Bread sprinted. As fast as his mechanical legs could take him. He wasn’t going to wait around some building and watch what was about to unfold. What was he? A coward? No, he wasn’t going to let her die!

“No!” He jumped, reached out with outstretched arms. Then a shot echoed through the air, louder than the roaring flames before him.

“Bread?!”

That was Val’s voice. He tumbled with the man, but he didn’t dare let go of the hand with the gun. Bread quickly looked her way. Blood. Just around her cheeks. Was it hers? Had he been too late?

“Fuck!” The man grabbed Bread’s shoulder and pulled. “Get off of me!”

“No!” He held on.

“Oh, I’ll fucking show you.” He reached into his jacket. There was a glint of metal. A hilt, guard. Then a swish of a blade.

A knife!

It was almost free. Almost out of his jacket…

Danger. That was the only word zooming through Bread’s mind when he felt it—the ice cubes. A familiar burning sensation formed inside his chest, slid down his arms. An electric arc snaked out from the tips of his fingers, dancing like jagged, ocean waves. He could feel his hair rise at the ends…

“You’ll f—”

Then it snapped—bit into the man’s arms. His knees gave out, and he started to fall. Bread started to fall with him. And then he started to see…

…

“How’ve you been, Blackjack?” He lit his cigars one by one and placed them inside the hole in his cheek. Then he sat across from the little man. The table was flipped to the side. The legs had already been broken off, splintered at the joints.

“Rictor…”

“Or is it, Coach?” He inhaled deeply. The smoke tasted all too sweet. Authentic. Not like any of that vapor shit. “That your new job now, innit? A boxing coach.”

“So what if it is?”

“Aren’t you too old to be playing around with these runts?” He smirked. The old man still believed in those childish dreams of his. He could’ve just cyber-upped at this point. He had the money before, and now, he was just wasting it on helping out some orphaned kids. “What happened to your heyday? You were the best arms dealer we had.”

“Too darn old for that now.”

“Nobody leaves that kinda business scot-free. Not unless someone like Greg’s got your back.”

“What’re you trying to say?”

“Greg’s mad. You don’t wanna see him when he’s like that, do you?” He shook his head at the thought. Greg when he was angry? He’d never survive that. “This can end in two ways. Where’s Valerie Briarwood?”

“Who?” The man looked away.

“You’re a shit liar, Blackjack.” The gaze of a guilty man—he knew what that looked like. He pulled out his gun. His most prized possession—Smoke ‘n Ladders. Such a hot design. “Tell me or I shoot your leg.” He took another deep breath of the wispy smoke. “You got a favorite? I’ll save that one for later.”

Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!

“She’s an adult. I don’t need to know where she—”

He shot his left.

“Agh!” Blackjack fell off his chair.

“Lemme say it again. Greg’s pissed. So where’s the girl?”

“I don’t know!”

“Wrong answer.” He shot the other leg. Blackjack yelled out in pain. “There goes your favorite. That was your favorite, right?” He grinned. “Okay, how ‘bout a different question. Heard you took in a stray again. A mod doll at that. Is that where the veil went?”

“Leave him—” Blackjack groaned as he propped himself upright. He leaned back against the wall. “Leave him out of this.”

“Why? He’s not special. Probably just another poor, scrapped—”

“He’s family!”

“Family? A doll? That really more important than your life?” He aimed the gun at Blackjack’s forehead. Right between the eyes. “Tell me one thing I don’t know, and I’ll let you off the hook. I’ll tell Greg you ran. For old time’s sake.”

Blackjack grunted. “What a poor deal.”

He shrugged. “Best I got.”

“Haven’t I taught you better, Rictor?”

He scoffed. “You taught me nothing.” Just fleeting memories of a time when he was immature and volatile…

“I taught you not to follow scum like Greg.”

“Hah! He’ll have your head if he heard that.”

“I thought you as family back in the day—”

“Don’t try and pull at my heartstrings, old man.” It was too late for that. “Taking me in and teaching me how to commit crimes isn’t livin’ like family. You’re the one who made me like this.”

“That was the only way I knew how to live back then.”

“Every choice has a price.” Rictor stood up and walked a little closer. His gun was still pointed at the man’s forehead. “That’s what Greg taught me, and he’s been doing far better than you.”

“Every choice has a price…” Blackjack smiled. His chest heaved with each word. “You’re right, but I won’t make that same mistake twice. I ain’t running this time.”

His arm twitched. Was he nervous? That didn’t make sense. He’d killed more before. This wasn’t anything new. Just old personal ties. Those never lasted. Not in this business.

“You have a choice too, Rictor.”

No, he didn’t. He never had enough money for that. “Seriously, what’s so much better about them, anyway? You won’t die for me, but you’ll die for them?”

“Jealous?” He chuckled. “Ya ran off and killed somebody. There’s a reason they ain’t scum like you.”

“Don’t push your luck, Jack. I’m the one with the gun.” He steadied his aim, finger still on the trigger. “Say that again. Better this time. What reason?”

“I know this ain’t the real you, Rictor.”

“You don’t know me! You left me to rot!”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” He froze. For a second, he wanted it all back. That time they’d spent together… But then he pulled himself out of it. “Sorry doesn’t cut it anymore.”

“Rictor—”

“This is my last warning.” His hand shook just a little. “Answer the question. What reason?”

Blackjack’s sharp gaze cut through his nerves. The man stared up at the ceiling and took a deep breath. Then he locked eyes before he finally said—

”They got heart.”

A shot rang out in the distance.