight before he steels his legs. With a heave and a grunt, I manage to get my feet beneath me again. If a second wind won’t come to me naturally, I’ll force one upon myself. I can die once the work is done.

“We have to… stop him…”

Samuel stares up at me. “How? He’s already leaving.”

“You got that… Fairlane, don’t ya?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Then drive.”