Shoot this crazy Cowboy bitch and find Herb and Tequila and go home to your family.

  Focus.

  You can do it.

  Focus.

  Focus…

  Time slowed down.

  Tunnel-vision took over.

  The world became me, and the Cowboy.

  She’s fast.

  But so am I.

  My hand was lightning as I yanked the Taurus from the holster and fired three times, aiming at her center mass, shooting her three times in the chest.

  YURI

  Gone.

  Everything gone.

  The only thing left was rage.

  Yuri lowered his head and charged at the Americans, determined to rip their limbs off of their screaming bodies.

  HERB

  Go high,” Tequila said. “I’ll go low.”

  The Russian came at them, arms wide, and Tequila moved in and punched the huge man in the stomach. Herb wasn’t sure what go high meant, but he took a swing at Yuri’s head. It was like hitting a mailbox. The Russian swatted him aside like Herb was a child, and Herb rolled across the car and barely slid to a stop before falling off the side.

  He looked, as Tequila was doing some insanely fast karate moves, attacking the bigger man with fists and feet like he was a heavy bag at the gym.

  The Russian took the blows, then made a grab for Tequila.

  Tequila ducked inside the grab, working the man’s body, then hitting him with an uppercut that was so hard the Russian staggered back.

  Herb got to his feet.

  “Go high again?” he asked.

  “I’ll go high. Try low this time.”

  Herb went low, and got a size fifteen combat boot to the face.

  The world went blurry and Herb’s knees turned to jelly.

  When he was able to see again, he was on his ass, and Tequila was still throwing, and connecting, punches. But Herb could see that his friend was tiring. The Russian kept taking everything that was thrown at him, and Tequila’s blows were getting weaker and weaker.

  And then it happened. The big man reached for Tequila, and Tequila was too slow to duck away.

  A millisecond later, Tequila was on his back, the Russian on top, strangling him.

  Herb got up to his feet, and began to hammer the man in the face, punching as hard as he could.

  The Russian didn’t let go.

  Herb tried to get behind him, to pull his head back like he’d done with the guards.

  But the Russian was too strong.

  Finally Herb realized there was only one thing left to do.

  “Sorry, Bernice,” he whispered to the winds. “I love you.”

  His own safety be damned, Herb took a running start and body tackled the Russian, knocking him off Tequila, and they both tumbled over the edge of the train car, falling to the unforgiving earth fourteen feet below.

  JACK

  The pain came suddenly. My gun was gone, and my hand was bloody.

  I looked up at the Cowboy.

  She was still standing there.

  Vest. She’s wearing a vest.

  Annie touched her chest. “God DAMN, that hurts. You’re better than I hoped, Jack. That is going to leave a mark for sure.”

  I looked around for the gun, saw it a meter away. I could grab it lefty and—

  Annie shot again, kicking my gun across the ground. Not only was it farther from me, but she’d shot the cylinder out of it. The gun was trashed.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I saved the last two bullets. One for each of your knees. You can brace for it if you want, but it isn’t going to help.”

  Instead of bracing myself, I chose to dive to the left, launching myself into the air, ready to come up in a roll and rush her before she had a chance to reload.

  She fired just as I made my move.

  The first bullet hit my left thigh.

  The second hit my right calf.

  When I tried to come up in a roll, my body wouldn’t obey. I could only get to my knees.

  “How about that, Jack. You made me miss.”

  Annie rubbed her chest again, then fished a bullet out of her pocket.

  “I never need more than six bullets,” she said, holding it up and walking over. “But I keep a spare on me, just in case. And a promise is a promise. Which knee do you want it in?”

  “My friends will come after you,” I told her.

  “After I shoot you, I’ll take care of your friends. We’ll have a big party in my basement. Have you ever smelled your own flesh cook, Jack? It smells exactly like—”

  Gunshot.

  Annie’s hat flew off.

  And she dropped right in front of me, her head spurting blood.

  I looked around, expecting to see Harry, or Chandler, ready to thank them for saving my ass.

  But it wasn’t Harry or Chandler walking up to me with a Kel-Tec SU-16A rifle.

  My Kel-Tec SU-16A rifle.

  “Phin.”

  THE MAN

  The man, Phineas Troutt, slings the rifle and grins. “When we discuss this moment later, remember that you tried to leave me at home.”

  “You followed me,” Jack says.

  “Of course I followed you. I’ve been following you since you left.”

  Realization comes to Jack’s eyes. “You. It was you who shot Chandler.”

  Oops. He’d only met Chandler briefly, but she’s on their side. “That was Chandler? She changed her hair. And she was holding a gun to your neck.”

  “She was losing the fight, so she cheated.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “She’ll live.”

  “Tell her I’m sorry.”

  Jack’s eyes got glassy. “Phin… I know you were in Chicago.”

  “You were tracking my phone?” He nods. “Figured you would. I kept it off most of the time.”

  “I thought… maybe…”

  “Maybe what?”

  “Maybe you’d gone back to Pasha.”

  “Reading my texts, too?” He laughs, and it feels good. “I had a layover at O‘Hare on the way to Omaha. We met for coffee. She gives you her best. You really thought…?”

  Jack nods. She’s crying now.

  “I’m sorry. I should have taken you with me. I’ll never leave you behind again. I swear I’ll never—”

  The shot enters Jack’s back, and comes out of her stomach in an eruption of blood.

  Phin brings up the rifle, fires at the man who is running over as the man shoots back, diving to the side as bullets stitch across his Kevlar. They feel like whacks with a sledgehammer, and Phin lands on his rifle.

  He tries to turn onto his back, and then the man is on top of him, whacking him in the head with the butt of his revolver.

  “Name is Wyatt,” the man says. “You must be Jack’s husband. Heard you’re a bad ass. Don’t look like such a bad ass to me.”

  And then the gun comes down again, and the world winks out.

  HERB

  Something was broken.

  Maybe everything was broken.

  Herb looked around, saw that his arm was all crooked.

  So was a leg.

  The pain hadn’t hit yet, but when it did, he knew it would be bad. Real bad.

  Herb saw movement. To his right.

  The Russian. He was somehow able to stand up.

  And he was coming over.

  Herb tried to sit up, to scoot away, but he knew he wasn’t going anywhere.

  He looked up, expecting to see Tequila sailing through the air, leaping off the land train in a flying tackle.

  But Tequila didn’t appear.

  Then the Russian was towering above him, filling Herb’s vision, lifting up his huge foot over Herb’s head.

  “Mu’dak!”

  Herb lifted an arm to protect himself. Knew it wouldn’t do any good.

  And then he heard it.

  A voice.

  An angelic voice.

  “Hey! Asshole! Don’t you dare stomp on my best friend!”

  That was no angel.

  That was Harry McGlade.

  PHIN

  When the world spins back into focus, Phin’s gun is gone.

  He sees Jack, face down in the dirt, not moving. He can’t tell if she’s breathing or not.

  There’s a sobbing sound. He see the man, Wyatt, cradling the head of the woman Phin had shot.

  “Tom-boy, Tom-boy, don’t be murderdead, girl. Don’t be murderdead. Jerry’s here. Jerry’s here. It’ll all be okeydoke. I promiseswear. I promiseswear.”

  Wyatt has a gun in his holster, and Phin has no idea if he’s reloaded yet. He shot Jack once, and Phin thinks he’s been shot five times.

  There’s a slim chance that Wyatt is out of bullets.

  A slim chance is better than none.

  Head pounding, body aching, Phineas Troutt manages to twist up onto his stomach and get his legs under him, and then he staggers toward Wyatt, picking up speed, and just as the man notices Phin manages to slug him in the face.

  Phin falls to all fours, and Wyatt shakes off the punch, stands, and plants a cowboy boot into Phin’s armpit.

  Phin rolls, the world spinning helter-skelter, his head feeling like it’s about to pop.

  Then Wyatt was aiming another kick at Phin’s head, and Phin manages to get an arm up to block, and then, somehow, gets up on his feet.

  He stares, groggily, at Wyatt, his eyes lowering to the man’s gun holster.

  “Not loaded,” Wyatt says. “Don’t matter. Don’t need it for you.”

  Wyatt puts up his fists, dances forward, bobbing and weaving, and Phin immediately realizes this guy know how to box.

  He covers up, taking four punches on the shoulders, and then Wyatt finds an opening and tags Phin on the chin.

  “Do you even know how to fight, boy?” Wyatt says, landing another one-two combination. “I just killed your wife. Doesn’t that piss you off?” One-two.

  “And I killed your Tom-boy,” Phin says. “Doesn’t that piss you off?”

  Wyatt narrows his eyes. “She was my sister. And my lover. And I’m going to beat the skin right off your body.”

  He comes in fast, throwing a flurry of punches that drop Phin to his knees.

  Jack was right.

  Phin wasn’t fully recovered from Baja.

  He was damn near useless.

  “Come on,” Wyatt says. “Get up. Don’t wuss out on me, bad ass. I’m just getting warmed up.”

  Wyatt feints a punch.

  Phin flinches.

  Wyatt laughs.

  Phin manages to get up on his feet.

  He raises his fists.

  Wyatt easily moves in, clocking Phin on the chin.

  Phin staggers, but stays on his feet. Everything feels wrong. He’s awkward. Can’t find his rhythm. He throws a left, which Wyatt dodges, and then Wyatt feints a right.

  Phin flinches.

  “Look at you, bad ass. You’re scared. And you should be. Because when I’m done beating you, I’m gonna make you watch me lay some pipe in your dead wife.”

  Wyatt feints again.

  Phin flinches.

  And seeing himself flinch, he accepts it.

  Accepts that he’s not one hundred percent.

  Accepts that he might never be.

  But Phin knows two things, for certain.

  I’m tired of being afraid.

  And even if I’m not at my best, I’m still a bad ass.

  Wyatt feints.

  This time Phin doesn’t flinch. He throws a roundhouse, catching Wyatt on the shoulder, and then popping the jab on his chin.

  Wyatt dances away, grinning. “Well, look who showed up. I like that fire in your eyes right now. But don’t get too excited. I’m a Golden Gloves champ. You can’t outbox me.”

  “I know. I’m not going to box you.” Phin tucks his chin down. “I’m going to kill you.”

  He charges.

  Wyatt throws two punches, hitting Phin on both sides of his aching head, but Phin has a target in mind and nothing was going to stop him. He reaches up, going for Wyatt’s neck, grabbing the man’s thick leather necklace and yanking down, hard, while bringing up a knee.

  Wyatt’s face bounces off of Phin’s patella, and Phin throws him, face-first, into the ground. But he doesn’t let go of the leather. He sits on Wyatt’s back like his busting a bronco, the necklace tight in both fists, and chokes the son of a bitch for all he’s worth.

  HERB

  That’s right, you giant sack of shit,” Harry McGlade said. “Step away from Herb, and put your hands over your head.”

  The Russian lowered his foot and raised his hands.

  “Harry?” Herb said. “That’s really you?”

  “It’s me, buddy.”

  “You’re…”

  “I know. I’m a hero.”

  “You’re… enormous.”

  Harry’s fat face became pinched. “Okay, I get it. You’re all broken up. You’re obviously delirious from pain.”

  “It looks like someone stuck a tube up your ass and inflated you.”

  “Herb, be nice. See the camera on my head? We’re streaming live. Ten million people are watching this on YouTube.”

  “You’re too fat to fit on YouTube,” Herb said.

  “Well you’re also… uh… geez, Herb, you lost a lot of weight.”

  “And you found it. You’re like two fat guys, wearing the same blazer.”

  “Words hurt, Herb.”

  “I bet sit-ups hurt, too.”

  Harry tried to cross his arms, but they were too fat. “I can do a sit up.”

  “How do you fit in the gym? Is it in an airplane hangar?”

  “Just because I’ve gain a few pounds shouldn’t make me an object of ridicule.”

  “You’ve got a Fruity Pebble stuck to your chin,” Herb said. “It’s stuck there with jelly. The ridicule is justified.”

  Then everything suddenly and dramatically went very, very wrong. The Russian lunged at McGlade, and Harry shot him five times, but the big man didn’t even slow down, piledriving into Harry, knocking him down, tossing his gun away, and bringing down his huge fists, over and over.

  Herb again tried to move, again failed, and let out a faint cry for help as McGlade was getting beaten to death.

  Help came.

  Just as Herb had expected, Tequila leapt off the land train, sailing through the air, landing on the big man in a flying tackle.

  They rolled across the ground, and Herb was ready to cheer his brother on when he saw the Russian pin Tequila down and resume the choking that Herb had interrupted earlier.

  “McGlade!” Herb bellowed “Get your fat ass up!

  Harry managed to rock up to a sitting position, then crawl at the Russian.

  The big man swatted McGlade away as easily as he’d done with Herb.

  Tequila was being murdered, right in front of them.

  And neither of them could do a damn thing to stop it.

  THE COWBOY

  Annie opens her eyes.

  Sees red.

  It’s blood.

  Her blood.

  Head shot. Came out of nowhere.

  She raises up a hand, feels her scalp. Can’t tell what the damage is, but her vision is blurry.

  Concussion.

  Or worse.

  She scans the area, looking for her own brains, and sees two people struggling.

  Jerry!

  Someone is on top of her brother, strangling him, and Annie tries to get up and the whole world tilts sideways.

  But as it tilts, the Cowboy notices two things.

  Her Ruger Vaquero.

  And the last bullet.

  The Vaquero is within reach, and the Cowboy snatches it up, then stretches for the dropped ammo, winking there in the dirt.

  It’s close.

  So close.

  She reaches further, nudging it with her ring finger.

  Almost… almost…

  And then she feels a stabbing pain as something black attacks her hand.

  Something black. And white.

  Is that… a penguin?

  The penguin pecks her again, then picks up the bullet—her last bullet!—and waddles off as the lights go out of Jerry’s eyes.

  No.

  No!

  White hot rage courses through the Cowboy, and with it comes clarity.

  My derringer.

  In my ankle holster.

  She reaches for it.

  There are two shots.

  One for the guy who killed her Jerry.

  And one for that goddamn penguin.

  HERB

  Harry!” Herb yells. “Do something!”

  Harry looks at Herb. Looks at Tequila and the Russian. Then raises his good hand to his mouth.

  For god’s sake, is he eating something?

  No, McGlade wasn’t eating.

  He was whistling.

  And five seconds later, the biggest dog Herb had ever seen was bounding up to them, barreling into the Russian, and tearing out his throat.

  Then the beast’s gigantic muzzle, dripping with gore, turned on Tequila—

  —and began to lick his face.

  “Good girl, Rosa,” Tequila moaned. “Good girl.”

  That’s the last thing Herb saw before the pain took hold and he blessedly passed out.

  PHIN

  Phin gets off of Wyatt’s dead body, tries to stand, almost falls, and then staggers over to Jack.

  He feels for a pulse.

  It’s there, but faint.

  He looks around, searching for help, and sees movement.

  A penguin.

  And next to it.

  The woman that Jack shot in the head. She’s struggling to reach inside her boot.

  Phin walks over, slaps her hand away, and fishes a gun out of her ankle holster.

  A derringer. Phin opens the breach. Two rounds of .22lr.

  The woman rolls onto her back, reaching up for the weapon, a fake finger falling off.

  “I’m sick of you assholes coming after my family,” Phin says.

  A head shot is risky with a twenty-two. The bullets could deflect off the skull. So Phin reaches down, tears her shirt, and tugs the Velcro off her bulletproof vest.