Dark certainly wasn't a natural, but after two hours, his shots on the target had gone from splayed to more accurate; a cluster of bullet holes in the target's chest, a few by the head.

    Shells littered the floor, and the smell of gunpowder and metal lingered in the air. Wilford emptied the last of his rounds on the target, and Dark couldn't help but stare. The mafia boss held the golden revolver in one hand, eyes focused with the intent to kill. The empty click of the gun, signaling he was out of ammo, pulled him out of his trance.

    Dark gazed past the smoke curling from the gun and at the target as it moved closer, stopping inches in front of them. Seven rounds nested cleanly in the target's head; perfect shots every time.

    Dark felt a shudder of twisted elation.

    They packed up their things—safety gear aside and glock in its case—and headed out the gun range. Wilford waved goodbye to the employees (who looked both scared and in awe of him), and Jim pulled up to the entrance when they exited the building. Evening had set while they were inside.

    Wilford opened the door for Dark, and the moment they settled into the backseat, they felt the change in the air. Jim's face was knitted with unease, and Host sat sternly in the passenger seat.

    Jim started to drive, and that's when Dark noticed the phone in Host's hand.

    Celine's phone.

    "Did she respond?" asked Dark, leaning forward in his seat. Wilford reloaded the glock and his revolver next to him, listening quietly.

    "You won't like it," said Host, handing the phone over his shoulder. Dark took it and inwardly grimaced, the device feeling almost as heavy as the gun in his hands had.

    He opened Celine's contact and stared at the newest message. A photo and two texts.

    His face fell.

———

"Leave my face out of it," said Celine casually.

    She sat on a sofa in a half-furnished penthouse, plastic tarp rustling beneath her heels. Against her side sat Mark, unconscious, his head slumped against her. She draped an arm over his shoulders and brought him closer, tipping his chin up with a switchblade.

    Blank stood before them, phone camera pointed as he sat on a crate.

    They'd spent the morning cleaning Mark up and bandaging his wounds. Blank found it useless at first, but he knew it was better to restore his canvas before digging into it again. Now, the bodyguard nearly looked normal. Only a few bruises bloomed over his neck, his eye. A bloody lip and a cut over his forehead.

    Celine drew out her phone and held it in front of her and Mark, displaying a candid image like it was a trophy. Her black lips twisted into a small smile, and Blank took the photo. He handed the phone to her, and within minutes, she sent a series of messages.

———

Dark's fingers dug into the phone, gaze unable to tear from the image.

    Celine's subtle smile graced the top, but his eyes focused on the knife in her hands, the blade holding up Mark's throat. And then, further down, to the phone in her hand, displaying something that made his heart skip a beat.

    It was a candid photo of him and Wilford in Cafe Deux, their figures blurred by shadows, but heads close enough to know they were kissing. Dark would've found the photo endearing—liked the way the photographer captured Wil's hand cupping his face; the way his own eyes were closed, features nearly peaceful—but the text sent after the photo made his chest tighten.

    'How bold of you, Mr. Edwards,' said the text. 'I wonder what Mark will think.'

    Below was another text. Sent two hours later—the time he and Wilford were in the gun range. The time he left Celine's phone in the car.

    'Men walk the world like they own it, and recoil when they face the consequences,' it read. 'I suppose it was only a matter of time.'

    Dark sucked in a breath, and he set the phone in his lap, running a hand over his mouth. Wilford holstered his revolver and carefully grabbed the phone, eyes running over the messages. He cursed and tossed the phone on the seat.

    "Goddamn it," he breathed. He turned his attention to everyone in the car. "We're not safe tonight. We'll have to sleep in shifts."

    "How do you know?" asked Dark.

    Jim pulled into the parking lot of another dingy hotel, and they clambered out of the car and piled into room 7. When Host locked the door, Wilford waved at him, and the man tossed a gun his way. One Dark didn't know he was carrying. Wil caught it and set it on the second bed, along with his revolver and the glock.

    "It's a classic threat," said Wilford, glaring down at the weapons. He glanced at Jim. "Do you have a gun?"

    Jim sheepishly shook his head, and the mafia boss sighed.

    "We'll have to work with what we've got," he said. "Celine must have been following Jim because of the tracker. But when she noticed you weren't in the car..." He sighed. "You were right, Dark. You should've brought the phone with you."

    Dark never thought he would've heard those words from Wil's mouth, but he was more concerned about another matter.

    "Is she going to kill Mark?" he breathed, the worry starting to crawl back up his throat.

    Wilford huffed, and he ran a hand over his mustache, his other hand resting on his hip. "Most likely not," he breathed. "But it's a possibility." He glanced at the others. "I'm thinking she'll pull another ambush. Give us a warning."

    "More than a warning," scoffed Host, taking off his coat. "There's no doubt she'll try to leave a mark this time."

    Dark ghosted a hand over the stitches around his abdomen, pain echoing there from the memory of the first ambush. The gunshots, the burn of getting shot, the adrenaline that pumped through his body as furiously as the blood between his fingers. And then Wilford, tranquilized, trying to keep it together in order to save them.

    He swallowed.

    "What if we kept moving?" he suggested.

    Host's face scrunched in protest.

    "You're right," Jim spoke up. All eyes turned to him. "I'll drive us around, and then, in the morning, we can find a place to crash. I can handle it."

    Host frowned. "Who says she won't attack then?"

    Jim made a helpless noise and shrugged, and Wilford sat at the edge of the bed, brows furrowed in thought. After a while, he nodded to himself.

    "We'll stay here for a few hours," said Wil. His eyes flicked onto Jim's. "Are you sure you can handle it?"

    "Course," said Jim with a curt nod. He smiled. "Big Jim and I used to pull all nighters all the time. Used to drive our mom nuts."

    Wilford sent him a small smile at the mention of his twin brother. "Then it's settled," he said. "We'll need more guns. Ammo." He nodded at Jim. "Pick some up from the store. And then you'll be the first to get some sleep."

    "On it, boss!" said Jim, rushing out the door. Wilford nodded to Host.

    "Go with him," he said. "But stay in the car. Jim's the only one with a low profile."

    "What about you two?"

    Dark glanced at Wil, and the mafia boss met his eyes.

    "We'll stay here with the tracker," he said. He pat the spot next to him and picked up a gun. "Dark still needs to learn how to dismantle a gun."

    Host nodded, and outside, the car rumbled to life. He opened the door. "We'll be quick," he said. "Call me if anything happens."

    Wilford bid him off, and as the door shut, he and Dark got to work.

———

Agent Rios found Amy Nelson in her partner's old office.

    It was a small conference room, marked with bits and pieces of Detective Abe's presence, which now felt cold. The cork boards still brimmed with papers, photos, and string—remnants of his gains on the Warfstache case. Amy was curled on a chair, hugging her knees to her chest. Her brunette hair brushed against the evidence and files on the table.

    The place once felt alive. Nights spent—just Amy and Abe—grueling over the case. And then with Mark, who gave them another reason to pursue the mafia boss.

    But now, thought Amy. Now, this place was a tomb. The echo of what Abe once was.

    Agent Rios lingered in the doorway, and with a deep breath, she gave the metal three light knocks. Amy jumped in her seat and whirled around. Rios held up her hands.

    "It's just me," she said.

    Amy wiped her eyes, and she huffed with relief, sagging in her seat. Rios gently shut the door with a click and pulled up a chair next to her, sitting down.

    "Hey," said Rios.

    "Hey," echoed Amy, hiding her face with her hair. She sniffled, and Agent Rios scooted closer, gazing at her gently.

    "It wasn't right," said Rios, "what Derekson said to you back there." Nelson gave a sour laugh under her breath. "He's a misogynistic asshole."

    "Yeah," agreed Amy. She shook her head. "I can't believe he even said those things..."

    "Once I get the chance," said Rios, "I'll kill him."

    "No..." said Amy quietly. "Then we'd be just as bad as them."

    Amy tipped her head towards the photos of Wilford and Celine (hers were blurry) on the cork board. Something glinted in Agent Rios' gaze, but Amy didn't notice.

Rios' gaze trailed from the cork boards around them, down to the papers strewn across the table. There was a half-open notebook nearby, filled with sloppy handwriting, and at the bottom was Detective Abe's signature. She glanced at Amy.   

"I know I just transferred here," she started, "but I can tell Detective Abe was a good man. I've heard stories about him." She gave a small smile. "He was actually the reason I came here in the first place."

    "Really?" breathed Amy, voice cracking. Her chest tightened. "What kind of stories?"

    Agent Rios smiled. "Ones about his perseverance," she said. "For being the one to lead the Warfstache case when he first surfaced. Everyone was too scared to go after him, but the detective... he was the only one to take initiative. People said he was an agent at the time, but that didn't stop him." She paused. "Without him, there wouldn't be any foundation to this case at all."

    "I didn't know that," said Amy softly.

    Agent Rios' eyes lingered on the notebook, and she noticed how Amy was staring at it, too. She gave a sad smile.

    "You miss him," breathed Rios. "Don't you?"

    Amy swallowed, and she lifted her head, meeting Rios' eyes for the first time.

    Amy shakily huffed, and she nodded, pulling her knees closer to her chest. "I just," she muttered, "keep wondering what if?" She swallowed. "What if we hadn't gone to see Director Kjellberg? What if I had done something different? What if I was the one who was shot, or—" Tears welled in her eyes again. "What if I was the one who died?" She sucked in a breath. "Abe didn't deserve to die. Abe didn't deserve—he didn't deserve any of it—this—"

    Amy's lip quivered, and she bowed her head with a sob. Agent Rios scooted closer and pulled Amy into a hug, rubbing her back gently.

    "You're right," said Rios softly. "He didn't deserve to die." She held Amy at arm's length. "But his death wasn't your fault. You were ambushed. How could either of you have seen it happening?"

    Amy sniffled, and she nodded, glancing away. Her fingers dug into her legs.

    "Before Abe died..." she breathed, "he told me to solve this case." She swallowed hard. "If I don't get Warfstache behind bars, I'll fail his dying wish." Her knuckles whitened. "I'll fail him."

    Agent Rios squeezed Amy's shoulders. "You won't fail him," she said firmly. "With you in the lead, Nelson, the entire precinct will put Warfstache where he belongs. And as long as I'm here, I'll die trying."

    A tear slid down Amy's face, and she shakily smiled as she wiped it away. "Thank you," she said, her chest tight with both grief and gratitude. "Really, Agent Rios."

    Rios smiled, and she pat Amy's shoulder. "Women stick together," she said. "Especially with that Derekson clown. I mean, what is he trying to be? A disgrace or the American flag?"

    Amy softly chuckled, and Rios smiled, gazing at her gently. They were enjoying the quiet when Rios' phone rang, making both of them jump.

    "Mierda!" she cursed in Spanish. "Sorry."

    Agent Rios drew her cell from her pocket and glanced at the contact, her heart kicking up. She sucked in a breath of excitement—Amy mistook it for shock—and Rios stood up.

    "I have to take this," said Rios. "I'll see you around?"

    Amy nodded. "Thanks again," she said. "See you tomorrow, Agent."

    Rios smiled, and she shut the door on her way out. The absence of her presence carved an empty void in the room. Amy replayed the conversation in her head, turned back to the table of evidence, and stopped when her eyes landed on the blurry photo of Celine.

    Wait, thought Amy, her brows furrowing. I hadn't told her about the ambush.

    Outside the precinct, Rios pressed answer, tucked the phone between her ear and shoulder, and drew a cigarette to her lips, pretending to be on a smoke break. The line connected, and a smooth, female voice met her ears, full of authority.

    "Sofia Rios," said Celine Larose. "I have a job for you."

———

Night fell on Jim's sleeping figure. Wilford, Host, and Dark stood around the other bed, talking in hushed tones.

    "I have a feeling," breathed Wilford, "that Celine's surrounded us." He had an arm around his chest, one hand running along his jaw. "The moment we leave, she'll know."

    "So we'll map out a path," said Host.

Dark glanced between them, listening to them plan. It reminded him of businessmen throwing around proposals, navigating the best routes to profit. Only now, it wasn't money on the line; it was their lives.

"It'd be difficult," said Wilford. "It's easy to get cornered in L.A."

"We could use that to our advantage," mentioned Dark, and he shuddered when Wil's eyes flicked on him, void of that charisma and flare. In the dark, his figure lined by the streetlamps outside, he looked vicious. "If we find a place that's hard to access, Celine would have difficulty reaching us. It'd give us time if she attacked."

Wil gave a subtle, lopsided smirk, clearly satisfied with Dark's answer. The look made his skin tingle. Would it have been like this, if they really worked together? If Celine hadn't kept throwing wrenches in their plans?

Host frowned. "It's too much of a risk," he said. "Even if it worked, it'd take time for us to escape, too. We'd get ourselves trapped."

Wilford considered the array of guns on the bed and grabbed his golden revolver, twirling it in his fingers absently.

"If it's our fighting chance, we'll go with it," he said. He stopped the gun's momentum in his palm, its surface glinting under the half-light, and flashed a grin. "And besides... it's about time I put a few more bullets in her forces."

Dark gazed down at the guns, the metal leering up at him. He imagined facing one of Celine's people and aiming at them. The weapon, heavy in his grip, exploding with noise when he pulled the trigger. Blood spraying the walls, his face. A body falling limp before him.

He shuddered. Remembered what he'd said, the night he and Wilford made the deal to start working together. The lights dim, the glasses of wine and whiskey on the table between them.

"I don't want to kill anyone," he had breathed.

Dark was beginning to feel like he wouldn't have a choice.

"Is it almost time?" asked Dark, pulling his gaze away. His eyes met Wilford's, and he opened his mouth to reply.

A crash sounded nearby.

The three of them stilled, stretched thin by the silence. Their ears strained, searching for another sound, but nothing came. Tension thickened the air.

Host threw on his coat and shook Jim's shoulder, waking him. Dark's heart began to pound in his chest.

"Could be a drunk," mumbled Wilford, glancing over his shoulder.

"We shouldn't take the chance," said Host. Jim groaned and rubbed his eyes, sitting up with a yawn. He squinted through the darkness.

"Huh?" he said. "Everyone alright?"

"It's time," said Host. "I'll cover you."

The words sobered Jim instantly, and he shot out of bed, throwing on his coat. His eyes were wide. "We're under attack?" he breathed, grabbing his keys.

"Not yet," said Host. "We're going before it's too late."

Jim nodded, and he rushed towards the door, hand ghosting over the doorknob. Host glared out the window, searched for anything suspicious, and gave an 'ok' sign.

"Hey," said Wilford, catching their attention. He grabbed two guns from the bed and tossed them towards them. Host caught it behind his back, eye still searching the hotel lot, and Jim cocked it, keys in hand.

Wilford grabbed the last gun and turned towards Dark, holding it out to him. Outside, the car rumbled to life. The businessman's pulse quickened.

"I don't want you getting shot again without a fair fight," teased Wilford, his smirk half-hearted. "Take it."

Host cocked his gun and exited the room. A car door shut outside.

    Dark sucked in a breath, and he reached out, time seeming to slow. The moment he took the gun, finger safely off the trigger like Wil had taught him, the noise around him picked up. It felt like a pact, taking it; a fate finally sealed.

    "C'mon," said Wilford. "We've got a full night ahead of us."

    Dark double-checked his pocket, felt Celine's phone there, and nodded. Together, they rushed out of the hotel room and into the car, peeling away from the parking lot just as a black sedan rounded the corner.

    And followed them.

...

Thank you so much for reading, and have a wonderful day/night!

Love, Vic xoxo