“Shit!” Jack jumps back, slamming the back of his head unto the underside of the bar. Immediately, he clamps one hand over his own mouth to hold in a scream. The other hand shoots up to the back of his head and tries to rub the sting away. She saw me. Saw us. How’d—

He pauses, suddenly realizing that Zeke is no longer on his shoulder. If he had been, he would’ve hit the bottom of the bar even harder than Jack’s head did. But he isn’t there. He must have jumped clear before she turned their way. Jack scans the area behind the bar and finally spots the little monkey curled in a ball, trembling by the gitfo packs.

Jack frowns, adjusting his grip on Plan B. Ain’t like him to be more spooked than me.

He chances another look through the hole in his bar. Sure, everyone might know he’s there, but that’s no reason to give up the little protection he’s got.

She’s not even looking at him anymore. Her attention is at the front of the room, on Boneless Joe. The big-armed merc is still dragging himself out of the pieces of broken table. There’s a broken piece of something—a chair leg?—sticking all the way through one side of his abdomen. He probably shouldn’t be able to move at all. He stumbles forward, almost falling, but catches himself. The palm of his monstrous right arm slaps the floor and supports the bulk of his weight in a kind of modified three-point stance. His smaller, normal-sized arm flops at his side, completely useless.

There’s a thudding crack as Corva gets the metal bola unwrapped from her arm. The weighted balls settle on the floor, resting in the cracked dent made when they fell. She rubs her wrist; her face still holds that hungry grin.

There’s another pop from the back of the room. This time, though, she’s not fast enough. A new bola flies in. Its wire connects with the back of her neck and the weights spin around, choking off her air flow. She immediately drops to her knees, pulled down from the weight. Her face turns red as she claws at the thin wire wrapped around her throat. There’s almost no sound, just a few week croaking noises as she tries to squeeze air into her lungs.

Jack relaxes and turns around, putting his back to the scene. He lays Plan B across his lap. He’s just got to wait now. No use trying to negotiate for anything. Best to just let them collect their bounty and get out of town. He shakes his head, thinking about the carnage on the other side of the bar. Fixing this mess is going to be stupidly expensive. And these mercs clearly have no interest in compensating him for his trouble. He turns his head to give those gitfo packs a good long look.

Instead of seeing the packs, however, he just sees Zeke. The little monkey is right up in his face. He’s frowning, serious, way different from the trembling ball of fur from mere moments ago. He pushes Plan B toward Jack.

“What? You want me to stick my neck out now?” Jack hisses the words, trying to keep his voice low.

Zeke pushes the shotgun again, nodding his head toward the other side of the bar. His hands go up to his neck, mimicking Corva’s struggle for air.

“Help her? You outta your damned mind? She’s the whole reason the bar—our bar—is a wreck. The old man would never—”

Jack’s head is turned sideways by a smack to his face.

He snaps his head back and stares hard into Zeke’s eyes. Zeke holds steady and glares right back. Jack’s shoulders drop. He knows he’s lost.

“Alright. You’re right. The old man would stick his neck out.” He opens his mouth and works his jaw from side to side. “Fuckin’ hell, Zeke. One of these days I’m gonna figure out how something your size hits so hard.”

Jack sighs, taking hold of Plan B. “I loaded it. May as well use it. ’Course, there’s no guarantee that this’ll shoot right at all. Don’t blame me if nothing works.”

Zeke eyes soften and he puts his paw on Jack’s chest. It’s a reassuring gesture. Not helpful at all, but it’s reassuring all the same.

“You’re welcome.” Jack smiles as Zeke nods and then climbs up to his perch on Jack’s shoulder.

One more deep breath, and Jack springs to his feet, spinning to face the room. Plan B’s stock is nestled against his shoulder, ready. He has to move fast; Corva’s not going to last long with that wire on her throat.

He’s got no idea who’s at the back of the room, so he swings the barrel around, landing his sights on Boneless Joe. Known quantities first. The words echo in his mind. It’s one of the many little catchy expressions the old man would repeat to Jack. With a quick exhale, he pulls the trigger.

Click.

That’s the only sound that comes from Plan B. Nothing else. No boom, no burst of energy, no kick. Nothing.

Jack sees Boneless Joe’s face over the shotgun’s sight, grinning, knowing. Jack’s shoulders drop. “Son of a—”