Cass flung herself to the side as Mr. Moon came crashing over the fence, a coarse string of swears flying from her lips as her hands scrabbled for her pistol. In the innermost parts of her mind, the sight of the agent’s gun pointing right at her face registered, but it was drowned out by the screaming wall of pure rage that occupied the rest of her head. The feeling was still as scorching hot as it had been seconds after seeing her dad’s lifeless body fall to the ground. If she was fast enough, lucky enough, angry enough, then she might still manage to unload a few rounds into his chest with the Colt.

Cass’s fingers brushed against the grip of her handgun. However, before she could even wrap the rest of her fingers around the weapon, the world exploded in a blinding flash of light and pain. Her vision went black, and then gradually returned complete with what looked like handfuls of stars floating over her eyes. Something made of cold metal was cinched tightly around her wrists, but Cass could only lay there, lungs heaving as her mind tried to process what had just happened. Her forehead felt strangely warm and wet. Something was dripping down it, but slowly.

The world moved all of a sudden – but then Cass realized it wasn’t the world moving. She was being dragged to her feet, her wobbly feet that were busy competing with her head and her hearing in the ‘Betraying Cass Olympics’. She wasn’t quite sure which one was winning, but there was certainly hot competition for the gold medal in that category.

Before her legs could finish steadying up, Cass was flung from the bushes to land with an ungainly squawk on the ground. Her head felt strained as she moved it around to look back, catching a glimpse of the thin FBI agent pushing through bushes that clawed away at his white collared shirt like they were trying to cage him up forever. Frankly, Cass’s foggy mind decided, the bushes could have the monster. They could have him until she got her head screwed back on right and found her gun.

Cass’s hands strained to rise, to grab something, anything to beat at him with, but for some reason they wouldn’t come up from behind her back. Something ice-cold was preventing them from exercising their normal range of movement. Soon enough, Cass realized why. There were handcuffs cinched tight around her wrists.

Cass began to struggle more violently than ever, cursing and shouting as her head began to pull itself out of the sticky molasses it had been in after that flash of light and pain. Her legs lashed out, catching Mr. Moon in the shin, but the man didn’t even react to the strike. He leaned down to grasp her arms where they were cuffed behind her back, and Cass fought ever harder. She could hear the door to the house being slammed open, meaning that his moving mountain of a partner was seconds away. Cass got another good kick in, this time eliciting a ‘tch’ from the otherwise expressionless Mr. Moon. It wasn’t much, but the kick created an inch or two of distance, an amount Cass immediately used to surge to her feet. If she could just get to the street-

And her vision morphed back into a flurry of stars and dark spots as something quite solid and metallic was smashed against her head for the second time in less than half a minute. Her legs went limp, like cooked spaghetti noodles being cast onto the grass, and for a few moments, she laid there on the ground, gasping to reclaim the breath that was driven from her lungs.

The world felt out of focus, almost like fragments of a dream she was observing from a safe distance instead of the reality it was. This time Cass realized the cause. She’d been struck in the head by the pistol clutched tightly in Mr. Moon’s right hand. The bottom edge of the grip still had traces of her blood dripping off it.

A muffled voice said something, but it felt like her hearing was worse than ever. Then she was hoisted to her feet, and the voice repeated itself.

“If you try to run again, I will put a bullet in one of your kneecaps.”

Those words, spoken in a purely uncaring tone as if Mr. Moon was idly commenting about the weather instead of hurting someone, were like a bucket of ice water being poured on Cass’s head. Her vision, still beset with flashing stars as it was, sharpened intensely, and the ringing in her ears subsided slightly so that the man’s voice could be heard.

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Cass flicked her eyes around to get a better idea of the rapidly developing situation. She was in the sideyard, meaning she, Mr. Moon, and the steadily approaching Dag were in clear view of the street. If anyone were to drive by, they would see one of their neighbors being brutally assaulted by two out-of-town FBI agents. The sight might be enough for them to intervene, especially if she started screaming.

But then Cass’s brain registered that the streetlights were on. The world was getting darker. It was evening. Everyone would be at home by now, especially because of the recent murders. No one wanted to be out past dark with that sort of nasty business happening around town. She could scream, but that would probably be filed by Mr. Moon under the ‘running’ clause and she would eat a bullet to the kneecap.

Frankly, that was something Cass could live with if she knew the results would end in a swift death for Mr. Moon, but that was the problem – it was much too uncertain. If she actually managed to get help, what then? Mr. Moon would shoot her neighbors just like he did Cass's dad. Those kindly people she grew up around would be gone. There would be who knows how many new dead bodies littering the streets for their families to find and mourn.

And similar to how she had sent Mark away to the wake, Cass couldn’t bear that to happen. Even considering how dearly she wished for Mr. Moon’s death.

Any further thoughts were swept away as Dag’s massive hands closed around the handcuffs to lead Cass stumbling inside her house. A thin stream of blood dribbled down the side of her face to drip off the tip of her chin, but Cass ignored it.

Now, now. How the heck was she going to get out of this bind?

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Once the angry ginger in grubby superhero pajamas was transferred to his partner’s careful watch, Mr. Moon pushed his way back into the bushes to grab the hunting rifle and the handgun Cass Thomson had been in possession of a few moments before. The bolt-action rifle was a bit of an older piece, though clearly it was well cared for. The size of it matched up with the empty weapon display in Chief Thomson’s study. The gun must’ve been borrowed from there. The pistol, a Colt Trooper .357, was a service revolver commonly used by policemen all across the nation. It too was likely once her father’s, and the piece was just as well cared for as the rifle.

However, now that the action was over for the time being, several questions were gnawing away at Mr. Moon’s mind. Why was Cass Thomson here? Why was she in the bush with a rifle? The weapon was knocked away in the brief scuffle before Mr. Moon pistol-whipped her, so he couldn't be for sure what precisely it was aimed at, but the general direction was at the front porch. From that information he could assume the sights were aimed at the door.

Meaning Cass was most likely trying to assassinate either him or Dag. The motive appeared simple – Steve reported a man and a woman leaving the house the night Chief Thomson died. He could only assume the woman was Cass Thomson, and she was a witness to the Chief’s murder. Despite the overall lack of a detailed physical description, Steve did say she had a ponytail, and the woman would have needed ready access to the house. Cass Thomson fit both of those qualities. Who the man was, though, remained a mystery.

He wouldn’t know if she was that woman for certain until the interrogation was completed, but it made sense. The question was answered through basic deduction. The next question, though, and one he was far more interested in, was a bit less simple.

Did Cass Thomson take the alien from the police station on the night of the raid? Did she know where it was at this moment?

It was, in its essence, the most important question of all. If the alien could be secured, the only tasks left would be erasing the remaining witnesses and returning the creature to a secure facility in Washington.

Mr. Moon shook open the cylinder of the revolver, emptying all six cartridges into his hand to be shoved in his breast pocket, while the gun itself was temporarily tucked into his waistband. The safety on his own weapon was flicked back on, and then the Sig Sauer was securely slid back into the holster hanging under his shoulder, where it sat snugly with its grip facing outwards ready for action. Next was the hunting rifle. Mr. Moon’s hands expertly slid back the bolt to eject the unused rifle cartridge, sending it clattering away onto the driveway. Then once the bolt finished sliding back into place, Mr. Moon slid open the garage door, the rifle dangling nonchalantly in his offhand, and began to rummage around for a bucket and a rag.