THEY BROKE HIS JAW FIRST. A defining act, like getting a tattoo of a swastika or punching a nun, it implied a certain level of intent. No one was going to think you were a saint after that. All it took was one clean swing of the hammer and the bone cracked and splintered like a sheet of fine ice.

It achieved exactly what it intended to. It got the message across. It made the victim understand the gravity of failure. But breaking a jaw is a problematic act. It’s too central an area. It adds undue limitations. Not like breaking an arm. Break one of those and you could still expect a guy to spill his life secrets. Break a guy’s leg and he could put on a show. But a jaw threw in all these complications. You didn’t just break a jaw by accident, did you? It was the culmination of a problem.

And it invited intrigue. People would ask questions. They would want to know how he had broke his jaw and made his face look like an oversized plum. Not that he would be able to answer. Not at first, anyway. It would be weeks, maybe months before he would be back to normal. Maybe he’d never get there. But sooner or later, he would learn to speak up. Then what would he say?

Would he lie? Would he spin together some elaborate narrative detailing an accidental trip down the stairs that ended with a trip to the hospital? Or would he tell the truth? There were pros and cons to telling the truth. His tale would put the fear of God into the others. He would stand as an example of how not to conduct one’s business. He would inspire the rest to strive harder.

But he would draw attention from those they didn’t want. A hammer to the face would require a visit to the emergency room. Doctors and nurses would look upon their work and ask questions of their own. They would seek the causality. They would demand to know why. They would search for the truth. They would speak to the cops, feeding them an unfinished narrative and leaving them to fill in the blanks.

Zeke couldn’t allow that to happen.

Which gave him a choice to make. Go big, or go home, so to speak. Zeke knew the complications for both, naturally, but only one really presented a large problem for him. Leaving the guy to walk and talk and breathe put something in his pocket. It gave the guy a final card to play, one that Zeke couldn’t afford to let hit the table.

So the choice was made in his head around the exact moment the hammer made contact with the guy’s face. Zeke was happy with the outcome. He knew that a disappearance in the group made as much an impact on their sanity as allowing the victim to return home with his punishment visible for all the world to see. Maybe it would work in Zeke’s favour. Maybe they would spend their days in constant fear of the unknown, left only with the knowledge that stepping out of line was not something they could afford to do. And if it worked for them, it worked for Zeke. So long as they followed the rules, he was happy. In fact, he was more than happy. He was excited.

He’d thought a lot about it, what it must be like to take a life. No, he’d fantasised about it. He’d enjoyed the way it made his heart beat faster and faster as the image conjured in his mind. Like seeing a girl naked for the first time, there was something to it that, no matter how many times you thought it through or looked it up online, just couldn’t compare to seeing it in person. So Zeke was more than happy. He was ecstatic. His heart was thumping in his chest, and he was ready to get going.

He thought about what he wanted to see next. He knew the end game, but getting there would take time. He wanted it to take time. He wanted it as slow as he could make it. He didn’t want the euphoria to end. So it was a game of endurance, for Zeke and the victim. What could they both endure?

Zeke looked around the room. The garage was small, but practically purpose-built for this. Tools, now decades old, lined the walls. The very same ones that had been used by his grandfather to build the house Zeke now lived in. He wondered if his grandfather had ever once considered what purpose those tools would serve all those years later. Perhaps he too had used them in a similar fashion way back in the day. He looked at saws and hammers and wrenches and drills and pliers, and thought about all their varied uses. It sent another jolt of excitement through his heart.

He picked a drill from its place on the counter and looked it over. It was newer than most, bought sometime in the last five or ten years. He squeezed the trigger and heard the motor whir and watched the drill bit spin. Then he smiled.

The victim whimpered. Zeke could tell he wanted to talk, but the pain in his head was too severe to make that a possibility now. As Zeke looked down, the guy looked up at him and their eyes met. There was something to it. A connection Zeke had never felt before. Not like the one night stands or childhood friendships. Not like the look between a son and his father. This was something more. A step beyond the rest. A hunter and his prey.

Zeke smiled again. Yes, this would be a moment to remember, he told himself. This was a transition from boyhood to manhood. One his father and grandfather and great grandfather had been through before him. And now it was Zeke’s turn.

And he was ready to get started.

***

James Stone sat in a small corner café in a quiet Mississippi town he hadn’t learned the name of, and watched one man make a decision that would have catastrophic ramifications on the rest of his life. James had arrived almost half an hour earlier and parked his van on the corner of the crossroads to which better days were daydreams. He got out, fed the meter, and picked the café because it was eight o’clock in the morning, and he figured the food served there would be better than anywhere else in walking distance. Five minutes later, he sat in a booth by the window that overlooked the crossroads, and drank coffee with his left hand while his right hung limp in a sling.

The cast stretched from his knuckles to his elbow, but the checkered shirt he had bought covered it nicely. The sling had been of his own choosing, and the reason was twofold. First of which was simple; it took some of the pressure off of the broken bones in his arm and wrist. And while he figured he could handle the pain, he kept it on for the second reason.

 It made him look normal. It made him look vulnerable.

The waitress brought over his breakfast a few minutes later. The name badge pinned to her shirt read Maeve.

‘That’s an interesting name,’ he mused as she placed cutlery on his napkin. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever met a Maeve before.’

‘My mom picked it,’ she said with a polite smile. ‘I looked it up once. It means intoxicating, or it did back in the day when a name meant something.’

James thought it suited her. She placed a freshly-baked croissant down in front of him and gave him a smile that seemed equal measures genuine and sympathetic. The bruises on his face were still visible, and had turned the kind of yellowy green that made him look recently deceased. But so long as there was no fear in her face, James figured it was fine to stick around.

So he did. He stuck around for another round of coffee and croissants and let eight o’clock in the morning shuffle closer to nine. And that’s when he saw it happen.

The crossroads were quiet, even for small town standards. Maybe the apocalypse had come and gone and the town hadn’t got the memo. James’s van sat alone on the street with the meter chewing through his payment. A steady stream of walkers went about their day; some stopped to check for traffic, some didn’t. Some drifted in and out of shops with the listless ease of a spectre. Some talked to friends or walked with partners or carried shopping. Nothing interesting. None gave the crossroads the same care James did because they’d seen it all before. Old news.

But James was paying attention. He was watching everything, like he did everyday and everywhere. It was a survivalist’s intuition. One grown into him over the past year on the run. Like a porch light left on to deter thieves, it wasn’t always needed, but he kept it on for those times when something lurked close.

 The café was on the south-east corner of the crossroads. Directly in front of James on the north-east corner was a barbers shop. It was empty, save for the woman busying herself with her morning chores. Above the door were two rotating cylinders painted in a red and white swirl that made James’s mouth water. He didn’t know why barbers picked those signs. A relic from a bygone era, perhaps. They just made him think of sea-side stores with sugary sweets lining the shelves.

To his left, on the south-west corner was a dry cleaner store. The shop was dark and vacant, which seemed odd considering it was a week day. Maybe the owner liked to sleep in. Maybe there wasn’t much need for a dry cleaners before nine.

And taking up the north-west vigil was the bar called Puzzles. Why, James didn’t know, and didn’t care. Perhaps that was the puzzle. The lights were on inside, but that didn’t make it look any more appealing. James had seen types like it before. They weren’t so fond of strangers.

Only four cars past by James’s spot at the window. The first was a county sheriff SUV that sent the familiar shiver up James’s spine, but it kept on rolling east without a care in the world. The second was a pickup that headed south, and was held together with a mixture of duct tape and determination. The third was a small Taurus with dried mud flecks up the sides that came west to east and turned north without stopping to look for oncoming traffic. The sign of a local that knows the town better than they know their relatives.

But number four was the main event. The black SUV looked like the same make and model as the county sheriff’s, albeit without the decals, and had a bit more love and attention injected into it. It approached from the west and leapt the crossroads without breaking a sweat, before coming to a stop outside the barbers. A scrawny man whose hair was trapped in conflict between a mullet and a buzz cut climbed out and flicked the tab of his cigarette into the gutter. He stretched, scratched at his groin, and shuffled around to the rear of the SUV. 

As he swung open the rear door, a dog leapt out into the morning air. A golden retriever. James’s favourite. The dog surveyed the fresh, new surroundings with the type of glee only a dog can muster. James made eye contact with it, and it flashed a big grin across its face. The golden smile, as James’s grandmother used to call it. She had loved the breed too.

But the smile didn’t last. The owner saw to that. From his seat across the street, James couldn’t hear what the owner shouted, but he saw the swift punch that came next. The dog cowered from the blow to the head, which only pissed the guy off. He grabbed the dog by the scruff of its neck and hauled it out of the street, towards the barbers, and disappeared from sight behind the SUV.

It pissed James off, because he liked golden retrievers, and disliked asshole owners who thought violence was the answer.

Maeve the waitress came by and picked up the empty plate from the table.

‘Everything okay for you?’ she asked.

‘It was lovely, thanks,’ James replied. He didn’t hide his English accent. Didn’t see the need. The last anyone had heard of James Stone was two weeks and six states away. The newspapers didn’t have an attention span long enough for him to worry about.

‘Would you like to look at the dessert menu?’ Maeve asked.

‘It can’t hurt, I suppose.’

Maeve moved away and returned a couple of seconds later with the menu. James eyed a fruit salad, and figured it would satisfy the craving the barbershop sign had created. Maeve took the order, and a minute later returned with a bowl and a top up on his coffee. Strawberries, grapes and melon slices. He picked at his dessert and watched the world go by a little longer.

By which time the guy with the dog had returned. A short trip. Only so much you can trim off a buzz cut if the mullet refuses to die. Only so much glitter you can sprinkle on a turd. He crossed the street with the golden retriever glued to his heel and headed for the café. James watched him from his peripheral. The guy entered and set the bell over the door ringing, and walked straight up to the counter.  He wore a pair of ripped denim jeans and a deer hunter jacket with the pockets bulging. The dog sat patiently by his side. Up close his hair was even worse. The war raging between the two sides was a stubborn one. The mullet claimed the top and back, while the buzz cut had usurped the sides. A blonde goatee snaked around his mouth. Untroubled by the conflict surrounding it, it had grown out over his lip with careless abandon.

The guy waited for Maeve to notice him. She already had. She’d seen him the same moment James had. But judging from the way she wiped down the counter, she wanted to savour the moments before she had to interact with the human detritus. The guy let out a loud, intentional cough, and she glanced up at him with a look on her face that James had seen all the world over.

James watched from his booth as the pair talked in hushed tones. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what was happening, and he didn’t need to watch as Maeve passed the guy in the ripped denim jeans a small brown bag. Instead, he watched the dog. It had caught his eye, and was giving him one of those gorgeous golden smiles. James wanted to enjoy it, but he couldn’t.

Because he could see the cuts and bruises.

The largest bruise was around the dog’s left eye. It hadn’t been noticeable from across the street, but up close it was as clear as day. The sight of it alone boiled piss faster than a furnace. He felt the familiar itch in the back of his brain as the feral part of him awoke from its slumber. He called it the Wolf. And it needed feeding.

The guy with the ripped denim jeans didn’t stick around long. With the brown bag in his coat pocket, he turned and headed for the door. But the golden retriever was still watching James, and James was still watching the golden retriever. The dog wasn’t ready to leave. It had a new friend.

But that didn’t suit the needs of the guy with the ripped denim jeans. He stopped at the door and looked for his canine companion. And when he didn’t see it by his side, he turned around.

‘Here,’ he barked with a southern droll so prominent, the word could have been mistaken for a hiccup. The dog seemed to mistake it, because it kept its tail planted on the tiled linoleum floor, staring at James.

The guy with the ripped denim jeans looked from his dog to James then back again. James kept his eyes on the dog, willing it to disobey its master and find a new friend. But it didn’t get that far.

The guy with the ripped denim jeans kicked it square in the head.

The dog yelped and rushed to its owner’s side without hesitation. The guy looked up at James, and for the first time, James looked the guy square in the eyes. And he saw something there. Something he didn’t like.

Then the guy spoke, which made the feeling stronger.

‘You looking at something?’ the guy barked.

‘Nothing of note.’

The guy pushed off the door and strode back into the café. He slid in and sat opposite James like an old friend, but there was no warmth in his face. He eyed James’s plaster-cast arm, the cuts on his face, and the bandage on his finger. He weighed up his options and made an assumption. The man in front of him was no threat. The man in front of his was weak.

But you know what they say about assumptions.

The two men locked eyes.

‘You better think long and hard about the next words that come out your mouth, son,’ the man with the ripped jeans snarled.

‘Let me guess, this is where you tell me to mind my own business?’ said James. ‘You make a  grand song and dance about how crossing you would be a bad idea, and I come to the decision that I’d be better off fleeing to the next state with my tail between my legs. Am I right?’

‘What you do to your arm?’ he asked.

‘Fell out a window,’ James said. ‘What did you do to your nose?’

’Didn’t do nothing to my nose.’

‘Oh, so it always looked like that? Ouch.’

His eyes darkened, but the man smiled. He picked up a slice of melon from the bowl and ate it. Then, in the blink of the eye, he swiped the bowl off the table. It clattered against the floor and smashed. But neither man watched it. They kept watching each other.

‘You should take better care of your dog,’ said James. ‘Man’s best friend, after all.’

‘I’ll treat my dog however I like.’

‘You’ve got a duty of care. How’d you like it if someone kicked you in the head?’

His eyes intensified.

‘That a threat?’ he barked.

James said nothing.

‘Thought so,’ he smirked. ‘I don’t want to see you again, understand?’

He heaved himself out of the booth and walked back towards the door. His dog sat by the counter, watching him, watching James. The guy stopped and looked back at James. A twisted smile drifted across his face.

Then he kicked the dog in the side.

Which was all James needed to make a decision.

You cross the line, you better be willing to accept the consequences.

The guy pushed open the door and stepped out and headed for the bar. Dog back on his heel. James watched him go. Maeve the waitress waited a beat, then came over to his table.

‘Who was that?’ James asked.

‘No one, honey. Better to not ask questions.’

‘But suppose I did ask questions. Who might he be?’

Maeve didn’t answer. She gave an empty smile and moved over to pick up the pieces of broken bowl. James got up and helped her. Maeve gave him another sorrowful smile, and headed for the kitchen with a handful of porcelain shards and leftover grapes as he leant against the counter. He watched her leave, and drummed the fingers of his left hand on the counter. His little finger was still wrapped in a bandage, and the tip stung where it had been severed and burned. But the pain helped focus his mind.

He pushed off the counter, dropped two crisp twenty dollar bills on the table, and pulled his right arm out of the sling. He stuffed the cloth into his back pocket, and stretched a little life into his weary bones.

‘You okay there, mister?’ Maeve asked.

‘Better than ever,’ James replied. ‘Keep the change.’

He headed for the door and paused, just like the guy with the ripped denim jeans had. Maeve got up and headed for his table. The moment she turned her back on him, James picked up the fire extinguisher hanging on a hook beside the door.

The early October air was crisp and refreshing. Dawn’s ethereal fingers had stretched across the Mississippi landscape, leading the way for a clear blue sky. James fished out the sunglasses from his trouser pocket and slid them on. Then he pulled his hat low and locked his thumb and forefinger around the fire extinguisher’s handle. The street was quieter than a morgue. No passing cars. Only a smattering of pedestrians, all heading away from the crossroads. A town on life support. He crossed the street towards the barbers. There were no customers inside, and the woman he had seen earlier had finished her chores. She leaned over the counter with her head in her hands. He didn’t need to know why. He could guess well enough.

The SUV sat idly by, glistening in the morning sun. The meter hadn’t been fed. Probably no one around had bothered checking them in years. James placed the extinguisher by the front bumper and stood on the kerb like he was trying to plan out his next destination through sight alone. Through his sunglasses, he watched the bar. 

They were in and out of the bar in a little over sixty seconds, by which time nine o’clock had arrived, and James had crouched down by the SUV’s bumper. The guy crossed the street west to east back towards the barbers, and thumbed the button on his keys to unlock the vehicle. He headed for the rear, and hauled open the tailgate. James heard the sound of the dog leap up inside, then he stood up.

The guy with the ripped denim jeans closed the door behind his dog and turned right. Back towards the sidewalk. Heading for the driver’s door. Expecting to see the spinning red and white cylinders of the barbershop right in front of him. He should be so lucky.

James clocked him front and centre with the butt of the fire extinguisher with every ounce of strength he had. He caught the guy square in the face, and heard the satisfying crunch as the nose imploded into the skull.

James admired his handiwork. The guy was out for the count. Sprawled out like an discarded rag doll. He left the guy where he was. James saw no reason to busy himself with adding his own DNA into the mix. The woman in the barbershop didn’t look up. And a quick look over at Maeve told him either she hadn’t noticed, or was smart enough to look away. The crossroads were too quiet for him to worry about anyone else noticing, so he got straight to it. Using the hem of his shirt to work the latch, James opened the tailgate and was greeted by a big old golden smile.

‘Hey there,’ he said to the dog. ‘Let’s get you out of here.’

The dog didn’t need telling twice. It bounded out of the SUV and sniffed gleefully at it’s unconscious owner. Blood had gushed out of what was left of his nose and onto the street. The dog didn’t seem concerned. Instead, it looked up at James and waited for a call to adventure. So James gave it one.

They looped around the block to come up on his van from behind so as to stop Maeve or the woman in the barbershop from seeing him committing grand theft canine. The dog trotted along by his side, looking up at him like it was Christmas day. He smiled back at the dog. It was small and slender, either through malnutrition or plain old genetics. James figured it was a female. The eyes looked gentle. Males were usually more boisterous than this. He gave the dog a quick check under the hood, and was pleased to see he was right in his assumption. James opened the rear door of his van and slapped the inflatable mattress he had tucked up inside.

‘Up you go, girl,’ he said. The dog obeyed without question, and before he could close the door, she licked his bandaged hand with a soft, cold tongue.

James climbed up front and fired up the engine, and took the north exit without looking back. 

***

The van was out of sight before Zeke woke up. He stared up at the sky while all the nerves in his face screamed bloody murder. He didn’t stay there long. Didn’t want anyone to see. He hauled himself up and looked around for whoever the fuck had just attacked him. But there was no one. All was quiet in his town.

Too quiet. Through watering eyes, Zeke spotted the tailgate was down.

‘Clancy?’ he called. His voice was nasally. He tried to sniff, but the pain was too intense and made him feel woozy. ‘Clancy, get ‘ere now.’

But the dog wasn’t there. Nor was anyone else. So Zeke had a quandary on his hands. Because whoever had attacked him was an unknown. Zeke’s family didn’t have enemies. They had made sure of that. Anyone that crossed them got acquainted with a bullet. The same went for competition. They had seen to that too. With a chainsaw and the family pigs. Zeke’s father had taken care of it. So Zeke didn’t have any competitors.

But someone had come and hit him square in the face. With a fire extinguisher, no less. That was no accident. Whoever had done it meant business, but not enough to stick around, which meant the guy was a pussy. Who hits a guy with a fire extinguisher then steals his dog and runs away?

The dead kind, Zeke thought.

***

James drove west until he was clear of the town and parked up on the side of the road. The land was calm and dry and silent. Not another soul in sight. James got out and opened the rear and watched as the golden retriever bounced and rolled and sniffed and scratched and ran and sat and stared, all within the first couple of seconds. Then she gave James another golden smile and waited for his command.

He got down on his knees and the dog trotted over. She sniffed at his head and his chest and his arms and licked the cast on his arm again.

‘What’s your name girl?’ he asked her, but she just kept on sniffing like tomorrow would never come. ‘I think I’ll call you Tess.’

Tess looked up at him and smiled, which settled the matter for everyone involved. He stroked her head, feeling the lump around her eye. The guy who’d done it was going to have a matching set. It didn’t help Tess, but it helped James. He climbed into the back of his van and fished around for something edible. Most of his food was bulk bought tinned garbage, designed for nutrition above flavour, but Tess wouldn’t mind. He cracked open a tin of sausages, beans and potatoes that looked like it had already been eaten and regurgitated, and emptied it into a bowl. Tess devoured the lot in seconds and looked up eagerly for more.

‘Maybe later,’ he said, giving her another stroke on the head. She didn’t cower as he reached out. Good. Maybe Mr Ripped Jeans hadn’t been at it for long. James hoped so. He certainly wouldn’t get the chance to again.

But as he looked at the golden bundle of joy, James knew he wasn’t the answer for her. His plans lay east, far from Mississippi. And come what may, he knew he couldn’t do what he needed to while looking after another living being. Tess was adorable, for sure, but he couldn’t give her the love and attention she needed. And the longer he left it, the harder it would get.

So he stroked Tess and thought about what had to come next. An animal rescue centre would be the obvious answer, but if Ripped Jeans found out, he would come and get her, and punish her for abandoning him. James couldn’t let that happen.

But what else was there? In an ideal world, he would find Tess a loving home and let everyday be filled with joy and wonder. But an ideal world this was not. Far from it, in fact, with Ripped Jeans and his ilk still free to walk the earth.

James stood up and fished two bottles of water and a pack of painkillers from his supplies. He emptied one into the bowl for Tess, and chased the pills down with the other. The pain in his arm was making him tired. Even just braining some punk had taken it out of him. He slouched down on the inflatable mattress, closed his eyes and thought.

***

By which time, Zeke had made up his mind. He walked around to the driver-side door of his SUV and opened it. Under the seat was a .45 handgun. A Heckler and Koch. Given to him by his old man when he was fifteen. Meant only as a last resort, which Zeke figured this was. He stuffed the Heckler and Koch into the back of his ripped jeans and headed for the café. The waitress saw him coming. Maeve. He fucking hated Maeve. She pierced him with a look that said all it needed to. That he wasn’t shit. That he wasn’t his old man, and never would be. She had respected his old man. And that respect sure as hell didn’t stretch to him. He pushed open the door and walked right up to Maeve and slapped the .45 down on the counter.

‘What did you see?’ he barked. His throat was full of his own blood. If he had to mark it down on a pain scale where one is okay and ten is a nuclear bomb of agony, he’d put it at eleven. He grabbed a handful of napkins off the counter and wiped away what he could from his face, and dropped them on the floor. Maeve watched him do it. ‘Don’t make me ask you again, bitch. What did you see?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she huffed. Playing games again.

‘I will shoot out every window in this place and make you pick up the pieces with your damn mouth, woman. Tell me what you saw!’

‘Your daddy would be none too pleased if you did.’

She locked eyes with Zeke and held him there. He had no time for games. He picked up the .45 and fired a round right through the mirror behind her. She winced as the shot rang out, but she didn’t falter. Goddamn bitch, Zeke thought.

‘You mention my old man one more time and I’ll put the next one through your teeth. Now tell me. What. Did. You. See?’

‘It was the guy who was in here,’ she sighed. ‘Young guy. English, I think. I didn’t ask.’

‘What did he want?’ 

‘Two croissants and a fruit salad.’

‘What did he want with me?’ Zeke snapped.

‘I don’t know. He didn’t say. But he saw you with Clancy and didn’t look happy about it. Maybe that’s why.’

‘How I treat my dog is not your concern.’ Zeke barked. Blood dribbled down his face and into his mouth. He spat it out onto the floor, right beside the bloodied tissues.

‘I didn’t say it was, but he didn’t look happy is all.’

‘Where did he go?’

‘I didn’t see. But he parked up in that silver Chevy that was outside. He paid the meter too.’

‘Why would I care if he paid the meter?’

‘Well, a guy like that ain’t exactly local then, is he? If he was passing through, he can’t have gone far,’ Maeve sniffed.

Which made sense to Zeke. If Maeve was telling the truth. Someone passing through really only had two choices. North or west. The road out to the west met with highway 55, which took you up to Jackson. Going north did much of the same, albeit via highway 20, but was quicker if you wanted to head east toward Meridian. So it came down to whether this English motherfucker wanted to go east or west. Which without more facts was as much a gamble as a simple coin toss. Heads or tails. East or west.

Back in the SUV, Zeke pulled the cell phone out of his pocket and dialled a number.

The number was one saved in his phone under ACooper. It was one he called a lot, hence why he had added the A. He wanted to get to it quickly. The guy’s real name was Cooper Tadman. Zeke’s right hand man, as he liked to think of it. Whether Cooper saw it that way didn’t matter. He would answer the call and do as he was told and get paid handsomely, just like he always did.

Cooper answered the phone.

‘Yeah, Zeke?’ he grunted.

‘I need you to go up to highway 20,’ Zeke barked. ‘Wait on the ramp and stop anyone driving a silver panel van, you got that?’

‘What for?’

‘Because I told you to, you got that?’

‘I’m busy at the moment.’ 

‘I don’t give a shit. Get up there now and call me when you see something.’

‘Sure thing,’ Cooper grunted.

Zeke ended the call and made another to the number saved in his cell as ARandall. Same as before, only this time for highway 55. Randall took the call a little more obediently than Cooper, but the result was the same. Wait, stop and call.

Zeke fired up the SUV and pulled out into the street. He drove west out of town and headed back home.

James woke with a start a little after ten in the morning. He didn’t realise he’d fallen asleep. Even worse was the fact he’d done so with the rear doors open. He looked out, but Tess was asleep on the grass in the shade of a golden-leaved tree. She lifted her head up as he approached.

‘Hey there Tess,’ he yawned.

She wagged her tail and sat upright. He gave her some attention while he tried to figure out what would come next. The air had a stillness to it, like the sands of time had run dry. James liked it. It made him feel a peace that so often evaded him. Only the sounds of distant birds and the gentle panting of a happy golden retriever. James wished he could bottle the moment up and savour it. His life was seldom so still. Gone were the days when he could sit on the grass and take in the rays of the autumn sun without a care in the world. His life had passed that by, replaced by a chaos only a select few are unfortunate enough to find. So to be granted something as rare as silence was all the gift James needed.

It didn’t last. It never did. Time waiteth for no man. On the breeze carried the distant sounds of an engine. James let out a sigh and looked into his new companions eyes. Tess looked back. A truly beautiful dog. Whoever became her new owner was in for a treat.

The engine grew louder and louder as it approached. James didn’t bother to look round. A car is a car is a car, after all. He heard the powerful vehicle draw closer, and longed for the moment it disappeared on the horizon.

But it wasn’t so simple. He heard the squeal of tyres on tarmac as the vehicle screeched to a halt nearby. Tess tore her eyes off James and looked towards the disturbance, the innocent curiosity inside getting the better of her. She wasn’t the only one. Deep inside, James felt his inner Wolf stir.

James kept his head down and looked at Tess and stroked her hair and tried to ignore the rising tension in the back of his head. Easier said than done, as all of life’s challenges are. And James was only human. There’s only so long a guy can take the pressure.

He turned around.

The vehicle was an old Taurus with mud flecks up the sides. The man behind the wheel had a face like a pit bull, and watched him with the same gormless stare of his canine equivalent. Inside, the Wolf reared up. But there was no attack. Nothing. The two men just locked eyes with each other and let time trickle by.

‘You want something?’ James asked.

The pit bull shrugged.

‘Figured you was having car troubles,’ he said.

‘Nope. Everything’s good.’

The pit bull looked from James to Tess.

‘That your dog?’ he asked.

‘Whose else would it be?’

The pit bull shrugged again.

‘Just asking the question is all,’ he grunted.

‘There anything else you want to ask me?’

The pit bull sniffed and shook his head.

‘Wonderful. Well, you have a great day now,’ James said.

He turned back to Tess and stroked her ears and waited for the pit bull to leave. The Wolf stayed on alert, as did Tess. She smiled at the pit bull, then showed her teeth. Like a warning. Like saying, “Nice to meet you. Now, off you fuck.”

And eventually, he did. James listened as the engine growled and the Taurus picked up speed and pulled away. But it didn’t go far. Out of the corner of his eye, James watched the pit bull disappear over the rise. Then he heard the engine slow once more. Not as fast or abrupt as before, but calculated. Measured. Like a guy pulling off the road to wait.

And for what, James could only guess.

***

Zeke arrived home twenty minutes later. Astonishingly, his face felt even worse than before. The pain scale would need to envisage some new numbers to chart his pain. It was beyond belief. The adrenaline was spent, and what came after was unbearable. He navigated the streets mostly off muscle memory to compensate for his deteriorated vision, and pulled into the driveway a sour and bitter man.

He checked his reflection in the SUV’s rear-view mirror. He looked like shit. Worse than ever. Zeke had seen his fair share of black eyes, but this was something else. His nose was crumpled and purple, with a deep cut straight across the bridge that looked like someone had got part of the way to drawing a pair of glasses on his face with a marker pen. His eyes had puffed up, and what little he could see through the slits remaining were blood red. His front teeth wobbled against his tongue, sending his nerves into a parade of agony. He cussed and climbed out.

The two-storey house had been built by Zeke’s great grandfather when equipment was cheap and land ripe for the taking. The bloodline had stuck to it, carrying on the traditions set in stone all those years ago, and Zeke was no different. His great grandfather was buried out back, just like his grandfather. One day his father would join them, and the cycle would continue.

Zeke pushed open the door and walked into the warm, unconditioned air that had greeted him everyday since birth. He liked the house, but not enough to be blind to its flaws. His great grandfather had been a great man in all respects. He had started the family business from scratch, and ran it right up to the day he died. He had garnered the respect of his town, hauling their sorry asses into the new world on the coattails of his innovation. He had taken everything he wanted, reached every goal he set himself, and built the life he wanted.

But for all his strengths, he had not been the world’s greatest carpenter, and as a result, the house had not aged gracefully. The staircase had fallen apart and been replaced piece by piece until the stairs he stood on were not those of his forefathers. Window sills had warped like a twisted nightmare, cracking and smashing the thin panes to dust. Floorboards wailed like a man possessed. And the roof sagged inward like a rotten corpse.

Zeke’s father and grandfather had done what they could, but time had the house in its sights, and it wasn’t going to give up that easily. Only Zeke could see it, and only Zeke could fix it.

His father was in the study, as he always was, staring out the window at the same view he always did. His name was Logan, and just like the rocking chair he sat in, he was a relic to the world he no longer understood.

Emphysema and Arthritis had been his downfall. The former was the result of a lifetime of stress and chain smoking, and had resulted in a cocktail of meds and a large oxygen tank in the house for the old man to puff on whenever he felt woozy. The latter had come with age, and had robbed Zeke of the man he once knew. There was only so much respect a man can garner when his finger can barely squeeze a trigger. So where once his days had been filled with violence and bloodshed, now he saw only the gentle breeze through the distant trees.

‘That you, Zeke?’ he grumbled. Like it would be anyone else.

‘Yes pa,’ Zeke grunted back. He didn’t want to talk. Didn’t want his pop to know his face looked like a slice of road kill. But Logan was a smart man and he knew the sound a man made when he didn’t want to make waves. He turned round to look at his son. From behind his oxygen mask, he studied the cuts and bruises on his son’s face like an artist studies his subject. And after he’d absorbed it all he asked the question Zeke had expected.

‘Is he dead?’

‘He will be.’

‘Good. Make it count.’

Zeke got the call from Cooper while he was in the bathroom. With a damp towel, he mopped up as much of the blood as he could without retching or passing out, and admired the end result in the same way a mortician would a car crash victim. 

He sourced a frozen steak from the freezer and pressed it to his face. A trick he’d learned from back in the days when schoolyards were for honing your skills. The cold soothed the swelling around his eyes, but did precisely jack shit in the way of reducing them. He figured he was in for a good long month of looking like he’d fallen face first off a bridge. And he had already begun the process of developing a worthy story when the phone in his pocket started buzzing.

‘Yeah?’ he grunted.

‘It’s me,’ said Cooper.

‘Yeah, no shit. What is it?’

‘I think I’ve found the guy.’

Zeke’s ears prick up. He dropped the steak into the sink and zeroed in on the call.

‘Where?’ he snapped.

Cooper gave him the location, then said, ‘He was just lying there by the side of the road. He had Clancy with him.’

‘Put him on the phone,’ Zeke said.

‘I can’t.’

‘Why?’

‘I ain’t with him.’

‘Where the fuck are you then?’

‘I pulled over down the road. Didn’t want to spook the guy.’

‘You bring your piece with you?’ Zeke asked.

‘Always do, brother.’

‘Then I don’t give a shit if you spook the guy. Just point the fucking thing at him and tell him to put his head between his legs and kiss his cock goodbye. You got that?’

‘What if someone sees?’

‘Then you tell them to move the fuck along. Now get back there and secure him. I’m on my way.’

‘Will do, brother.’

Zeke hung up and swore at his reflection. And as he did, his upper left incisor fell into the sink.

***

James gave the guy precisely zero seconds head start before he sprung into action. He wasn’t a fool. He knew the signs of when someone is spying on you. Rarely did that fact come up and beat you over the head with it. He could feel his eyes on him like rays from the sun. But the guy’s ineptitude wasn’t going to win him any free passes today.

With Tess by his side, James hustled across the street and into the neighbouring field. The ground dropped down by a couple of feet to account for any flooding in the field that might stretch this far out. It gave James all the cover he needed to make his approach. He left the van unlocked. The rear doors wide open for all to see. He figured that would keep the ruse up for long enough.

Bent double, he ran parallel to the road towards the pit bull. He figured the guy would park on the same side of the street. It made sense. Made it look like he was having car troubles. Not spying on the guy behind him. If that was the case, then James figured the guy would backtrack a little. Not too far. He would want to keep the rise of the road on his side. James’s van was downhill. All the pit bull had to do would be to poke his head up enough to keep an eye on it.

Which meant that everything out of the fat man’s gaze was free country. James liked free country. Tess bounded along beside him, content in the company of the man who had freed her from tyranny. Her golden hair sparkled in the morning sun. A truly beautiful dog.

James reached the top of the rise and bent low to approach the roadside. The Taurus was right there, parked with its nose facing away from James’s truck, just as he expected. The driver’s door was open wide, and the pit bull-shaped man was already up the road. To say he was fat would be to say the sun was merely warm. It didn’t do it justice. The sun was an enormous ball of burning energy. And the pit bull was a fat old sack of shit.

He was down on one knee like he was waiting to be knighted from some invisible monarch, and had his hand pressed up to his forehead to block out the rising sun. He was only a couple of yards from his Taurus, but the exertion had done him in. Not that James could talk. The thought of hauling that dead weight up out of his car and across the street was enough to make the strongest man tired.

James looked down at Tess, who was staring up at him with loving eyes.

‘Time to see if you’ve been trained,’ he said.

She just smiled at him.

‘Sit,’ he said.

She sat.

‘Lay down.’

She dropped to her belly.

‘Good girl. Now, stay.’

He climbed up to the road and hustled across to the door of the fat man’s car. Tess stayed put. So did the fat man. James slid into the driver seat and recoiled at the unprecedented smell of sweat emanating from the upholstery, and looked around for anything useful. There was a crumpled bag of empty fast food packets in the passenger foot well, and a coat James figured was big enough to moonlight as a marquee canvas.

In the glove box was a handgun. Using the coat to cover his hand, James fished it out and dropped it on the passenger seat. The model was a Glock. He’d seen their kind a million times before. He pressed the button to expend the clip, and ejected the rounds onto the seat. Then he pulled back the slide and ejected the last round into his hand, and dropped the weapon back on the seat.

The glove box wasn’t empty. Besides a pack of chewing gum and a bar of candy, James found a wallet. He flipped it open, and discovered the fat man’s name was Cooper Tadman. The rotund face of the pit bull looked up at him from his Mississippi license, which was all the worst kinds of ugly. James flicked it out the door, and watched it spiral out of sight. The wallet contained thirty-dollars, which James pocketed, and a coupon card for the same fast food joint that littered his passenger foot well. The guy had seven of the eight required stamps to earn himself a free meal.

Not anymore he didn’t.

James flicked it away in the same direction as the license and dropped the wallet and the handgun back in the glove box. The remaining bullets went in the fast food bag. James hauled himself out of the car and released the handbrake. The Taurus groaned and inched forwards as James hustled back down to Tess. Then it picked up speed, and rolled away in a hurry to escape the monster that had weighed it down for too long.

Cooper Tadman took a couple of seconds longer than he had any right in taking to realise his car was trying to escape. With all the strength he could muster, he hauled his fat arse up and watched the vehicle roll away. Then he broke into a run. Well, a shuffle. Poor guy couldn’t get much better than that.

James smiled at the sight, and turned back towards the field. Tess jumped to attention, and together they walked back over the rise and down to the van.

But he didn’t make it that far.

Because someone had parked up in front of it.

Two men got out of the car. It was a red Honda Civic. And it showed the same signs of intended negligence as Cooper’s disappearing Taurus. The driver was a man James had never seen before. He was tall. Somewhere in the ballpark of six foot. He had the build of a man who had seen the gym and figured it was a place best left for those worthy. Not to say he was thin. But the pot belly he was sporting would make those sit ups all the more exhaustive. He wore a sports jacket with the Chicago Bulls embroidered on the back, and a trucker’s hat that covered thick tufts of ginger hair.

The man who got out the passenger seat, James knew a little better. While his face looked all kinds of unpleasant, there was no mistaking good old Mr Ripped Jeans. The pair walked around the Honda and headed for the back of the van. With the doors wide open, there was little that would be left to their stunted imaginations, and their search of his mobile home took less time than it did for James to make a plan.

He knelt down and picked up a handful of roadside gravel, enough to ball his fist around without much spillage. He looked over at Tess. She had spotted her former master, but the look in her eyes wasn’t one of anger or hatred. It was curiosity that James saw. Like all the punches and kicks thrown her way hadn’t tainted him in her eyes. She was a kind girl. She was better than him.

So James carried that hatred for her. He wore it like a fine leather jacket for all the damn world to see. The line had been crossed. On one side was peace and prosperity and proper human etiquette. On the other, bloodshed. Here be monsters, motherfucker. The guy in the ripped jeans had made his decision. Crossing that line was his own decision. And the monsters don’t play nice.

Of the two men, it was the one James didn’t recognise that concerned him. He’d sized the guy with the ripped jeans up as he sat across the table, and he’d been able to hit him square in the face without much trouble. But the unknown was always the greatest risk. An unknown variable made things harder.

Which meant he was first to go down.

James watched the pair examine his van. The ginger didn’t look like much of a threat. But James was in too bad of a shape to let his ego swell up like Ripped Jean’s nose and get the better of him. In his condition, a six year old could beat his arse if he didn’t play his cards right. The ginger climbed up into the back of the van, leaving Ripped Jeans alone on the road.

Which was another line crossed, because James didn’t like people rooting around his stuff. And with the cargo he was carrying, that line was doubly important.

‘Stay here, girl,’ James whispered to the dog.

He pulled the van key from his pocket. The fob was old and worn from hundreds, if not thousands, of thumb squeezes. The three buttons on the device were faded beyond recognition, but James knew what each meant.

He found the button he needed, and he squeezed it.

Nothing happened. The van was out of range. The two men were none the wiser. But James didn’t want to risk getting any closer. Not yet. So he recalled a nugget of information stored deep inside his brain, filed in the “shit you may need one day” sector. He pressed the key up against his head and thumbed the button again.

He didn’t know what the science behind it was. He didn’t understand why a human skull could amplify the range of a key fob. All he cared about was the result.

The van doors attempted to lock. With the rear doors wide open, the action failed. The van beeped once, which had the desired effect. Both men jumped into action. The ginger climbed out, pistol waving around like a lunatic, and ran with Ripped Jeans around to the front. They stared through the windows, expecting to see someone there. But saw only each other through two panes of glass.

At which time, James was on the move. The man with the ripped jeans had taken the passenger-side door. Leaving the ginger to head out into the road and check the driver-side door. That put him closest to the danger. And the danger was coming up on him fast.

The ginger heard James approach at the last moment. Right after the moment where he could do a single thing about it. He turned around and took a fistful of gravel directly to the face a second before James hit him in the throat. The force sent a shockwave of pain down James’s arm, but it was nothing compared to what the guy received. With a pained gargle, he bounced off the door and crumpled to the ground, wherein James finished him off with a knee to the face.

Another one bites the dust.

James figured the guy with the ripped jeans wasn’t doing too well. You don’t get hit square in the face with a fire extinguisher and walk away with twenty-twenty vision and a cheery disposition on life. He figured the guy was in pain, and from the look of his face, he was struggling to see through the two purple slits that constituted as eyes. He figured the guy would struggle to see anything that wasn’t front and centre, waving a big neon sign. But like a bat, it would make the other senses pick up the slack. He would have heard the sound of his ally bouncing off the vehicle. It was hardly subtle. But other than that he was in the dark, unless he wanted to sniff out his attacker.

‘Randall?’ the guy with the ripped jeans called out.

James let the word drift away with the wind. He bent down and snatched up the pistol Randall had been carrying and crouch-walked around the rear of the van, his shoes crunching quietly on the gravel. He figured the guy would head around the front to see what had happened to his buddy. He figured right. The guy skirted around the bumper and hustled over to his friend. He knelt down, and checked him over, then scanned his surroundings for the threat.

James, on the other hand, came up on him from behind. He took it slow and steady, and checked the pistol’s magazine to make sure he wasn’t going in effectively empty handed. Four rounds in the clip. Four was more than he needed. Four would kill any thoughts of retaliation as soon as they were born. James slotted the clip back into the pistol and snuck around the bumper just as the guy with the ripped jeans got to his feet and looked around. He waited until the guy looked away. Then he made his move.

A lot happened in the next five seconds. Much more than five seconds had any right to try and cram in. James slid out from his position and brought his weapon up at the man with the ripped denim jeans at the exact moment that the guy spotted something across the road. James caught it out the side of his eye too. Tess. She was trotting towards the pair without a care in the world. Not so obedient after all. The sight of her drew the guy’s attention away from the road, and back towards his dog.

Which put James right in his peripheral.

Or whatever was left of it. The most he could have realistically seen was a giant shadow, like a bear or the boogieman coming at him. And, as though practising a strange improvised dance, he pirouetted away, raising his weapon as he twisted. Sensing the first flecks of shit hitting the fan blades, James threw himself back behind the bumper of his van and shuffled out of sight. But that wasn’t all of his problems.

Because the fat guy with the escaping Taurus appeared over the rise.

He spotted what was happening at the same time the guy with the ripped jeans spotted James. He stamped on the gas and sent the Taurus hurtling towards them like a soldier heading for battle. Tess trotted across the street, heading for no one in particular. The Taurus thundered closer, seemingly unapparent that the canine was directly in his path. The man with the ripped denim jeans looked at Tess, then at the Taurus, and shouted.

‘Don’t you hit ma damn dog, Cooper.’

The Taurus screeched to a halt a couple of yards from the excited retriever, and Cooper hauled himself out.

‘Shit, man. You blind or somethin’? You not see Clancy?’ the guy with the ripped jeans shouted.

‘I din’t think you’d got ‘er back, Zeke?’ Cooper hiccupped.

‘You called your dog Clancy?’ James shouted.

Zeke and Cooper turned their heads.

‘Who’s that?’ Cooper asked.

‘Who’d you think, asshole. This son’bitch took Clancy,’ Zeke barked. His voice was thick with congestion.

‘Sorry guys, I just can’t get over the fact you called your dog Clancy,’ James said. ‘You know she’s female, right?’

‘You gon’ regret what you did,’ Zeke snapped. ‘Jumping me. Taking Clancy. You’re gon’ pay for it.’

‘If you can’t be trusted to name your dog properly, then you don’t deserve to keep her,’ James replied. ‘And besides, you should thank me for fixing your nose. It was not your best feature, trust me.’

To his right, James saw Cooper move, aiming to flank James in what was possibly the least subtle flanking manoeuvre ever committed in all of human history. He had his pistol pointed at the road, which made him as useful as a sunhat in a storm. His large size made him a slow opponent. Easy to outflank. Brains like that put him low on the food chain.

James moved around the van to the rear. Zeke may be handicapped, but a bullet didn’t discriminate. So Zeke was the number one priority for the moment.

But Zeke had put those pieces of the puzzle together as well, and realised his arse was worth a couple bucks more than that of his corporeal companion. He reached the rear of the van exactly the same time as James. Both men raised their weapons and pointed them within a foot of each other’s faces. James could practically smell the bullet waiting down the end of the barrel.

‘Drop the gun,’ Zeke snapped.

‘You first,’ said James.

‘We got you outnumbered. Drop it, now.’

‘I’m not worried about your friends. Fatty over there probably hasn’t even realised his gun is empty.’

Out of the corner of his eye, James saw Cooper slow his approach and look at the weapon. He looked it up and down, then pointed it at the blacktop and fired.

Nothing happened. Cooper turned the gun over and flicked the safety. Then he tried again. Still nothing. Zeke made a heavy noise somewhere between a groan and a grumble as his laboured eyes turned from James to Cooper, which gave James all the time he needed to act.

He took a large stride to the right and pressed the weapon into Zeke’s head.

Zeke realised his mistake as the barrel of James’s gun pressed into his temple.

‘Drop the gun, genius,’ said James.

‘We still got you outnumbered.’ Zeke grunted.

‘Oh, I think you’re about as likely to die by their hand as I am. In fact, Tweedle-Dipshit over there is as much as risk to himself as anyone else. So let’s drop the weapon and have a sensible conversation, shall we?’

Zeke’s gun was still up, pointed at nothing. Cooper held his weapon like a bag of dog shit. Randall was still out for the count. Three men, beaten by one man with an arm in a cast.

Well, nearly beaten.

With a weapon aimed at his temple, Zeke moved his gun arm left. Not by much. Only a matter of inches. But those inches brought the weapon back in the direction of James.

‘Drop the gun,’ James insisted.

‘See, I don’t think you got the balls to pull that trigger,’ said Zeke. He watched James out of the corner of his swollen eye. Even through the slit, James could see the anger clear as day. ‘Hiding like a pussy and hitting a man while he’s not looking is one thing, but taking a life takes balls. I don’ think you got it in you.’

He moved the gun a couple inches closer to James’s head.

‘That’s one hell of a bluff to call if you’re wrong,’ James replied. ‘I could shoot what’s left of your nose clean off if I wanted to.’

‘Do it then.’

The gun moved closer. It was aimed at James’s left ear.

‘Pull the trigger, pussy,’ said Zeke.

James Stone did exactly as he was told. He squeezed down on the trigger with all the intent to shoot the nose clean off the guy’s face. But he didn’t. Fate intervened, manifested as a beautiful golden retriever named Tess, not Clancy. Never Clancy.

She bounded up to the conflicted pair and barked playfully before burrowing her nose into James’s leg. Zeke looked down, betrayal etched into what little was left of his face to mould. And as he opened his mouth to command his former dog, James followed through with his intent.

But not by shooting him in the nose. Instead, he just hit it again.

The butt of the pistol caught the point of skin that had torn in two, unleashing a tidal wave of fresh blood as the skin burst apart. The pistol drove into the cartilage and forced back the remaining fragments that had survived the first encounter. Zeke’s head clipped back like a sniper round had just driven a hole through his forehead. Not a killing blow, but neither was it something you could just shrug off or forget in a hurry.

Zeke did not shrug it off. He did not forget in a hurry. He screamed and dropped to the ground, clutching his face and squeezed down on the trigger so hard it bent out of shape. A single gunshot rang out. The bullet sailed away into the distance. James wrenched the gun out of his grasp and threw it across to the parked Honda. As it bounced off the hood, James pointed his weapon up at Cooper.

‘Drop the gun,’ he said for the fourth time.

‘You shot Zeke in the head,’ Cooper gasped.

‘No I didn’t. I hit him in the nose.’

‘Why’d you do that, man?’

‘Besides the fact he’s a piece of human garbage?’

Zeke wailed. His hands clasped to whatever was left to call a nose. Cooper dropped the pistol and thundered towards them. At first, James thought he was going for an attack, but as he dropped to his knees and placed his chubby fingers on his friend’s chest, James realised he was trying to help, if help was even a remote possibility anymore. Up close, he was enormous. Beads of sweat trickled down his potmarked face.

‘We need to get him to a hospital,’ Cooper cried out.

‘He doesn’t need a hospital for a broken nose you gimp.’

‘He needs help.’

‘By all means, ferry the poor fool away. I give you my permission to tell the world how Zeke got his arse kicked.’

James took a couple of steps back to get out of the fat man’s range and looked at the pair. Tess sat beside him, smiling away like she was at a birthday party.

‘Now here’s what is going to happen next, okay?’ James said slowly. Cooper’s eyes were glazed over in disbelief, so James clicked his fingers. ‘Listen to me, Cooper. You’re going to go pick up Zippy and Magoo over there and get them in your car. You’re going to leave the dog here, okay? She stays with me. Then you’re going to drive away and not look back even once. If you do, I’ll give you and Zeke a matching pair of broken noses. You got that?’

Cooper said nothing.

‘You got that, Cooper?’

He nodded.

‘Good, now get going.’

***

Zeke clutched the bloodied lump that had once been his nose and felt every atom of his being scream in pain. The fire extinguisher had hurt, but it was nothing compared to this. His face burned, not just from the injury, but all over, as though he’d been stung by thousands of bees. He wanted to collapse and be free from it all, but he clung to consciousness because of one thing.

Rage.

With Cooper behind the wheel, and Randall rolling on the back seat like some goddamn junkie, a calmer mind might have realised the tactical retreat was the only available option. But Zeke was not calm. Far from it. Calm resided on a faraway planet, unaware of the anger and suffering felt from Zeke’s little pocket of the universe. Zeke wanted vengeance.

‘Worizee?’ Zeke grunted. The nasal damage made his words almost inaudible.

Cooper flashed his eyes across to him.

‘What d’you say?’ he grunted.

‘Worr iz ee?’ Zeke snarled.

‘Where is he?’

‘Yesb.’

‘He popped you in the nose, Zeke. We had to get outa there.’

‘Lemme out,’ Zeke snorted. ‘I gonna killem.’

‘You need to rest up,’ said Randall. 

‘I’m d’bod goddamned.’

‘The what?’

‘De Bozz.’

‘The boss?’

‘Yed. Turn aroub.’

‘I can’t do that, Zeke. Boss wants you home.’

‘Sonobabidg.’

***

James watched the wheels of the Taurus squeal as Cooper fled the scene and looked over for Tess. She was sat by the side of the road, chewing chunks of grass like nothing noteworthy had happened. He smiled and called her over.

‘We need to find you a new owner,’ he mused as she smiled cheerfully up at him.

Back in the van, he mulled over his options. Before he’d sent the band of brothers on their merry way, James had taken the liberty to add salt to the wounds. Ordering Cooper to pat down his boss and rid him of his wallet. Now, sat behind the wheel of his trusty van, James opened it. The faded driver’s license showed a slightly younger, cockier version of the noseless wonder himself. James took it out and flicked it into the road.

Two hundred and forty dollars in twenty dollar bills sat neatly in the wallet. James took them out. He had no need for the cash. He had more than he could ever use in the back of the van. But he had a plan in mind for it, and it involved a polite woman named Maeve.

The drive back to that quiet little town in Mississippi saw no other drivers on the road. Perhaps this level of solitude was commonplace in such areas, James wondered. He liked the quiet.

He quite liked the opposite too.

He parked the van up outside across the street Maeve’s quaint corner café, beside the dry cleaners. It was still closed, which baffled James. A nine o’clock start was one thing but not open at ten was weird. He didn’t pay the meter this time. It was a waste of a quarter. Instead, he pushed open the glass door and heard the jingle of the bell announce his arrival.

Maeve was standing behind the counter. The expression on her face was not one of joy. Tess bounded up to her and barked playfully. The mirror behind the counter had gone. Only a few fragments of glass clung to the edges of the frame.

‘You’re back,’ she said.

‘So it would seem,’ James replied. He walked to the counter and took a stool.

He put the money down on the counter.

‘I think you dropped this,’ he said.

Her expression soured at the sight of the cash.

She said nothing.

‘Hint hint, wink wink,’ James said.

‘I can’t,’ she said with the kind of tone that didn’t even try to disguise the dismay.

‘You can, trust me. It’s not going anywhere.’

Maeve sighed and looked down at Tess.

‘You shouldn’t have taken his dog,’ she said.

‘He lost the right to animal ownership the moment he hit her,’ said James. ‘You’re not in the market for a new furry companion, are you?’

She looked longingly at Tess before replying.

‘You don’t know Zeke,’ she said. ‘He’ll just come back tomorrow and he’ll want revenge. I can’t afford that. I could lose the business.’

‘Zeke isn’t going to show up tomorrow. Or the day after,’ James said.

‘Why? What did you do?’ She asked.

‘Let’s just say, he won’t be so nosey from now on.’

Her eyes narrowed.

‘Never mind,’ said James. ‘He’s not going to be around here for a while. You don’t need to worry.’

‘But he’ll be back,’ she said. ‘You should take Clancy and get out of here.’

‘Her name is Tess now. He couldn’t even get the gender right.’

She sighed.

‘Why don’t you just call the cops?’ he asked.

‘It ain’t like that,’ she said. ‘And you don’t understand. Zeke ain’t the problem here. It’s his papa, Logan. Zeke is just a foot soldier, doing the bidding. Logan, he… he won’t tolerate this kind of behaviour. Even the cops don’t go nowhere near him. Even though it’s just him and Zeke’s boys, he runs this town. And he don’t take kindly to failure.’

‘Who’s Logan?’

‘His family built this town way back when the train line out west was built. They run the place.’

‘Run it how?’

‘Protection. We all have to pay. They keep us safe.’

‘Safe from what?’

She didn’t answer that.

‘Safe from what?’ James asked again.

‘Well, from them.’

‘They’re bullying you out of your profits.’

Maeve nodded. Her eyes moved from James to the dry cleaners. James followed her gaze. The lights were off inside. No one home.

‘What happened?’ he asked.

‘Same thing that happens to all of us eventually. He couldn’t pay. Old Stuart, he runs the dry cleaners. He got behind on his payments. No one has seen him in days.’

James pursed his lips. He could imagine what had happened.

‘You need to get out of here before he finds you,’ said Maeve.

‘This Logan guy, where does he live?’ James asked.

She paused. Weighed up her options.

‘Out past the train tracks. Go west, then turn left a quarter mile after. They’ve got a big house up there.’ But then she changed her mind. ‘You can’t go up there.’

‘I just want to have a chat with Logan,’ said James. ‘That’s all.’

Logan was by the front door as they pulled up. His fingers wrapped as tight as they could around the handle of his cane. His expression was stern like a headmaster or drill sergeant. He watched as Randall and Cooper hauled his wounded son out of the Taurus. Zeke was conscious, but kept his bloodied head bowed as they hauled him inside. Logan wondered what he had done to deserve such a useless piece of shit for a son.

Like bullying and swindling money out of poor folk your whole life didn’t justify the karma.

Logan watched his son as he was laid out on the couch. His face was a mess. Even after months of recovery, it wasn’t about to properly resemble a nose. The boy was going to look like he had a  block of cheese glued to his face. Any chance of continuing the bloodline had gone out the goddamn window now. Zeke was an only child. His mother long dead. And what kind of woman would look Zeke’s way now that he had a goddamn wart in the front of his face?

This was too much. He needed a drink. While Randall and Cooper busied themselves with his son’s wellbeing, Logan hobbled away to the kitchen. He had a bottle of twenty year old scotch that he saved for special occasions. Usually when he had something to celebrate. But of recent years, celebrations had drifted away with what remained of the population of his little empire. Even his own men, people he trusted, had abandoned him. All he had now were the three jackasses in the other room.

Logan didn’t pour himself a drink. He took it straight from the bottle. And thought about what the hell his life had come to. His chest felt tight. Goddamn Emphysema. Everything hurt these days. He hobbled across to the window and looked out.

What the fuck happened to the good old days?

***

James took the road out west with Tess by his side. He had a suspicion that Maeve might be persuaded to become a foster parent, so long as doing so wasn’t going to end in bloodshed. James had seen the broken mirror. He’d seen the neat little hole in the wall behind it. He could put two and two together and get Zeke.

As he drove, he felt the itch again. The Wolf stirring. Sometimes it came as a voice in his head. Sometimes it manifested as a mirror image of himself. Sometimes it was something else. He figured it depended on his mental wellbeing. How strong were his defences when the Wolf came calling? Today, it was just a voice. Today, James felt strong.

‘Four on one, James,’ said the Wolf. ‘Need I remind you how dumb this is?’

‘My money is it’s three on one,’ James replied. ‘Two fools and an old man. Zeke won’t be jumping into action anytime soon.’

‘Who knows, they might have more men. Logan owns this town. He could summon them all if he so chose.’

‘He won’t,’ said James. ‘He won’t get the chance.’

The Wolf scoffed and drifted from the cobwebs of his conscious.

James found the place easy enough. Maeve’s directions couldn’t be more clear. The single road out west didn’t detour, and after a few minutes behind the wheel, he bumped over the train tracks and found the left turn he needed.

He didn’t turn off. Instead, he took the road further and found a quiet spot to ditch the van. Then he parked up and got out and looked at Tess. She whined, eager to be part of the fun.

‘Okay then, girl. Out you come.’

She leapt outside and sniffed around, tail spinning like a windmill. The hike across the grasslands took ten minutes. Reeds reached up to his knees. Tess bounded along beside him, leaping high into the air every few seconds as though powered by fresh air. The morning breeze felt like a cool beer. Refreshing, invigorating, intoxicating. He drank it all in and held his spirits high.

He saw the house through the smattering of trees as he drew close. Tess seemed to recognise the place. Probably her old home. She trotted ahead and, despite his protests, seemed happy enough to go about her business alone. James wished he’d left her in the van. But the heat might have been too much for her. He just hoped she’d stay safe.

The beat up Taurus was parked by the entrance, doors open wide like birds wings. To the left of it was a garage. It looked newer than the house which, even from a preliminary glance, James could tell was in a dire state. The garage was shut, but James decided to head for it anyway.

He skirted through the trees and came up on the garage from behind. Up close, he thought he could hear something inside, although the noise was too faint to recognise. At the back of the garage was a small door. James tried the handle. It was stiff, but unlocked. A swift shoulder barge pushed it open.

The smell was the first thing to hit him. Blood and sweat. Iron and acid. James knew those smells well. Too well. The moment it reached his nose, James retched and staggered back. Dreaded memories seeped into his brain. Afghanistan, Manhattan. He couldn’t take it. But as he went to close the door, he heard a groan.

Not an animal or a machine. It was a human being.

Compelled by his instincts, James fought down the panic that crept up into his throat. He tried to ignore the tightness in the base of his skull and across his shoulders, and took a long, deep breath. Then he stepped inside.

A figure lay on the floor. Had he believed in the supernatural, James would have thought it a zombie. With visible pain, the figure lifted its head and looked at him. Light from outside spooled into the garage. And what James saw nearly made him sick.

Compared to the man in front of James, Zeke had got off lightly. His jaw was broken, no doubt about it. The cuts and bruises only exacerbated the fracture in the bone. A pair of terrified eyes pierced James, and left him breathless. Because the face was only the start of the horror.

His left arm had been severed at the elbow, with a large bloodied stump all that remained. His chest sported dozens of lacerations not unlike those adorning James’s chest. And from the way he held his weight, both legs had been broken.

The man was a ruin.

The culprit was a monster.

And James had made his mind up.

Compassion compelled James forwards. He took a step into the garage and the poor man groaned. He couldn't be older than fifty, but his eyes portrayed the fear of a lost child or cornered animal. He fell backwards, using his one remaining arm to drag himself deeper into his prison. James stopped and held up his arms.

‘It's okay,’ he said, his tone hushed and gentle. ‘I’m not your enemy. I'm not going to hurt you.’

The wounded man stopped retreating. Whether through trust or over exertion, James didn't know. His shirt had been ripped open, exposing beneath it a disfigured mess of fresh wounds, each of which struck through the flesh with chaotic and ruthless abandon. Each a pained reminder of the horrors he had endured. James knew about scars. He knew the weight they carried.

‘What's your name?’ James asked, but the pained look on the man's face told James he wouldn't get an answer. ‘Stuart, is it? The guy from the dry cleaners?’

The man nodded with great effort. The toll it took on his broken jaw was almost too much for him, and he sagged deeper as the last grains of energy ebbed away. Moving him would be a problem, especially with Logan's happy band of bastards so close by. James would have to play it smart.

Sitting up against the wall with its nose to the hell and handles to heaven was a wheelbarrow. That, James thought, could work. He upended the rusted cart and parked it alongside Stuart. Lifting him took surprisingly little effort. Considering the man had only been captive for a matter of days, he hardly weighed a thing. Perhaps fear had starved him of substance. Maybe it was the lack of arm that did it. James didn't know. Stuart wasn't the first amputee he'd helped in a tight situation, and the karma gained from that action had been paid out in dividends.

Stuart groaned as the weight in his legs shifted. His trousers had been torn apart, exposing deep, vivid bruises beneath. James thought he could see the shattered bones pressed so tight to the skin they were in danger of tearing free. The sight made him lightheaded. He fought through it, chiefly because the idea of passing out in front of a man who had suffered through hell was a level of embarrassment James wasn't willing to endure.

As he placed Stuart down into the wheelbarrow, James smelt something he instantly recognised, and made his fight to stay upright all the more difficult. The combination of burnt petroleum and flesh was one no human should ever have to smell, but here James was, and as he looked at the charred stump, he had to marvel just how strong the old man's resolve was to have lasted so long. If James was sure of one thing, it was that this man would not die on his watch.

James manoeuvred around to lift the wheelbarrow handles when he clocked a figure in the doorway. Randall. He looked at James like a young child walking in on their parent's private playtime. Maybe he was concussed. It hadn't been long since his head had been used as a pinball. That kind of impact took it out of the best of fighters, and Randall was far from that category. James could practically see the guy's cogs turning in slow motion. He was like an old car or a catastrophic drunkard. He wasn't on peak performance.

But he was getting there. He wasn't solving the Hodge Conjecture, after all. This was simple and straightforward. The problem was staring him right in the face. But dealing with it would be a whole other ballgame.

Especially as it was swinging a swift right hook at him already.

The punch wasn't designed to be a knockout. No one would hark back to the time James clocked a concussed man with his subservient arm. With his left hand all bandaged up, it was down to good old righty to do the job. Old, inexperienced right hand. James's genetics had determined him to favour his creative side more than the practical. It had bestowed upon him a lifetime of smudged handwriting and difficulty with scissors. And James had been happy with the choice. Lefty's rule, righty's drool. So over the span of his lifetime, he hadn't seen the need to work on hitting people in the face with his weaker fist. He'd been a good boy... to an extent.

So the punch was designed for shock and awe, like letting off a fire cracker right in the guy's face. James wanted Randall on the back foot from the get go, then he could kick and knee and elbow and headbutt his way to victory. The garage was small, and Stuart and his fugitive-drawn carriage were closer to the rear door than the front, so all it took to close the distance was a hop and a skip and a flying fist. The punch hit him in the side of the neck at the exact same moment his brain solved the curious mystery of the stranger in the garage.

James kept the momentum going and barged the stunned fool back outside. As hoped, the collision sent Randall reeling, and he fell flat on his back in the dirt. He let out a pained yelp as the wind evacuated his lungs, so all James needed for an easy win was a kick to the groin and a elbow to the face. But he didn't get that far.

The giant mass of Cooper caught James like a rugby player going for the tackle, and floored him like he was made of paper. Like Randall, James hadn't realised what had happened until it was already over. For a large sack of shit, Cooper had moved like a ninja. And as all two hundred thousand tonnes of lard flattened James to the floor and turned him into a flat-packed fugitive, he cursed himself for letting the enormous fool get the better of him.

But only for a moment, because he wasn't in the mood to lose. Under the mass of flesh, James twisted his hand and seized a lump of Cooper, pinching down like an angry crab. It elicited a yelp from the large man, which only fuelled James on. His hands clamped down and twisted this way and that until Cooper couldn’t endure any more of it. He rolled sideways like a beached whale, giving James all the space he needed to wriggle free. He jumped to his feet just as Randall recovered and, before Cooper had the chance to uneven the odds, James drove his boot into the large man's face. Cooper's head snapped backwards as the shoe forced its way into his face, and he went limp.

Unwilling to be made a fool of for the third time in a row, Randall pounced at James with both hands outstretched. He caught James around the shoulders, and slammed him back against the garage. The impact caused a loud clatter as tools inside the garage were knocked loose. James didn't like it. The noise was sure to draw attention. He brought his knee up and thrust it into Randall's groin. Randall shifted at the last moment, so the blow caught him in the thigh, and only spurred him on further to retaliate. James saw as the guy swung his head back, intent to deliver a devastating blow to his face. Not today, pal. Using the garage as a springboard, he pushed off and threw Randall back. And not a moment too soon.

A single gunshot broke the silence, and made both men jump. James glanced around for the shooter, and saw the bloodied, broken face of Zeke leaning out of a second floor window in the main house. He could just make out the rage burning unfiltered in his eyes before Zeke let off another round, and he was forced to dive into the garage for cover. Randall stumbled back, looked at his support, then ran at James.

James looked at the charging bull and felt his body freeze. He braced himself for impact as something deep in his mind stirred once more. Fuelled by the adrenaline coursing through their body, the Wolf emerged and searched the scene in the fraction of a second. Spotting something large and solid sat discarded on the counter to their right, he channeled every ounce of willpower into James's hand. James barely registered what was happening as his hand darted out and clasped the heavy tool and swung it up. He saw the impact though. He had a front row seat. The tire wrench caught Randall right where his earlier punch had landed, but with a lot more force behind it. Randall barely had time to react as the blow floored him, rendering him completely and irrefutably unconscious.

Zeke was in pain. Not the kind of pain you could describe to a doctor. The pain scale had gone beyond double digits. In fact, Zeke would put his current situation at somewhere in the stratosphere. Beyond suffering. Beyond fucking charts.

But what was getting to him most was not the pain. No, that he could live with. It was the humiliation, in front of his men, in front of his father, he had been made an example of by some goddamn punk with one arm in a cast. It was embarrassing. And it had come to stomp on the coattails of his euphoria gained from his time with the dry cleaner.

A lesser man would feel bad about what he’d done to the fool running the dry cleaners, but not Zeke. Zeke saw it as an experiment, a trial of his strength. Proof that he could run the town his family had built. This was his time, and he wasn’t about to squander it. So he had gone the extra mile on the dry cleaner guy. He’d wanted to know in himself that he was capable. It didn’t matter that the smell had made him nauseous, and the look in the guy’s eyes had etched itself onto the back of his eyelids, he had done it, and he was going to be damn proud of it.

Even Logan had given him a look that told him he was impressed, and that was harder than singlehandedly flying to the moon and back. To have that feeling snatched away from him by some punk was unforgivable. Zeke wouldn’t let sleeping dogs lie. He’d butcher them when they least expected it.

As he fought the urge to wiggle the unstable teeth in his mouth, Zeke heard a noise. A clatter, like someone had just backed up into the garage and knocked the whole thing to the ground. Go figure Randall would pull something dumb like that. He’d had his head on ass backwards since he got dropped to the blacktop. Zeke cussed and got to his feet to look out the window, ready and willing to kick the fool in the ass for damaging his home.

But as he looked through the open window, he felt a jolt of elation unlike anything he’d ever felt before, and a pang of rage untameable by any man. There he was. The Brit. Right in his yard. Without thinking, Zeke snatched the Heckler and Koch from the table and thrust it out the window. Then he fired, again and again with blind fury.

***

The staccato of unaimed gunshots did not relent, and James knew it was only a matter of time before one of them pierced something valuable. He couldn't leave Stuart behind. But staying would result in one of two things; death or capture. The rear entrance was a no go. Zeke had a line of sight on the exit, and his lackeys would only stay down for so long. The front was the only option.

But as James inspected it, he realised to his error that the wide double doors were chain locked from the outside, with no way to break through from inside. They were trapped.

‘No,’ he told himself. ‘There is always a way. We don't die in some dickhead's garage. Not today.’

Glancing around at the tools at his disposal, he spotted a canister of petrol tucked in under the counter. Probably the very same canister used to cauterize Stuart's severed limb. Well, it could serve a second purpose now. James hauled it out and placed it on the counter. He snatched up an empty can of motor oil from a large plastic waste bin nearby. With his heart thundering in his chest, James carefully poured some of the petrol into the can, and thrust a dirty rag into the top. All he needed now was a light.

Behind him, Stuart made a noise. James turned and saw the wounded man glaring at a cabinet to his left. The look in his eyes was all he could muster, but James could guess the intent of the action. He ran over and heaved open the draw. There, amongst an array of screw drivers and tool bits was a pack of matches.

‘Cheers, Stuart,’ James said, snatching up the matches and taking one out. He grabbed the can of fuel and moved to the door. Zeke had stopped shooting, which James feared was so he could get a better angle, or rush in and finish the job up close. Not if James got his way. He took out a match and sparked a flame, and held it up to the rag.

The flame caught instantaneously and raged through the rag. Quickly, James stepped outside and flung the Molotov at the house.

***

Zeke saw the flaming cocktail smash through his window as he hurried down the stairs. The can bounced against a side table, knocking over a pot of plants left behind by Zeke’s mother, and upended the flammable contents all over the carpet. The flames caught with horrifying ease, and spread as fast as the wildfires Zeke had seen on television. 

Enraged, Zeke ran for the kitchen and searched through the cupboards. Surely they had a fire extinguisher somewhere. Surely Logan had at some point planned for his house being burned down. Upstairs, he could hear Logan barking, but the words were muffled over the sound of crackling flames. They needed to get out, right this goddamn second.

Zeke sprinted back towards the front of the house and leapt up the stairs three at a time. The pain in his face had all but vanished as adrenaline numbed the senses. He didn’t have time to struggle. His eyes too seemed sharper than before, as though the events earlier in the day had been but a lazy afternoon dream. 

Zeke reached the top of the stairs and headed for his father’s room. Even though he was crippled by arthritis, Logan had refused to vacate the master bedroom, insisting to struggle with his cane in one hand and the rickety banister in the other as he hauled himself up and down, up and down, day in and day out. He was a man of stubborn morals. He would not be happy with what was to come next.

Zeke found his father standing by the bed with his signature piece grasped in his hands. Zeke couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the old man fire the Heckler and Koch, but that didn’t matter now.

‘We neeb to gedouda herr,’ Zeke shouted. The words came out as gibberish, and he cursed the man who had robbed him of dignity and soon to be shelter. He would get his revenge. 

Logan glowered at his son, but didn’t put up a fight. Slowly, he shuffled forwards, allowing his son to get purchase under his shoulders to expedite the process. They made it to the top of the stairs when Logan stopped dead and said.

‘The oxygen tank.’

Zeke knew immediately why he had mentioned it. The large orange tank ordered in every few weeks by the local clinic was positioned right by his father’s chair downstairs. The very same chair that would, at that exact moment, be going up in flames. How long would it take for a can of pressurised air to withstand a raging fire? Zeke didn’t know, but he didn’t want to stick around to find out.

They took the stairs as fast as Logan’s arthritic bones could allow. Zeke wanted to hoist his father over his shoulder and carry him to safety, but he knew Logan would never allow that. With each passing second, Zeke’s heart rate grew faster and faster. The heat from the flames was already hotter than even the warmest of summer days, and had spread from the living room into the hallway. Only a slither of space at the foot of the stairs remained untouched by the flames, and even that was too close for Zeke. He powered on, unwilling to give up now, and slithered past the dancing flames with his heart in his mouth.

The front door was overrun with fire. Large orange tongues licked up the frame, charring the decades old wood. Again, Zeke cussed. The back door was their only option, but as they turned down the hallway, a figure stood between them and salvation.

The man who had destroyed their life stood in the doorway, his eyes wide and his posture calm, as though the whole world wasn’t burning to shit.

‘Hi there,’ he said with a manner so jovial, Zeke wanted to rip out his tongue and choke him to death with it. ‘My name’s James. What’s yours?’

‘Get out of my home, boy,’ snarled Logan. His voice was coarse like sandpaper.

‘That’s a bit rude, don’t you think?’ said the punk. ‘We haven’t forgone our manners though, have we? A little politeness goes a long way.’

The old man studied him some more. Zeke wanted to launch at him, but Logan held him in place with strength long forgotten.

‘My name is Logan, and it is my understanding that you are the man responsible for what has happened here today, correct?’

James shrugged.

‘We can’t be certain who did what,’ he said.

‘He’d lyin,’ Zeke grunted. His words stuffy and nasally. ‘He d’one who hid me.’

‘Look, we could stand around all day throwing blame about,’ James said. ‘But at the end of it all, nobody nose.’

Logan’s eyes flared.

‘Actually no, that’s a lie,’ James continued. ‘Zeke nose, don’t you Zeke?’ 

James flashed him a wide smile and watched the guy’s blood boil.

‘Zeke nose,’ he said again.

‘Iylkiyyou.’

‘What?’

‘Iyl kiyl you.’

‘Is this about all the puns, Zeke?’ James asked. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t make them. Snot funny. At least nostril you can see the funny side.’

Which for Zeke was the last straw. He exploded in a fit of rage that sounded part gargle, part roar, and launched himself at his target. He wrenched his arm from his father’s grasp and flew across the ruined hallway at the man who wanted to undo his legacy. 

***

James, being a man of sound mind and body, saw the attack coming a mile off. No way was he comfortable being in a house that was burning to the ground, but he couldn’t leave knowing the man who had kicked his beautiful dog and maimed an innocent man was still standing. This was a matter of principle. You don’t get away with such things without paying the consequences. So the moment Zeke broke free from his father’s grasp, James launched forward as well.

The two men met in the middle. James threw his fist at Zeke's face. Zeke titled his head and threw his arms out ahead of him. James's fist caught Zeke in the forehead. Still a sore spot, but not as detrimental as a fist to the place a nose once lived. Zeke absorbed the blow as best he could, and wrapped his fingers around James's throat.

Which was a mistake, but not for Zeke. With only one good arm, James had opened himself up for attack. He'd shown his weakness, right there for Zeke to behold. With all the rage befitting of a man who had been publicly beaten twice, Zeke squeezed and squeezed and squeezed. James saw spots. Felt the wooziness in his head and the flames supercharging what little air there was left to breathe. He couldn’t stay like this for long.

He brought his fist back up, ready to strike once more. A large, obvious move. He made sure Zeke could see it winding up through his eye slits, and gave him all the time he needed to flinch away.

Then he threw his knee up into Zeke's groin.

Zeke groaned and loosened his hands just enough for James to break free. Both men took a respective step back. Zeke standing before his enraged father, silhouetted by enormous, blinding flames. James propped up by the rear entrance. Then they went right back on the attack.

Zeke obviously figured his best approach was a repeat of the first. He brought his hands back up like a zombie and went in for the kill. James parried the left and with his bandaged right arm, and caught hold of Zeke's right hand with his left.

The two men looked at each other, fully aware what was about to happen next.

Pushing off with his right foot, James drove the centre of his head right down into Zeke's face. He felt the full force of his might cut through what remained of Zeke's nose, and sent the broken man down in one big old pile of regret.

James stood proud for one brief moment, savouring the victory.

Then something off to his right exploded.

The explosion sent fragments of the wall mere inches in front of James catapulting outwards. James threw his hands up and ran back the way he’d come. He made it outside just seconds before the floor above him collapsed, and the fire engulfed everything. He didn’t stop, didn’t look back. Instead, he turned and arced around the flaming building towards the wheelbarrow and its passenger. Stuart’s face, lit up by the bright sky and the flames, was etched with shock. Even if he could talk, James figured the man would be too stunned to speak.

Sitting beside him like a trusted protector was Tess. She smiled up at James like nothing else important had happened all day. James was relieved she hadn’t been inside the house.

‘Come on, Tess,’ he called, and she came bounding over to him. As he lifted up the wheelbarrow handles and spun the cart around, she trotted ahead as though she already knew they were headed back to the van, and together, the trio fled the scene.

***

Zeke had no idea what happened next. The heat and pain and light and fury turned everything into a drunken blur. The first moment to register in his brain was the fresh taste of air outside. He staggered wildly for just a few moments before he collapsed into a ruined mess in the dirt. His head was woozy, far more so than it had been after he’d had his nose broke. He felt out of it. Drugged by some unknown substance. Adrift on the ether.

Then it all came crashing back to him. His eyes refocused, and as he lifted his head up and looked back the way he came, he saw the ruined structure of his family home lit up like a bonfire. As exhaustion overtook him once more, and he fell into a deep slumber.

***

They made the call from the café. James pulled up outside and carried the injured store owner across the threshold to a chorus of startled gasps from Maeve and the other patrons. After a short, brief explanation, Maeve made the call, requesting the holy trinity of emergency responses; fire, ambulance, and police. She explained the situation and put down the receiver, before hurrying to Stuart’s aid.

‘I can’t believe you found him,’ she marvelled, looking from Stuart to James.

‘He’s not Bigfoot, he had to be somewhere,’ James replied.

Maeve opened her mouth, but spoke no words. Everyone knew what she had meant. Stuart had stamped his last time card, so they thought.

‘Do me a favour,’ said James. ‘I need to be somewhere, so when the cops come, leave me out of it, will you? I don’t have time to come back up here to answer their questions.’

She got the gist of it, and gratitude for saving Stuart would solidify her silence. Tess sat beside her, nuzzling her nose into Maeve’s arm with all the subtly of a house fire. She wrapped her arm around the dog and stroked her golden hair.

‘And, let me guess,’ Maeve said. ‘You want me to retract my last answer with this little beauty?’

‘If you wouldn’t mind.’

‘Zeke won’t be a problem no more?’

‘Not after your pal Stu here testifies.’

Maeve broke out into a smile.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

‘Don’t mention it. I’m just glad I was passing through.’

‘Where are you going?’ she asked.

‘Somewhere warm.’

***

He wasn’t sure how long it lasted, but when he awoke, he was not alone. Part of him expected to see Logan, or Cooper or Randall, or even the son of a bitch James standing over him. But the person looking down at him was not a person he recognised.

A young man clad in heavy black clothes with bright, reflective strips across his chest stared at him in surprise. Zeke recognised the outfit. This man was a firefighter.

‘Are you okay, mister?’ he asked before kneeling down and saying. ‘Don’t move. You’re safe here.’

Instinctively, Zeke lifted his head up and saw the damage. The house was ruined. Only a couple of the supports rose up past head height, with the remains nothing more than ash and charcoal. His house, his father’s house, gone.

And where was Logan?

Zeke opened his mouth to speak, but the firefighter pushed him down and told him to wait. Once more, exhaustion rolled over him, and Zeke was powerless to resist the fall into unconsciousness.

He didn’t see the officers place the cuffs on his wrists, nor those of Cooper and Randall. He didn’t see the firefighters discover the charred remains of the old, arthritic villain pinned up against one of the last remaining house supports. All that would come later.

For now, all he got was the sweet release of sleep.

***

The clock on the dashboard of his van said the time was twelve thirty-one. Four and a half hours from start to finish. He turned his head one last time to look inside the café, and watched through the glass as Tess nuzzled into Maeve. A little part of James loved that dog, and he was sad to say goodbye. But she’d have a better life now, away from Zeke and Logan and their horrible lifestyle. He knew she’d be given the attention she deserved.

He turned the key in the ignition and drove north, back the way he had set off in earlier that morning. As he passed the spot he’d parked up to rest, he looked west and saw plumes of acrid, black smoke billowing high into the sky. He watched and he smiled, but only for a moment.

He turned his head back to the road, and watched the cool October breeze scatter leaves across his street, and headed for Miami.