Mr. Moon lowered the revolver in his hands once it became clear the madman was not returning. In a flash it had started, in a flash it had ended. Dag let out a pained grunt as he stepped away from the broken window. The man had taken a serious beating. Mr. Moon had as well – a fact that his ribs made sure to remind him of. They were cracked at the very least. All that one punch.

The sound of a match being struck came from the kitchen, and Mr. Moon glanced over in time to see Ms. Miller lighting a cigarette. Outwardly the woman appeared calm, but with a closer look, there was a slight trembling of her fingers that betrayed her inward feelings. Shock, adrenaline, and a bit of distress in the wake of Steve's death. He could understand. Mr. Moon stooped down low to gather his Sig Sauer from the ground, using his other hand to ease the hammer on the revolver back to a resting position before tossing it back to Ms. Miller.

Once that was done, Mr. Moon turned his eyes to the body the madman had thrown through the window. It was headless, but the torso was wrapped in a bloodied dress shirt of which an empty pistol holster poked out from under. It was most likely Steve, or what was left of him. The Kevlar the man liked to wear under his dress shirt was missing. The fallen agent’s chest was caved in. The ribs were broken to pieces, and even from where he stood, Mr. Moon could see the man’s heart was missing. That detail alone confirmed the madman was the same assailant behind the gas station murders.

Still, it was obvious Steve hadn’t died without a fight. The madman was wounded, though not heavily enough to impact his movements. But the blood loss would still matter in the long run, forcing the madman to seek treatment or patch up his own wounds. That would come with obvious risks that could benefit Mr. Moon and what was left of his team. Seeking treatment would force the madman to travel a town over to a hospital or doctor's office that would ask questions.

Even though Ms. Miller had been working hard to keep the outside world in the dark, it would still be a large man walking in with a bunch of stab and bullet wounds. It would be immediate grounds for a report to law enforcement. If the madman patched up his own wounds, however, that would come with the risk of the treatment not fully working when being done by an amateur, and this town (plus the surrounding towns) were far too small to have any back-alley doctors strolling around.

Mr. Moon continued to mull the options around his head, going back and forth between possibilities until his train of thought was abruptly interrupted by Dag’s shout.

“GUN!”

Mr. Moon whipped around, running over to Dag with his gun drawn. The man was standing in front of the office, his fearsome bulk filling most of the doorway. Dag's shoulder moved to the side slightly as soon as he sensed Mr. Moon draw close to him, revealing another large man pointing Dag's Sig Sauer at them both. Mr. Moon's face remained blank as he studied the situation. Other than the stolen gun the man was not particularly well-armed. In one hand rested the Sig, the other hand held a folding pocketknife. Several of the zip ties restraining Cass Thomson to the chair were already cut through.

In the tension-filled silence that followed, Mr. Moon came to one conclusion: this man, who was nearly as large as Dag, must have been Cass Thomson’s mystery companion, the same man Steve spotted leaving with the girl after the Chief’s murder.

"Back. Off." The man's voice eventually rang out in the office. It was shaky. Scared. But also determined.

Mr. Moon tilted his head slightly to the side.

“I’m afraid we can’t do that.”

The man blinked. A bead of sweat ran down his brow.

“I’ll shoot you.” The man said.

“Then we all die.” Mr. Moon replied.

The man held Mr. Moon’s gaze, staring deep into the agent’s eyes. Cass Thomson stayed silent, though her face was a whirlwind mixture of fear and hatred.

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

Mark’s tongue darted across his dry lips. This was bad. Mega bad. The gun was a horrible deathly weight in his hand. If only that crazy fight had lasted a few more seconds. Two zip ties were left. Once those two were cut, he and Cass could have broken a window and fled. But no. The classic Mark luck kicked in to send the big guy back inside the office looking for his scattered weapons. Then again, the classic Mark luck threw a gun into his own hands. Without that to start a good ol’ Mexican standoff, Cass would probably be dead, and Mark would be figuring out the maximum limits of his healing ability.

Think, Mark. Think! The silence was deafening. Both of the creepy agents were staring him dead in the eye with their weapons drawn, almost like vipers waiting to see an ounce of weakness in their prey before they struck. One had a shotgun, one had a pistol. What could he do? If Cass had been dead when he walked in, Mark would have been willing to die too. But she was alive. That meant he could die, but Cass needed to live. Just because his life was worthless didn’t mean Cass’s was.

The pocketknife was cold in his hands, the same feeling as the gun but nowhere near the weight.

And that was it. For once in his life, Mark could feel a worthwhile idea forming in his head.

"You two. Starsky and Hutch. I am going to raise my pocket knife. Don't shoot."

The thin man, whose body was partially obscured by the larger man’s bulk, cautiously nodded his head. There was a faint gleam of curiosity in his eyes. Frankly, it was the first emotion Mark had seen in the man’s face ever since the standoff began.

Mark ever so slowly raised his pocketknife in the air, going from waist height to level with his face. It was a gamble. However, this gamble had originated with something Cass had said earlier. It wasn’t completely born out of Mark’s mind. That meant it actually had a chance of working, which wouldn’t have been the case for a ‘Mark original trademarked plan’.

Once the pocketknife drew even with his face, Mark halted. This was it. The blade drifted near his left cheek. Then the cold metal bit into his skin. A quick slice – quick to avoid pain, but deep enough to draw plenty of blood for the agents to see. Cass squirmed in her seat as she saw the cut, but Mark flashed a smile to her to say this was all according to his plan. Who knew for sure if this would mean anything to the men opposite of him. But in the movies, when something freaky like that alien happened, the guys in suits were always on the lookout for test subjects.

The thin agent stared at him for only a moment. Then, his eyes imperceptively widened. The cut on Mark’s face was healing. Mark could feel it healing. The itchy skin knitting back together in seconds.

Stolen story; please report.

Mark grinned a sharklike grin, using the motion to hide his sheer pants-crapping terror.

“This means something to you. This isn’t normal.” Mark’s question hung in the air like a guillotine poised to fall over someone’s neck. Whose it was, Mark had no idea yet.

The agent eventually nodded.

“Here’s the deal,” Mark cautiously ventured once the agent appeared determined to remain silent, “Whatever that alien did to me, I bet that’s what you’re after. I get hurt, my body heals real fast. That ain’t normal. So here’s the deal. I’ll be your test subject or whatever. That’s what you lot usually want, right? You can figure out what that alien can do to normal guys like me. And Cass tells you where the creature is.”

“And in return?” The thin man questioned in a lifeless monotone.

“In return,” Mark replied, “You let me and Cass live. You don’t touch Cass no more. Once you get the alien, you leave the town and don’t come back.”

The thin man’s eyes bored into Mark’s own, as if they were tearing through his mind searching for any signs of a lie. Meanwhile, Cass began to struggle against the remaining zip ties, fighting to catch Mark’s eyes. She was angry. He knew why. The thin man killed her dad and now Mark was trying to strike a deal.

Well, it was either this or have both of them die like dogs bleeding out on the floor of the office. Again, if it was just Mark alone, he would be fine with that. But Cass… she was better than him. She deserved to live, even if Mark didn’t.

“Very well.”

Mark blinked in surprise. Even though he’d offered the deal, part of him hadn’t expected the man to accept it that readily.

“But,” The man went on, “If Cass Thomson lies about the location of the alien, I hope I do not need to spell out what will happen.”

Mark hesitantly lowered his gun. The two agents did the same, though without any form of hesitation. Then he stepped forward and shook the thin man’s hand. Mark hadn’t the heart to turn around and face Cass. Forcing her to work with her father’s murderer… not only that, but there was a line of blood on her forehead near her hairline, and a lingering sense of fear even Mark could pick up about her. Cass was still wearing her pajamas and windbreaker, for heaven's sake! His gut raged for him to pulverize the two agents. That was one of the few good things his father had taught him. Never put your hands on a woman. It was a good thing his head was leading the scene for now.

She would despise him for this. But conversely, Mark also knew she would keep the deal. Not for herself, but for him. That was the thing about Cass. Her rage toward the thin man would never be able to overcome her kindness, even toward a man like Mark, who was only an ex-boyfriend. That was just how Cass was. Her kindness was like a warm, ever-present sun shining down on this cold world.

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

The final two zip ties fell off her wrists, but Cass barely felt them in the face of the pure nausea that filled her stomach. Mark was…

She didn’t even know what to think now. The rational part of her brain, the same part that felt like it had taken a backseat these past few days, shouted that Mark was right. Not only would this save the poor guy’s life, but whatever could get those lunatics out of her town the fastest was best. With each day that passed, more people died.

She didn’t want that. Cass knew almost everyone in the town. To bury more of her neighbors, more of the people she grew up around, it would be agonizing. For her, for their families, for everyone.

However, the irrational part of her brain still filled with murderous rage and primal fear screamed and raged for her to grab Mark’s gun before he gave it back to the big guy and shoot Mr. Moon in the head, consequences be damned. Only a few minutes ago that monster in the shape of a man was torturing her. How did that lead to cooperation? At any moment he could go right back to doing that. Cass could still feel it. The water seeping through the cloth on her face drowning her on dry land. The rushing tide of panic overwhelmed all other feelings, stripping them away to uncover that primal, base emotion of pure terror. Those men couldn’t be trusted.

Those two parts of her brain relentlessly brawled for dominance. Hatred of Mr. Moon. Dread at the possibility of more torture. Fear for her friends and neighbors. Desire to save Mark’s life.

But then Cass caught Mark’s eye, and the irrational part of her brain was finally suppressed for just the briefest of moments. He was so scared, and so worried about her. Something in Cass’s chest broke like glass. Somehow, she would still try to get revenge after this was all over if she could. But Mark… she couldn’t do this to him. Whatever resolve she’d had in that bush was gone now, swept away by her concern for Mark. Those men couldn't be trusted… but they were laser-focused on the alien. Maybe if they got it back, combined with whatever they could learn from Mark, maybe that would be enough for them. Hah. A pipe dream, really. A pipe dream built on fragile hope. If it worked, it worked. If not, Cass could get a little bit more time alive to think of a new plan, at least.

“Fine.” Cass hoarsely muttered. Just saying that word alone felt like she was swallowing burning coals. “Moon or whatever your name is, you are a son of a bitch coward that shot my dad in the back for nothing. But for Mark, I’ll do it. That alien you were asking about; we hid it in the old Henryks farm in the barn. A few miles away from here. You grab it and get out of my town. I hope you rot in the depths of Hell for eternity.”

She hated those words, even the insulting ones. Merely speaking with the coward, much less agreeing to work with him, it felt like she was betraying her dad. Was this it? Giving up on avenging his death just like this? After all Mr. Moon had done? It was disgusting. It felt like her entire body was being bathed in sewer slime that would never come off no matter how many showers Cass took. But she just couldn’t. She couldn’t. It wasn’t just her alone. If it was, this would have ended in a hail of gunfire like she originally intended. But she wasn’t alone in this right now. Mark needed help to get out of this alive, just as he was oh so transparently trying to help her.

She couldn’t do this to him. Not anymore. Her resolve was gone, and Cass hated herself for it. Her resolve had been drowned under that rag; the corpse of that resolve being tossed aside by what she saw in Mark’s eyes.

Oblivious to her internal struggle, or perhaps just utterly apathetic to it, Mr. Moon nodded his head, already appearing to be quite comfortable with the deal Mark made.

“Very well. We will go there immediately. You will join us.”

It was pretty obvious his words were not an invitation, but a requirement.

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

His body stung. It was like a thousand bees were pushing the stingers on their butts right into Jack’s flesh. But that was the price of a really good fight like he’d just had. Jack smiled and squeezed the tube of superglue over yet another one of the myriad of wounds that littered his body. Being forced to retreat from a fight. He could count the number of times that had happened on the fingers of one hand. There was that one time he fought his demons in the police station… then there was that other time with the cartel after he ate that leader guy. Tasty, but a bit stringy in parts while other parts had a bit too much fat. The cocaine in the guy's system added a bit of spice to the cuisine. Five stars out of ten, wouldn't eat again.

“I dunno, what do you two think?" Jack abruptly asked the other two. No response. Jack looked over to the couch. He could see them lying there. Lazy bones, the both of them.

There was something about that house. The two lizardmen that the woman had fled to were strong. The man Jack fought in the basement was strong. Jack appreciated that, but the presence of so many strong men was an anomaly in a town like this. Then there was the girl. The one he’d glimpsed tied to a chair in the side room. She was not there of her own will. Jack could smell it – a mixed stench of fear and murderous rage, though the former overpowered the latter almost entirely. Information was being dragged out of her. How interesting.

His opponents were professionals. Professional killer lizardmen stuffed in suits. They were used to blood and death. Back in Miami, that would be expected. The filthy streets of the city swarmed with gangbangers, cartel members, shadow demons, lizardmen, and spiderwomen. But in a small town? An anomaly. This was the reason his friends from the news sent him here. Those lizards were up to something. It would take patience, but Jack knew if he watched carefully, he could find out precisely what that something was.

So, Jack continued to apply superglue to his wounds, staring out the window to the lizard house in the distance, watching and waiting for something to happen. The two rotting corpses on the couch, a man and a woman, said nothing throughout all of this. The house was as quiet as a grave.