The SUV was a twisted wreck. Glass scattered across the pavement. Steam hissed from the mangled engine block. The air stank of burnt rubber and leaking fuel. John approached the passenger side, boots slow, steady. Gaz covered him from the left, rifle raised. The shooter inside groaned, pinned between the collapsed roof and the door frame. His right leg was bent at an unnatural angle—but he was alive.

He yanked the door open with a sharp grunt. The man flinched, but his eyes sharpened when he saw who stood over him.

"You know who I am," John said, his tone was full of devoid. No hint of mercy or pity.

The man spat blood to the side.

"Yeah, sure," the man said arrogantly.

John grabbed him by the collar, dragging him halfway out of the wreckage. The shooter hissed in pain but didn't fight.

"You're going to tell me who sent you," John demand, his grip tightened. "And if you lie, I'll know."

The man grinned through cracked teeth. "You wouldn't kill me. You want answers."

Gaz stepped closer, watching carefully, silent as a shadow.

"I don't need to kill you," John said, voice like gravel. "But I can make you wish I would."

The shooter's grin didn't falter, and when John threw him on the ground. He groaned in pain before John lifted his gun and leveled it at the shooter's thigh—and fired.

CRACK.

The man's scream ripped through the air. His leg jerked violently, blood pooling fast.

John crouched, grabbed him by the jaw, forcing their eyes to lock.

"Name. Who sent you."

The man gasped through gritted teeth, sweat rolling down his temples. "Fuck you!"

John drove the barrel of the gun against the shooter's already shattered kneecap.

"Try again."

The shooter squirmed, breath ragged. His bravado was crumbling—but still holding.

"You're bluffing—" he panted.

But John pressed down on the leg, boot grinding into the fresh gunshot wound. The man howled, almost in tears.

"Talk," John growled, eyes dark as pitch. "Or you won't walk out of here."

Finally, the shooter broke.

"Michael!" His voice cracked. "It was Michael Harkin."

"Why."

He already knew, but it was a need for confirmation.

"He wants you dead. That was what he wanted. Kill you first." The man's eyes flicked upward, fear finally creeping in. "Then grab the girl. He didn't tell me what for. Maybe use her!"

His blood ran cold.

Use her. Leverage.

The world narrowed to a sharp, burning point.

"You tell Harkin something for me," John said, voice low, controlled—but seething beneath the surface.

The shooter swallowed. "W-what?"

John slammed his boot down on the ruined leg, snapping bone. In response, the man screamed again, thrashing weakly.

Gaz observed silently, not intervening. His expression was serious, lips pressed together. With his rifle in hand, he remained vigilant.

John crouched down once more. Leaning in, his tone was chillingly calm as he spoke. "You let him know that if he sends his men after my girl again..." he seized the shooter by the collar, pulling him to his feet. "I'll kill him. And everyone else he hides behind. This was his last warning."

Without another word, John slammed the man's head back into the side of the wrecked SUV.

The shooter went limp.

Unconscious.

Gaz exhaled. "He's not gonna stop, is he?"

John stood slowly, breath sharp through his nose. His entire body was tight, coiled like a predator barely holding back.

"They came for me."

"I know, and he wants you dead."

John concealed the sidearm and looked at Gaz, almost smiling—but there was no warmth in it. "Well, if he's desperate enough to try this again. He'll find out just how bad he's miscalculated."

Gaz nodded, but his eyes didn't leave his face. He could see that look.

He knew there was a line between the man and the weapon. And, so far, he noticed that this line was beginning to blur in John, especially as his protective instincts began to take over.