She takes aim at Jack’s arm, and then hears the groan of shearing metal and turns to see the land train, digging a furrow into the earth, plowing right at her.

  HERB

  The car turned onto its side, but it did it so slowly that Herb and Tequila were able to walk up the wall as it became the floor, Fred Astaire Royal Wedding style.

  The poppy plants didn’t fare as well, uprooting as all of the soil shifted, becoming a rolling, dirt-spewing, mini avalanche.

  Herb and Tequila managed to stay on top of it, and then the car began to scrape sideways along the ground, metal screeching like a wailing child.

  “The door,” Tequila said, pointing up.

  The side door was now on the ceiling, but Herb could see the crack in the frame.

  It was open.

  It was also too high to reach.

  “Start piling up dirt,” Herb said. “We’ll make a hill.”

  The men began piling.

  JACK

  I saw her.

  The Cowboy.

  Running away as the land train continued its slow-motion pile-up.

  Caution and common sense cast aside in my overwhelming concern for Herb, I threw open the door and jumped out of the Crimebago Deux, sprinting after her, the Taurus in my hand.

  She darted through the space between two overturned cars. I followed, stopping fast as I came up to the corner, in case she was waiting to shoot me, cautiously peeking around with my gun ready, trying to spot where she—

  BANG!

  It was like a punch to my fist, my gun spinning to the ground as I instinctively brought up my stinging palm, sure she’d shot me.

  But she’d only shot the gun from my hand.

  It had fallen between my feet, and in the fraction of a second it took to decide between reaching for it and diving for cover, another shot grazed my cheek.

  I raised my hands and stared at her, less than ten meters away.

  “Hello, Jack,” she said, over the grinding of train metal from the ongoing wreck behind us.

  She was getting up from a sniper position, lying on her belly with her gun forward. As soon as she’d run around the side of the train, she must have dropped down to ambush me.

  And in my adrenaline-fueled haste to save my friends, I’d fallen for it.

  “I like you better with the bandana,” I said. “Annie.”

  The Cowboy reached up, and pulled the skull balaclava down. Her face cracked into that lopsided smile.

  “When did you know?” Annie asked.

  “Just a minute ago. You lost one of your fake fingers.”

  She nodded. “I wear them to look normal. Can you imagine? A woman who looks like me, still appealing to vanity.”

  “I said it earlier. It’s the inside that counts. And you are one ugly bitch.”

  Annie assumed a gunfighting stance. “I’ve been dreaming about this moment for a long time, Jack.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got a crush.”

  “Oh, Jack. It’s more than a crush. It’s a hunger, that’s been devouring me for more than fifteen years.”

  Gunfire. On the other side of the train. Chandler and McGlade, storming the castle.

  “Can I ask why?” I asked, trying to buy some time.

  “You and Harry, you took something from me.”

  This. This was the reason I faked my own death. Because there was always one more lunatic, with some perceived grudge, trying to harm me for something I did on the job.

  If I had the chance to do it all over, I wouldn’t have ever become a cop.

  “Did Harry and I kill one of your little psycho friends, Annie?”

  She laughed. “No, Jack. You did the opposite.”

  And then she proceeded to tell me exactly what I did.

  SIXTEEN YEARS AGO

  ANNIE

  It had taken months of false starts, dead-ends, and useless bribes to finally get an invitation to Usher House.

  To say Annie was excited was an understatement.

  Up until that point, murder had been a carefully planned, methodical, worrisome thing. You had to constantly be aware of evidence, witnesses, alibis, police; it was enough to make a girl consider a less stressful hobby.

  But Usher House, an urban legend that was actually real, was an all-inclusive club for those with Annie’s particular tastes. For a price, she could kill without even the slightest concern. No mess. No fuss. No repercussions.

  It would be the best vacation ever.

  The invitation came via an unmarked, hand-delivered envelope. Typed using some kind of special ink that began to disappear the moment it was exposed to light. But Annie memorized the time and place, along with the password, and the next day she was on a plane, anxious to fulfill some dark, bloody fantasies.

  To say it exceeded her wildest expectations was an understatement. The event coordinator kindly gave her a tour of the facilities, and offered custom scenarios for clients with special requests.

  Annie could torture a person of her choice, choosing by race, gender, and age, in a practically endless variety of wonderful ways.

  She could hunt humans in a wide selection of exciting environments.

  There were portions of the house devoted to rape and genital mutilation, and to the production of snuff films, and to gambling, betting on two people fighting to the death.

  Annie spent far too much money, indulging in one atrocity after another, a glutton for it. After a lifetime of being careful not to get a speck of blood on her, she was finally able to bathe in it.

  She also met a lot of interesting people. Well known politicians and media celebrities, buying sex slaves. Rich oil sheiks, shopping for transplant organs. And others like herself, who roamed the world, looking for prey.

  Annie was on the Usher House firing range, counting how many .22lr bullets she could put in a screaming man before he died, when she met the Korks.

  A brother and sister serial killer team. Charles was dark. Handsome. Mysterious. His sister, Alex, was poised and statuesque, and a ridiculously good shot.

  “What a lovely game,” Alex said. “Did you make it up?”

  Annie nodded. “My record is two hundred and eight. You have to avoid all the vitals, but eventually the blood loss gets them.”

  “Can we play with you?”

  It was always more fun to play with others, so naturally, Annie said yes.

  After a day of playing and drinking and eating together, the blossoming friendship turned into a competition. They had the concierge create a device that restrained a target’s hand, so Annie and Alex could take turns shooting off fingers. There were moving targets, victims tethered by a wire going through their chin.

  The best event, the one that brought them both to tears with laughter, was called the Toddler Run.

  Alex considered herself the better markswoman. Annie disagreed. They competed on the range, over and over, neither the clear victor, until the rivalry became less fun and more heated.

  The last night of her stay, when Annie was ahead by more than ten points, she decided to call it quits and go to bed.

  Alex was gracious in her defeat, paying off her debt, ending the evening with a long hug and a promise they’d get together soon.

  It was sooner than Annie expected. That night, while she slept, the Korks broke into Annie’s room.

  They subdued her and brought her to a private part of the dungeon. Chained her up. And began to do all of the horrible things Annie had been doing to others over the past week.

  The torture went on for days.

  Annie went insane. Several times.

  And when she was begging for death, pleading for it to finally be over, the Korks, who had been teasing that they’d let her go after ‘just one more thing’, actually let her go.

  “We like you,” Alex told her. “You’re tough. But we can’t have you coming after us with your little six gun.”

  So they took four of her fingers.

  The owners of Usher House apologized profusely once they found out what happened. They also graciously got her medical attention.

  It took Annie over a year to heal. During that time, she lapsed into drug addiction. To fight the pain. And the nightmares.

  First came prescription opioids. Then harder things.

  Cocaine. Bath salts. Meth.

  Annie loved meth. It made her feel strong, even as it ate away the few teeth Alex and Charles had left her with. She smoked it and snorted it and even shot it into her veins, week after week, month after month. A pathetic, drug-fueled death seemed inevitable.

  Wyatt was the one who rescued her.

  Forced her into rehab.

  Forced a gun back into her useless hands.

  With her brother’s help, and love, she slowly recovered.

  It took her another year to learn how to draw and shoot with only two fingers and a thumb on each hand.

  Annie had the purest motivation ever.

  She thirsted to pay the Korks back. In kind.

  After a lifetime of mostly motiveless murder, Annie finally had a reason. A cause.

  In a way, the Korks had done her a perverse favor. Rather than aimlessly picking victims, sleepwalking through the murder life, they’d given Annie a purpose.

  There had always been something missing from killing. Something that Annie had to supplement with rodeo, and Cowboy Action Shooting, and Gunslinger Showdown.

  The Korks had taught Annie that serial killers need goals, too.

  And the Cowboy was born.

  But Annie’s thoughts of vengeance were shattered when that asshole, Harry McGlade, took Charles Kork away from her.

  Then, years later, Jack Daniels took Alex.

  All of the training. The fantasies. The ache for vengeance.

  Gone.

  And the hatred that burned inside Annie didn’t just go away. It was too strong. Too raw.

  So she transferred her hatred to two new targets.

  The two who robbed Annie of her biggest, most important goal.

  Jack Daniels and Harry McGlade.

  They were going to suffer. And they were going to die.

  And The Cowboy was going to make sure the whole world bore witness to their long and messy deaths.

  HERB

  I hear gunfire,” Herb said, stating the obvious.

  “Keep going,” Tequila said.

  They got the mound of dirt and poppies up to shoulder level, and then carefully climbed to the top.

  “Can you boost me?” Tequila asked.

  Herb locked his fingers together, lifted Tequila’s foot, and heaved hard.

  Tequila missed the crack in the door by a few inches, then fell on top of Herb and rolled down the mound.

  “We need more dirt,” Herb said.

  Tequila shook his head. “Won’t work. To make the top higher, we have to make the base wider. We don’t have enough. Let’s try again.”

  He climbed up the mound, placed a foot in Herb’s hands, and his hands on Herb’s shoulders.

  “I know you’re tired, Herb. We can actually get out of here. Get home. What’s the one thing you want most of all?”

  Herb didn’t hesitate, his wife’s lovely face instantly popping into his head.

  “Bernice. I want to see Bernice.”

  “Then do this for your wife. C’mon. Throw me.”

  Herb closed his eyes, bracing himself, picturing a reunion with the woman he loved, and Tequila shouted. “Now!” and Herb put everything he had into the throw.

  Tequila went up—

  —and didn’t come down.

  Somehow, his friend had gotten his hand in the door, and he hung there with one hand, while the other slid the door back just enough to chin up through the opening and get a leg over.

  Herb had never done a chin-up in his life. But Tequila was a one-time Olympic gymnast, and apparently age, captivity, and injuries weren’t enough to keep the diminutive man down.

  Herb waited, staring at the door, for Tequila to stick down his hand and help Herb up.

  He waited.

  And he waited.

  “Tequila?” he called.

  Tequila didn’t answer.

  JACK

  That was one seriously effed-up story.

  “I was so upset when I thought you were dead,” the Cowboy continued. “I almost started doing meth again.”

  “Thank goodness for your self-control,” I deadpanned. Jack Daniels, snark under stress.

  “Self-control? When I first saw you, earlier today, I was almost star-struck. Do you know the self-control it took, not to shoot you right then?”

  “Why didn’t you?” Where the hell were Chandler and Harry? I kept hearing gunshots, but they were nowhere to be seen.

  “You were both armed. Both had your guards up. It was safer to wait until you were asleep.” Annie got a faraway look in her eyes. “People are so vulnerable when they’re asleep.”

  “You should thank me,” I said. “When I took care of Alex, I did you a favor.”

  “I intend on thanking you. And I’m going to thank you, again and again, over and over, for days and days. You think I have a lot of scars? You won’t even be recognizable as human when I’m done with you. Now pick up your gun. Slowly. And holster it. I’ve heard about your skills with a firearm, Jack. We’re going to have ourselves a classic Western stand-off. And I’ll even give you an advantage.”

  “And what’s that?”

  The Cowboy smiled. “I’ll let you use all five fingers.”

  HERB

  Did you think I left?” Tequila asked, peeking his head down.

  “Not for a second,” Herb lied. “What were you doing?”

  “Taking off my pants.”

  “Of course you were.”

  Tequila lowered said pants into the car, low enough for Herb to jump and grab them. Then, hand over hand, Tequila began to pull him up.

  “I can’t hold on,” Herb said, his grip slipping.

  “Hold on.”

  “I’m not as strong as you are.”

  “Do it for Bernice,” Tequila grunted.

  Inch by inch, Herb got closer to the opening. But it might as well have been a mile high. He was too exhausted. Too weak. Every muscle fiber in Herb’s body was vibrating with pain, ready to let go, and then he passed his endurance limit and his hands released the pants and he began to fall and it didn’t matter how many times he tried this there was no way it was ever going to work and—

  —Tequila caught him by his collar.

  “We need to have a talk about improving your upper body strength,” Tequila said, hauling him up out the door.

  The men sat there for a moment, both of them breathing heavy, and Tequila put his pants back on.

  “We still have the same problem,” Herb said. “We have no place to go.”

  “Yeah we do.”

  Tequila pointed.

  And Herb saw the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Parked in the distance.

  The Crimebago Deux.

  It hadn’t been some messed-up hallucination. Harry McGlade was actually here.

  Also surrounding the crumbled land train, prisoners were running free, and guards were kneeling with their hands in the air as Harry with an AR-15, and some redhead packing two semi-automatics, rounded them all up.

  “Over here!” Herb shouted, a burst of happiness threatening to make his heart pop.

  And then he felt it. The car he was on shook with an impact, accompanied by a CLANG.

  Herb turned and saw the man who had jumped from the connecting car to this one.

  It was that huge Russian guy. All two hundred and eighty pounds of him.

  And the man looked seriously pissed.

  THE COWBOY

  This is it.

  The culmination of a third of her life.

  Distilled to this one moment.

  Gunslinger Showdown. High Noon.

  For real.

  With Jack Daniels.

  “Here’s what’s going to happen,” the Cowboy tells her. “I’ve never needed more than six bullets. I have four left. With you, I only need three. With one, I’m going to shoot the gun out of your hand again. Then I’m going to shoot both of your knees. Are you ready?”

  Jack doesn’t answer. She looks scared.

  “Wyatt and I have a room, all prepared for you, Jack. In our basement. Welcome to the beginning of your hell.”

  She slowly holsters her Vaquero.

  The anticipation is electric.

  “Your move,” the Cowboy says.

  HERB

  Can you jump over the side?” Tequila said as Yuri approached.

  The drop is at least fourteen feet. That didn’t sound like much, but people have died falling off roofs a lot lower than that.

  “I’ll break something,” Herb said.

  “Go back into the car. Jump on the dirt pile.”

  Herb looked down. “I’m not going back in there.”

  “Then we only have one option left,” Tequila said, putting up his fists. “We fight.”

  Herb stood next to his friend, his brother, and raised his fists as well.

  JACK

  I’d been in a quick draw situation before.

  I’d lost.

  To say I was terrified was an understatement.

  I didn’t know how good Annie actually was, but if she’d beaten Alex Kork, she was better than me.

  Push away the negative thoughts, Jack.

  Focus.

  I thought about Herb. I’d come here to save him and Tequila, and I would never know if they were freed.

  Come on. Get in the zone.

  I thought about Samantha. She’d grow up without a mother, exactly as I feared.

  Concentrate on the draw. On the shot.

  Tune out everything else.

  I thought about Phin. How I’d never get the chance to apologize.

  You’ll have the chance to apologize, you idiot.

  Just win.