Aww crap. How the hell’d she get up so quickly? Jack gawks at Corva’s arrival. From the corner of his eye, he can see Wheps struggling to pull his gun back out. The last thing Jack needs is for this discussion to split three separate ways. Gotta get a lid on this ’fore I end up with no leverage at all.

Snap decision made, Jack drops to a knee in front of his chair and snags the orphaned rifle. In one smooth motion, he raises the barrel, levels it at Wheps’ head, exhales, and squeezes the trigger.

Pop!

The half-armless merc crumples like an unstrung marionette. A pink mist puffs out the back of his skull. Jack twists to aim at Tretch and whistles up to the ceiling.

Having already sorted out what Jack’s up to, Zeke bounds from the ceiling holding an empty whiskey bottle by its neck. He breaks the back of the bottle as he lands on a ledge near Corva and points the remaining spires of shattered glass at her throat.

“Alright, now you have a pretty easy choice, I’d say.” Jack’s rifle is unwavering as he speaks. “I just bumped your margins even higher. My little twenty percent is barely a dent in your overall take. How’s the deal sound now?” Jack tips his head back toward Zeke and Corva. “Girl’s here. I still got the beads to get you loose. How about we make with the trade and be done? I’ll even comp you a drink. There’s gotta be at least one bottle that ain’t busted yet.”

Silence crawls by. Jack feels the rifle’s weight load his arms and mind as the adrenaline subsides. He’s never gotten used to seeing people get shot in the head. Stabbed, sure. Burned, no problem. Even a mean bludgeoning barely bumps the needle. But a good, clean headshot can mess with Jack for hours. It’s the immediacy and invisibility of it all—way too much like witnessing someone receive the Touch. Of course, it’s been some seven or eight years since the last report that the Touch was used, but it’s hard to shake the image of someone’s soul being forcibly ripped from them. It’s even harder when, like Jack, you’ve seen it happen to a whole town.

“You’ve got a lotta sand, kid, I’ll give ya that.” The heavy thump of Tretch’s voice shocks Jack to the present. “In other circumstances, I might be willing to take you up on your offer. Especially after all this hassle.”

He tips his head over at Wheps and the smudge that was Hot Mess.

“But you’ve got two problems. One: this girl’s worth way too much to me. You can’t have twenty percent of what I’m gettin’. And two: I told you that this was never a negotiation. It was research. Needed to know the girl’s location.”

Tretch nods at Corva. “Hi there.” He returns his attention to Jack. “That was easier than expected. And I also needed time.”

“Time?” A dozen worst-case scenarios play out in Jack’s mind. The barrel of his rifle dips down a bit. “Time for what?”

Tretch sneers and strains his neck to look back toward the wall through which he’d entered the bar. The act briefly exposes the base of his left ear. There’s a green blinking light.

Corva takes a step forward, pressing her neck against Zeke’s broken bottle. “Seu idiota! He’s got a beacon kneak. You didn’t check him when you started?”

“I was outnumbered!” Jack’s hollow retort drops to a mumble as he kicks himself for not seeing it sooner. “’Sides, with a dome that bitty, you hardly see his ears at all.”

Tretch glares at Jack. “Outnumbered is right. The second string just clocked in.”

No sooner does Tretch finish his sentence than two teams of mercs storm into the bar—one through Tretch’s wall entrance and the other through the main doors at the front. Backing up toward Zeke and Corva, Jack does a quick headcount—two teams, each three deep. And each of these mercs are more heavily armed and mean-looking than Tretch’s first crew. This is the second string? What the hell kinda bounty pays for backup like this?

“How many rounds do you have left in that thing?” Corva’s question is assertive, but carries with it a tone that indicates it probably won’t matter anyway.

Jack winces and glances past her to Zeke. The little monkey reads the look in his eyes and lowers the whiskey bottle, dropping his head.

Corva’s eyes widen in disbelief. “What? You didn’t check that, either?”

“Yeah, girlie—Corva, was it? You’re pretty much screwed.” With that, Jack unshoulders the rifle and places it on the ground in front of him. He takes a step back with his hands raised and looks toward Tretch.

“So, how about that drink, big guy?”