I want to cry, I honestly want to weep like an inconsolable child who's favourite toy has been chewed to oblivion by the restive family dog; however I continue to work the hacksaw back and forth, committed to the task. This wasn't a decision I made lightly, but every tool should have a purpose. Every item must have reasonably utility. Gone are the days where it makes sense to own something just to own it. Conspicuous consumption is dead.

The saw makes a horrible grating sound as it chews through the carbon steel tube, little bits of metal fall to the garage floor like a robot's wasted tears. Every stroke of the saw is another hundred dollars gone--it's like watching money burn in a furnace. In a few more agonizing strokes the job is done and I have rendered my once gorgeous (not-to-mention expensive) trap gun into what can be best described as the world's most over-engineered coach gun. I also feel like I've just beheaded my best friend. I've become a detestable traitorous son-of-a-bitch it would seem.

Form follows function and it had come to my attention that there was at least one gun in my cabinet that was of little utility anymore. While the 12-gauge pump I had was far more versatile, equally useful for hunting or defensive purposes. Whereas the long-barrelled over/under trap gun with its ornate engraving, exotic wood and exaggerated ventilated rib, was pretty much a one trick pony. Blotting little clay disks from the sky was a leisure pursuit of a bygone era. However, rather than relegate the fine firearm to a depressing lifetime of sitting unused, I decided to desecrate the thing. Chopped down to a more manageable length, it becomes a far more lethal weapon and something that I am so accustomed to handling--having put tens of thousands of rounds through it--it's like an extension of my body. And since we are taking Danny home today, to a place where we are likely as welcome as a case of herpes, I figured I should take my most trustworthy friends along.

"Oh my God, you didn't!" Hartt says walking into the garage.

"Had to." I reply soberly.

"That's awful," he adds, frowning and shaking his head. His consolation is genuine.

"Tell me about it," I reply as I grab a file and de-burr the freshly cut muzzles.

"How much was that thing worth again?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

Just then Jake walks in. "Jesus Christ, you didn't!" he says.

"He did," Hartt replies for me.

"Cruel and unusual Connor, you sick fuck," Jake adds. "Just get a carbine already. No point in chopping up your guns." As expected, I'll get no mushy emotional band-aids from Jake, just salt, lots of salt, for my wounds. He's even kind enough to rub it in for me.

"We ready to roll or what?" I ask, changing the topic.

"Ready when you are."

"Let's get this over with then," I say.

"On your feet Danny Boy," Jakes says walking over to where Danny is sitting quietly, still strapped to a lawn chair. "Yer going home."

Danny wisely keeps his mouth shut and complies with Jake's instructions. We march him out to the TAPV and load him into the back. I take a seat next to Raven and across from Danny. Making a bit of a production of loading the shotgun, for Danny's benefit. I break the action and load one round of buckshot in the top barrel and one load of birdshot in the bottom. Currently the bottom fires first.

"Do anything stupid and you'll quickly regret it," I say, snapping the action shut. Danny looks up briefly, I can tell from the look on his face he understands me completely.

"You sure you don't need my help?" Freya calls to us from atop her horse. "If I'm not going to be scavenging, I might as well make myself useful."

"No!" Raven and I answer in unison.

"I appreciate the offer Freya, but we have enough people for this. Besides, I need someone I can trust watching things back here," I add. Truth is I don't want to risk any more lives than needed, I feel bad enough bringing the current group along, but they all volunteered and are adamant about being part of the operation.

"Okay, take care of Raven then," she advises.

"Sure thing," I reply but it has only just dawning on me that this little endeavour is all on account of me and all these people, even the ones like Jake, are my responsibility. A queasy feeling settles in my gut. Over-caffeinated butterflies on roller skates.

We button up and roll out: Jake, Raven, Hartt and myself will be escorting Danny home. The escort itself being little more than an excuse to gain the audience of whoever is running the show at the Fairview Towers. Heather, who even Jake couldn't persuade to stay home, and a Private Knight from Hartt's platoon, will be pulling vehicle security.

There is nothing at all cloak and dagger about our mission, we will be pulling up within one hundred meters of the Towers, in full view of the lookouts and in broad daylight. No stealth, no misdirection; instead we are going to waltz up to the front door and knock. Perhaps loudly.

There's little talk on the way to the destination, quiet moments, private thoughts and the compulsive checking and rechecking of gear. Too soon the TAPV pulls to a stop, its powerful diesel engine left running, the reassuring rumble tells me it's not too late to turn around and go home. Instead we disembark in the middle of the north-south running street that bisects Grey Harbour, the Towers looming just north of us. The mid-morning Sun seems hotter now for some reason. Hartt takes a moment to glass the positions of the lookouts.

"Well?" I ask.

"Oh they see us alright, lots of movement on the balconies," Hartt informs me before turning to address the Private. "Okay Knight, up on the C6, we come under fire you rake those balconies until you run out of ammo. Neutral posture until things get interesting."

"Yes sir," Knight answers curtly. He mans the turret yanks the charging handle smartly to chamber a round, but avoids anything more provocative for the moment.

"Nice upgrade," I say admiring the pintle mounted machine gun. "TAPV has got some teeth now."

"Was a package deal--Knight and the C6--and I'm supposed to return them both in good working order, if you know what I mean."

"With any luck we will all be in good working order at the end of the day. But I guess that's largely up to Danny here," I say yanking him roughly out of the TAPV. "Turn around," I order.

I run a zip-tie through the vent rib at the muzzle of my shotgun and then through the belt loop at the small of Danny's back.

"Just so you know Danny, if things go pear-shaped, you will be getting an ounce of birdshot through the spine at about 1300 feet per second. It's not gonna tickle. You get me?" I say.

Danny nods solemnly.

Heather gives us a smile and thumbs-up from the driver's seat as we head for the Towers. I can't help but wish we were doing this with a few more people, and by people I mean soldiers.

* * * * *

No one takes a shot at us on our approach and I have to admit I find that a little surprising. We, in fact, walk right up to the front door of the second tower with nothing more than a couple quiet expletives hurled in our direction. Once at the door however, our path is blockaded by a group of armed thugs.

"We need to talk to Dennis," Danny says, speaking to the ranking thug, a lanky man in his late twenties with long, stringy hair pulled back into a pony tail. A silver revolver is tucked into his waistband.

"Not with those weapons you're not," comes his not-completely-unexpected reply. He crosses his arms and looks at us expectantly.

The path leading up to the door is surrounded by rock gardens on both sides, small junipers hug the ground while large rocks stand out alongside their accompaniment of succulents and a smattering of small flowering shrubs. The garden seems curiously well-tended. I just now notice how hot it has gotten and how still and stagnant the air is right here. The Sun beats down on us from behind and I can feel sweat beginning to trickle down my back.

"Let me clarify something," Jake starts in the quiet tone he reserves for situations like this. "Your buddy here made the mistake of shooting my friend's kid with an arrow. Now we have come here, despite my better judgment, to return Danny to you and have a chat with your boss. This is gonna go one of two ways, one way is the bloodless way, where we all get to kick back at the end of the day, have a drink, smoke some pot, get laid--whatever. The other way... well, lets just say the four of you and Danny won't find it preferable."

Jake lets the threat hang in the air for a moment. I tighten my grip on the shotgun, it feels awkward in my left hand, but my right hand is riding precariously close to the pistol on my hip. In my mind I'm visualizing the order in which I'm going to engage my targets if the shit hits the fan. I notice Danny's hand trembling, he knows there's no way he's coming out of this alive. Not sure many of us will, there's no room, no cover and that heat-- why is it so hot? It's going to be like having a gunfight in a sauna.

"You know those Frost fucks tried to force their way in here, didn't go well for them," the thug says.

Jake, whose hands have not left his carbine the entire time, doesn't reply. Instead I hear the SNICK! of his safety selector being disengaged. Likewise, I thumb the barrel selector on the shotgun so that the first shot is now the buckshot loaded top barrel and I adjust the angle of the gun in such a way as to not only eviscerate Danny, but to take out the nearest thug at the same time as the buckshot load will undoubtedly pass straight through his thin mid-section.

"We came here to return Danny and talk," Hartt, the ever-present voice of reason finally speaks up, somewhat to my relief. "We don't want a fight, we're not with Frost and no one needs to die, not here, not today. Considering what you did to the Frost men, you can understand us not wanting to go in unarmed. It's our only guarantee. Take us to your boss, let us talk, maybe we can work something out that benefits all of us."

"Please Carlos," Danny pleads. "Let them see my brother."

"Brother Danny?" I say giving him a little prod with the shotgun. "A small detail you seem to have left out in our previous discussion. Anything else you're holding back?"

"No man, no," he replies. "I've told you everything."

"Shut-up Danny," Carlos tells him. "You've fucked things up bad enough already." Carlos turns to Jake, "stay put, I'll be back."

With that Carlos walks back through the double doors of the foyer and pulls out a radio. I watch him have a brief, but animated discussion with someone. After a few more moment he returns with radio in hand and another four armed men. They now outnumber us two to one.

"We'll take you up," Carlos says and motions to the door.

It's a long, hot hike up fifteen stories via candlelit stairs, I'm drenched in sweat and my legs are protesting when we reach the top floor. My head is starting to ache from dehydration. Carlos leads us to a penthouse apartment where he knocks lightly on the door. A voice on the other side bids him to enter.

We enter into a expensive, but dated looking suite, a fair breeze blows through the open balcony doors the room is easily ten degrees cooler than the stairwell. An unexpectedly handsome man in his mid-twenties is playing darts. He's sporting khaki dress shorts and a royal blue polo shirt and he's walking around in bare feet. Looks like he might head out to golf the back nine at any moment.

"I'm sorry Dennis!" Danny blurts out before anyone else has the chance to say anything.

"We'll deal with that shit later," Dennis replies with a hint of annoyance in his voice. "If you're not gonna kill my brother, how about you let him go. You claim you're here to talk, so let's talk."

Jake looks over to me and nods. Reluctantly, I pull out my multi-tool and snip the zip-tie binding Danny to my gun, followed by the one's around his wrists. Danny walks sheepishly over to his brother, Dennis tells him to take a seat.

"Carlos, get these guys some water," Dennis instructs. "Have a seat guys, if we're not gonna shoot each other, might as well get comfortable."

Dennis has a charisma and maturity that belies his age. He doesn't fit my thug stereotype at all. He clearly a fair bit older than Danny and so utterly unlike that little douchebag it's hard to believe they're related. Where Danny's hair is dark, stringy, long and unkempt, Dennis' light-coloured locks are trimmed and tidy. Dennis is shorter and stocky and he carries himself with an air of confidence.

Once everyone is seated and furnished with bottles of water Dennis turns to Danny. "So just what the fuck were you doing Danny? I don't recall asking you to go shoot someone's kid. Or is this something you just cooked up on your own? Jesus Christ Danny, I swear I'm this close to just kicking you out of here. You can go live in a cardboard fucking box behind the liquor store."

Danny's eyes dart back and forth between me and Dennis, but his mouth remains shut.

"Better speak up Dan, I'm losing my patience."

Danny clearly fears his brother as much as he does me. He stands up, waivers for a moment then approaches Dennis and lowers his head close to his brother's. For some time he speaks in hushed tones and as he does I watch Dennis narrow his eyes. I get the feeling Dennis is getting quite a different story than anything we've heard from Danny so far. This pisses me off to no small degree.

"Are you out of your fucking mind?" Dennis says when Danny finishes. "How fucking stupid are you? And you didn't think, for one second, that maybe you should come to me first? So who was it?"

Danny shrugs and whispers some more.

"Connor is it?" Dennis says, addressing me.

"Yeah."

"On behalf of my idiot brother, and myself, I apologize for any harm that has been done to your son. Honestly, that is not how we do things. Danny does admit that you were the target and that he was approached by someone who offered something we need in exchange for this task. Danny was under the mistaken impression this would put him in my good graces, I assure you that is not the case," Dennis says. The apology rings a bit hollow, I continue to stare back across the room stone-faced.

"Who?" Jake interjects.

"He doesn't know."

"The fuck he doesn't! Doesn't know, or doesn't want to tell?" Jake presses.

"He says he doesn't know, and I believe him and at this point lying isn't going to do him much good. He's as afraid of this other guy as he is of you. He's my little brother and I have to give him the benefit of the doubt and I have to protect him. I am grateful that he has been returned largely unharmed. Again, I am very sorry that his actions have caused harm to your son. I can't say that if the situation was reversed that I wouldn't seek out revenge. But I think we're at a juncture where vengeance is not going to benefit any of us."

I rub my chin before answering. "It wasn't easy, I certainly entertained the thought of killing him, but I need something from you, something I probably couldn't get in exchange for Danny's corpse."

"Fair enough, what is it you need?"

Crossing the floor I pull a crumpled paper from my pocket and hand it to Dennis. He scans the list carefully, folds the paper and pockets it.

"Who is this for?"

"It's for my wife, and anyone else at the hospital who needs it."

"Did Frost put you up to this?"

"Yes, but believe me, I'm not doing this for Frost. I'm just doing what I got to do for the people I care about."

"Aren't we all," Dennis says. "Look, I said I was grateful that you returned my little brother, rather than a corpse. He's a dumb ass, but I love him and he's all I got. As a sign of my gratitude, I will give you half of what is on this list."

"Just half?" I ask.

"I have hundreds of people in these two towers, some are sick, many need medicine from time to time. At least half of them don't trust Frost enough to go to his hospital, and I don't blame them. We have to treat them here."

"If your people raided as many pharmacies as I heard, you have plenty to share."

"Well, I can't speak to the veracity of your sources, nor will I discuss what we do or do not have, all I can say is that you've earned half of this list outright. Perhaps we can discuss some sort of arrangement to net you the other half."

Oh here we go. "And just what might I have to do to get the other half?" I ask, taking the bait hook, line and sinker.

"Fuel and ammunition, let's say a thousand litres and maybe twenty-five hundred rounds or so, Carlos can give you the most sought after calibres. Or even a thousand rounds and that machine gun on your big rig out there."

"That's not for sale," Hartt chimes in.

"Too bad." Dennis says. "Well, what do you say Connor, we have a deal?" Dennis stands up and holds out his hand.

"I suppose we do," I say, shaking his hand reluctantly. "And I have your word, no reprisals, no more violence toward my people?"

"Of course not Connor, no one really wants to fuck with the Harbour Guard after all," Dennis says with a queer half-smile.

"Carlos, get your men to grab half of what is on this list and bring it out to Connor. Throw in a bottle of Johnny Walker from my personal store as a peace offering," he adds with a cool wink.

We head back to the stairs for a hellish, leg burning descent to ground level. No one speaks a word the entire way down.

* * * * *

It's a short cruise back home, the TAPV is loaded up with the goods, or half the goods as it were. The boxes are piled like a partition dividing the occupants in the back. For the most part we accomplished what we set out to do without firing a shot, but in the process I more or less got roped into another unsavory arrangement. Rather than feeling like I scored a victory, I just have an overwhelming sense of exasperation. If Sisyphus was a patron saint, he'd be mine for sure.

Everyone piles out of the TAPV in my driveway, Hartt switches off with Heather.

"Swing by and see what Nell needs," I instruct Hartt. Nell helped me pad the list from Denton with additional items we could use. If I'm going to be cutting shitty deals with shady people, I might as well score something in the process.

I grab the bottle of Johnny Walker and close the TAPV door. I give Hartt a relaxed salut, he fires back a thumbs-up and rolls out the driveway at idle. Handing the bottle to Jake I say, "thanks for the assist today, much appreciated."

"I can't take that," he says.

"I can't drink it, it's got Heath's blood on it," I say.

"Okay, I'll hang onto for you then. Maybe you can give it to Heath when he turns sixteen."

"Nineteen."

"Well, you're the Dad, guess it's up to you. Get some sleep, you look like shit."

"Thanks Jake."

Jake and Heather head out on foot, arm and arm. I watch them for a bit before heading back into the house. Inside is quiet and still to the point of being unsettling. Heath and Merida are both with Ari and having the whole house to myself--something I used to relish--is now closer to torture than bliss.