Jack pulls himself up and clambers to his feet. Bits of dirt and little pieces of broken glass stick to his chest and arms. The air is thick and he’s covered in sweat and wasted alcohol. None of this is going to brush off easily.

There’s a low whistle from the front door. Harris slings his air cannon to his back and swaggers up to the bar. For a guy his size, he gracefully manages the minor gymnastics to step over—and not on or through—the litter of various bodies and limbs. “You’ve got yourself a merry little mess here, Jackie.”

“Good to know your eyes still work, Hairless.”

Harris pauses while picking up an overturned barstool. He turns his head and snorts in disgust. Jack resists smiling. It’s almost too easy to get a rise out of the balding chief of Bule’s militia. Harris is quick to regain his composure, though. He rights the stool, but doesn’t sit on it. “While I’m being so observant, your bird cage is showing. Again.”

Jack looks down at his shirtless chest, wet and dirty. He is rather scrawny. The only notable definition in his upper body comes from his ribs. That’s not necessarily a disadvantage, though. He lifts his face back to Harris. “Stupid mercs always grab at the collar. Never think a small guy can slip out.”

Under the bar is a stack of rags Jack normally uses for drying glasses. He reaches down and grabs one. It does a slightly better job clearing the mess from his body than just using his bare hands. “You happen to see where my shirt went when you hit him with that cannon of yours?”

“Nope.”

The silence after Harris’s answer is as awkward as it is intentional. Asshole. Jack tilts his head to the gaping hole in his wall where the guards in Harris’s militia chased after Tretch and Boneless Joe. “Took your goon squad long enough to get here.”

“Could’ve been here sooner if you’d use the kneak we gave you months ago.” Harris strolls around the barroom, nudging bodies and weapons with his boot. “I wouldn’t need to try to speak Monkey.”

That’s where Zeke went? Thanks for the vote of confidence. Jack tries to hide his look of disappointment before Harris notices. “Zeke had to go and get you? The sound of that damn explosion wasn’t enough to scramble your asses together?”

Harris raises an eyebrow, smirking. “Couldn’t be sure. Crazy stuff happens in bars all the time. You let us tap in with our surveillance kneak we gave you and we’d be able to respond faster.”

“Bullshit. The old man said no when he was around. I’m gonna say no. Customers here don’t need no extra eyes on ’em. I pay the dues just like everyone else on this wall. Least you could do is offer my place the same protection.”

“Jackie—”

“It’s Jack, Hairless.”

Harris stops kicking around the bar and focuses his attention on Jack. “Right. Jack. Old Man Vardin was from a different time. Let the old ways pass with that old man. You know how important it is to have a good, functioning bar in a burg like ours. It’s a necessary destination in a gray haven. Just like the Red Light.”

“Yeah. And Maddy Shard don’t use your damn peekaboo kneaks, either. Try again.”

“She’s also got her own security detail. You’ve got an antique shotgun.”

Jack looks away. The burly balding bastard has a point. The bar has never had good on-site security. Since so much business happens at the bar, mercs are usually pretty good about keeping themselves in line. Crowd control gadgets like the sonic paralyzers were for dealing with the few occasions where troublemakers got out of control. They did a reasonably decent job, though the paralyzers were supposed to be an improvement on the previous gadgets.

No doubt, though, incidents of merc stupidity have been up since the old man died.

Harris continues, “Look, Jack. You’re a smart kid—a smart guy. We want you to be successful with this place. But if it ever gets to be too much for you, we—”

The entire surface of Jack’s face instantly feels hot. “You sunnuvabitch. Don’tchu fuckin’ threaten me. You ain’t gettin’ my bar. I don’t care how much you delay bringing out the goon squad when shit goes down. It ain’t happening.”

A groan sounds from the wall behind Harris. He spins around, unslinging his air cannon and aiming it in a single fluid motion. It doesn’t take more than a second and the balding militia chief is ready to pull the trigger.

The problem, though, is that the groan is coming from Corva.

“No!”

Without thinking, Jack vaults over the bar and reaches Harris with just enough time to push down on the back of the air cannon. The barrel swings up as Harris pulls the trigger, sending a blast of air up at the bar’s ceiling, safely clear of Corva. The recoil from the cannon, however, sends Jack’s hands straight back into him. He’s not sure what hurts worse, the instantly swelling welt on his cheek, or the humiliation at the fact that he’s just punched himself in the face.

He trips backward, flopping across a pair of dead bodies.

Harris turns his head back toward Jack. “What the world was that all about? Seriously, that could’ve messed you up in a bad way.”

Jack takes a moment to look at Harris and then look over at Corva, still lying against the wall. Still unconscious. Still alive.

“She’s—”

He pauses, clearing his throat, and starts again.

“That’s my new security detail. Just hired her today.”