Twila had made her way to the west study in almost complete silence. Few of those on this side of the manor were known to her by more than simple name and reputation; the ones she was more familiar with barely acknowledged with a smile, nod, wave, or combination of the three. She returned what was given, but kept along the straight passage in search of the study.

It was hard to think this place had been built as more a museum than a manor. Or at least, that had been the promised intent. But clearly the Bluebood family hadn’t changed too much to deliver its current head. On this end, the floor was polished wood paneling--ebony, no less. A fine marble carving, some historical busts and other modern art, or a large oil painting decorated the hallway every five feet or so.

Twila shook her head. Even the royal palace in Camelot wasn’t this ostentatious.

After a couple minutes, she noticed a small stream of people heading the same way as she. She found the study at the very end of the hallway, on the far side of the building. Oversized double doors stood open, an attendant in fine livery on either side welcoming guests, giving them a small envelope that Twila assumed carried the promised hundred dollars.

She approached the doors herself, the attendant bowing when he noticed her. “Miss Shields, welcome!” he said cheerfully, smiling wide. Holding out an envelope, he said, “Please take this. Inside you’ll find a starter bet of one hundred dollars, as well as instructions. Play responsibly, and have fun!”

She gave him a weak smile back, taking the envelope. She tore it open as she entered, taking in her surroundings. Her eyes goggled. He calls this a study?!

The room could’ve fit nearly the entirety of her library home, with probably a good bit to spare. Offhand, she counted at least a dozen tables, all with rich socialites playing and betting around them. Nearest her were two dicing tables--a thickset Somani man was holding his hand out to a woman next to him; she blew on the dice and he threw, leading to cheering from around the table as he gave a loud bellow of success, even going so far as to pound his chest. Beyond that were a pair of roulette tables. Then the card tables--Twila saw it was evenly split between poker and blackjack, at the far end.

She’d never been to a casino in her life, but her father had enjoyed blackjack. Fond memories of playing with him--though never winning--came back to her as she made her way to the farthest, and emptiest, table. Before sitting, she emptied out the envelope--two twenties, four tens, three fives, and five ones made for the promised hundred. There was also a typewritten letter, which read:

Welcome, guest, to our evening’s games of chance. There are various ways to sate your appetite for a little risk and much reward.

She skimmed on down to the section about the blackjack tables.

The rules are simple, but a little different from standard casino blackjack--all players play against one another as well as the house until one player remains, then that player must win against the house to take home their own winnings. Betting on another player’s box, but losing on your own, means you forfeit your winnings to the other player. All house proceeds will be donated to various state-ran charities. Each player may, in addition to their entrance gift, add in up to thirty thousand dollars of their own funds.

All are welcome to join at any or all of our fair and expertly ran tables. Good luck and play responsibly.

Twila would eat her--well, she didn’t own a hat, but she’d buy one and eat it if any of the house’s winnings went to any ‘charity’ but the “Bail Blueblood’s Butt’ fund. She chuckled to herself.

“Hey, Drake, listen to this,” she said quietly.

There was no response. She gave it a minute, then said, with a little urgency, “Drake, you copy?” Still nothing.

Her heart skipped a beat before she berated herself. Calm down, girl, she said, breathing slowly. Spike’s fine. He’s probably just busy helping Jack and Dash.

That brought with it its own set of worries, so before she could focus too much, she sat down at the table, throwing the money down. “Deal me in,” she said quickly, sterner than she meant. The others at the table gave her a look. Blushing, she said, much more weakly, “Uh, please?”

The dealer said, “New players can join after the conclusion of the current hand.” He pointed and waved with a hand, which brought over an attendant who took Twila’s money and gave her a hundred dollars worth chips in fives. “Now, next bet.”

Sinking into her chair, embarrassed, Twila watched the hand play out. When she had been just a girl, she had thought her father some sort of magician in the way he never seemed to lose. Finally, she had asked him to share his secret. Laughing, he’d said it was no real secret. Just practice and a careful eye.

“And the most important trait of all,” he’d stated simply.

“What? What is it?” she’d asked, sitting on the edge of her chair, enraptured.

“This right here,” he said, poking her on the forehead. “Use this well and there’s little you can’t do, Twila.”

After that, their games had been much closer. Card counting was simply a matter of observation and organization, two things Twila could handle in her sleep. But she’d only ever done it for fun, not profit. Her father had never mentioned if it was frowned upon or, worse, illegal.

Still, stealing money from Blueblood was hardly anything to trouble her at this point. Better she get it than him, after all.

The hand ended, and the dealer switched to a new deck. “New player deal in,” he declared, watching the initial bets. Twila led on her own box, betting behind on two others. No one bet behind her own. She led with two chips on her own and one on the other pair, knowing she’d need time to pick up a proper count.

The cards were dealt, the players’ face-up and the dealer showing an Ace. “Call for insurance bet,” said the dealer. Showing a two and a nine, Twila took a quick look at the other hands. Five others were playing, and they showed seven tens altogether. Roughly figuring the odds the dealer had blackjack as over fifty percent, she pushed out another five chip to the insurance line. Two others followed.

Twila was last to call for cards, and she watched as three players busted, one stood at twenty and the last at a hard eighteen. For herself, she called for a hit, taking a five. Deciding it didn’t matter either way, she asked for another--another five, for twenty-one.

The dealer flipped his hole-card, showing a queen, a ten, for blackjack. “Dealer blackjacks, insurance pays. Twenty-one pushes.”

There was some light applause as the dealer settled the bets, leaving Twila’s initial bet standing and paying out the two-to-one on the insurance.

It went much the same for a dozen hands or so, with Twila gaining a small edge on her bets. Three of her fellow players had either busted or left the table, leaving just her, two others, and a deck full on to her advantage. At last, she pushed harder, upping the wages and the winnings accordingly. Before long, she had tripled her initial hundred as the deck ran through, ready for a reshuffle and resetting the count.

Twila stopped keeping track of time; she only had eyes for the count. The number of players at her table varied, floating around two others most times. But as she won more and more, allowing her larger and larger bets, her table started getting a crowd of onlookers. That was OK for Twila, though, since it meant those already there--their pride pricked by their losses--pulled out their own funds to supplement their game.

And Twila’s winnings.

The dealer, though not professionally trained, had noticed Twila’s counting and added in decks to try and slow her down. They were now at seven. Really, this only helped Twila in the long run as she could keep her count going much longer.

She felt a little bad, in some ways. Though it was better she get the funds than Blueblood, she was still directly taking from the other players. Then she remembered that, for most of them, what they were playing for was rather trivial.

A few hours later, Twila took winnings on both hands with split eights, and the last other player busted against the dealer. She was preparing for her winning hand against the dealer, when another player sat across from her, throwing down his hundred and adding in a much larger sum to supplement it.

“Mind if I join in?” he asked Twila. She looked him over. He was much younger than most of the players here--her age, or somewhere near it, she judged. Though she was no expert, Twila marked that his suit wasn’t of any particular designer. It was decently cut, though looked a little worn on the edges. He wore it a bit untidily; in fact, it didn’t really seem to suit him well at all.

Not that he was unattractive, Twila noticed. He had somewhat tall features, but well built without being too hard or angular. His slate blue hair was shaggy and unkempt and framed his light brown, bespectacled eyes nicely. It was kept kind of long for a boy, she thought, he had let it thicken and puff out into outward curls that gathered around the bottom of his ears and neck. It looked so soft and fluffy, like fine wool--no, more like cotton balls. Twila had a strong urge to touch it, or even bat at some of the stray curls.

She blinked. Where had that come from? Had she really just wanted to bat at some boy’s hair?

Twila had never really met or seen a boy who was so enjoyable to look at, but surely this was ridiculous. Curiosities and wonderings pushed themselves forward, wanting to be satisfied on this out-of-place newcomer.

He frowned at her and prepared to say something, but she hurriedly said, “S-sure, you can do whatever you want.”

He gave an amused chuckle. “Thanks, good luck.”

“Y-you, too,” she mumbled, looking at the cards the dealer had thrown out. Her heart sank as she realized she had completely lost the count. Not a problem, Twila, just play safe until you get it again, she thought. She looked at the newcomer; he was still smiling. Her cheeks warmed and she smiled back before she realized what she was doing. Get a grip! Focus on the cards, not the cute guy.

The hand played, with both Twila and the newcomer pushing twenty-one. The next few hands were slow, casual, with both players betting small, testing the other. He busted a hand, Twila two. But she was beginning to get her count back, allowing her to play and bet more aggressively.

To her aggravation, he did as well.

He shocked her by speaking up. “Y’know, I’ve been around a few casinos, met many types of players. But few of them play so wildly, so quickly. You must be confident.”

Her eyebrow rose. “No more confident than you, it seems.”

“Dealer busts, hand wins with nineteen, hand wins with seventeen,” the dealer said, doling out the winnings.

Twila grinned, giving him a ‘See that?’ look. He only laughed, stacking his chips and placing his next bet.

Irritated at his cheer, Twila placed her own bet--then realized her count was gone again. She paused, shocked at her carelessness.

“Something the matter, Miss Shields?” the other player asked, smiling.

Yeah, I can’t wipe that stupid grin off your face, she thought. That made her pause. Well, that was ridiculous of her. To get so worked up, even though she had done it to herself. She tried to calm down, asking, “So, you know me?”

“Only by reputation,” he said, raising a hand casually. “Few people, especially in my circles, wouldn’t recognize the Queen’s beloved protege, Twila Shields.” He paused, then added, “Alaurd’s speech didn’t hurt either, of course.” He laughed again.

Her gaze narrowed slightly at the mention of Alaurd. “Oh? And you and Sir Blueblood are friends, are you?”

That finally got him to frown. Twila decided she didn’t particularly enjoy it, though it was an active, thoughtful frown, betraying the workings of the mind behind it. “Friends would be too strong a word. We simply run in some of the same circles. Young men, alike of mind and temperament--er, most of us at least--gathered to discuss and plan and dream.”

Focusing again on the cards, to herself, Twila mumbled, “Yeah, right. I’ll believe that of Blueblood when Dash stops swearing in public.”

But he apparently had been listening carefully, because he laughed again and said, “So it is true that your friend just says what she likes, no matter what? And here I thought that was a pitiful rumor started by Alaurd.”

She glared. “My friends aren’t a laughing matter, Mr....Mr....” She let out a frustrated sound. “Who the heck even are you?” The dealer looked impatient, so she threw out a bet, not giving much thought to her cards.

He put on a look of mock surprise, then gave a bow of his head. “How rude of me, apologies. I’m Nate--er, rather, Nathaniel Worthington. Third son of Masting Worthington, heir apparent to the house.” He held up a hand in a hitchhiking gesture, with a thumb pointed behind him. “Plus babysitter.”

Twila tilted her head just a bit to see who he was gesturing to. There was a man standing there she hadn’t noticed. She could see why: he was fairly nondescript, with plain, simple features. He was dressed in a simple black suit and, oddly, held a cane in his left hand. Despite his simple, average looks, he seemed so familiar...

“That wasn’t particularly funny the first dozen times, sir,” the man said flatly, almost sarcastically. Had she heard a voice like that before?

Nate laughed. “He’s such a grouchy fellow, don’t mind him.”

“Uh...OK,” was all she could find to say.

“Really, he’s not so bad, hanger on that he is. My father’s just so paranoid anymore. Doesn’t want to lose the last boy to terrorists like the Masks. As if they’d go after someone like me.”

“Sir, you’re well aware that if you were kidnapped, you could easily be used to bleed your family fortunes dry. Nice play, by the way,” said the man.

Twila had been focused so much on him--she’d never seen or heard of a bodyguard acting like that with his employer--she hadn’t really paid much attention to her play, letting her hands do it more or less automatically for her. She had stopped at a soft eighteen and lost her bet for it.

“Thank you, but I think you’re distracting our lovely competition.” Nate turned a bit more serious, losing his smile again. “Seriously, it’s not that big of a deal. Poor guy used to be a police sniper, but took a bad wound to the knee and now has to settle for being a bodyguard. So he’s kind of trained to be all serious and intimidating. He’s not gonna frisk you or anything, Miss Shields.” His frown deepened. “You don’t need to look so spooked, yeah?”

She hadn’t realized her expression had changed. But now she recognized the man, quite clearly. Memories of relief cut down by an obvious but unexpected obstacle came flooding back. All of them, masked and with bloodied hands, at the home stretch to escape. Stopped by a lone sniper. They’d gotten past it thanks to Dash’s vicious surprise attack and Chylene’s buried, borderline psychotic side taking control of a situation that seemingly had none.

A lone sniper they’d shot, twice in the kneecap, but left alive. Who would remember the women who left him amongst his slaughtered comrades, who could identify and alert the authorities and have them all arrested, ruining everything.

“Miss Shields?” Nate said, concerned. Hesitantly, he lowered his voice and asked, “Are you feeling alright, Twila?”

Blinking a few times and swallowing to control her fear, she managed to say, “Just fine. I’m just...” Pushing through her worry, her brain delivered what she hoped was an out. “...just amazed anyone could move on from something so terrible.” Twila tried to act how she thought Chylene might’ve in this sort of situation. “Even only thinking about it sends chills down my spine. Sorry.”

The bodyguard spoke up, his voice surprisingly gentle. “No need to apologize, ma’am. It was an immensely traumatic experience. I was lucky to live through it--so many of my friends weren’t.” His voice took on a grim edge. “But someday, I’ll find those bitches, whoever they are and make them pay.”

Twila’s stomach churned from a volatile mix of guilt and fear. Seeing this, Nate glared and prepared to berate the man, but before he could she asked, “You don’t know who they were? No clues at all?”

He gave a grim shake of his head. “I could only wish. But beyond the fact that they’re clearly all women, no one has been able to figure anything else out. It’s...immensely frustrating.” He gave a half-hearted grin. “So I’ve taken up bodyguarding, which pays the bills but lets me keep the right contacts to find them.” He nodded at Nate. “Even if I’m stuck with an overly optimistic know-it-all almost twenty-four-seven.”

“Oh hah, hah, you’re hilarious,” Nate grumbled, knocking on the table and getting another twenty-one.

Her heart finally starting to calm, Twila let out a slow, deliberate breath.

We dodged a major bullet there, she thought to herself with a grim chuckle for the inherent joke. They’d given so little mercy during the first Heist, it was ironic--and perhaps a shining example of justice--that the biggest mercy they’d given had almost doomed them all.

“Miss Shields, I know his story is rather touching, but...” Nate trailed off as she gave him a curious look. He gestured down. Her eyes followed.

How--?! She couldn’t quite believe it. Her winnings had been reduced by nearly half. Just how much had she been betting the past few hands? Vaguely, she remembered playing more or less on automatic as she frantically tried to consider their options if the sniper could identify them.

“I think I might just get the best of you, Miss Shields,” Nate said, his grin back and bigger than before. He was truly amused, barely withholding laughter it seemed.

Her brow furrowed as she gritted her teeth in frustration. Why was this one...one...boy getting her so worked up? Just because he seemed to better than her at a card game?

She thought, Well, Mr. Grin--we’ll see how long that lasts when I really try! But she said, as politely as she could, “Why, Mr. Worthington, I just didn’t want the game to end too soon. We’re having so much fun, aren’t we?”

“I know I am,” he said with a laugh. Then, a bit quietly and much more seriously he added, “I could only hope you might, too.”

“Of course--let’s see how much fun we can have, shall we?” Twila wasn’t exactly sure where these feelings were coming from, but something in her didn’t want to lose to him.

Twila was a Shields--she was Twila Shields--and no Shields, least of all Twila, could fail at anything they put their full effort to. No matter what any charming, cute aristocrat was capable of.

Rattling off a large and risky bet, she gestured at him, “Shall we raise the stakes?”

Still grinning, he nodded and pushed in his own chips as the game, and the evening, continued.

The guards approached the room, their pistols gripped tightly in hand alongside a flashlight held firmly in the other. They briefly swept the center of the room, their gazes drawn to an overturned table and the person carelessly hiding behind it.

The two guards exchanged a dubious glance at one another.

“We can see you. Stand,” a guard commanded. “Any sudden movements and we shoot.”

The hiding person flinched. “OK, OK, shit,” a scratchy woman’s voice quickly said. Isabelle rose, her hands up, fingers spread, and at her shoulders.

“Who are you? What’s with the suit?” the other guard asked, his curly ginger hair poking out in all directions from underneath his cap.

“Mask and a suit...” the first guard trailed off. He snapped to attention. “You’re--”

“The one and only!” Dash exclaimed, sounding pleased at being recognized. “And we’re here to clean up. You boys give Blueballs our regards.”

The curly haired man put his flashlight under his armpit, then pulled out a walkie-talkie while his partner kept his keen eyes intently focused on Isabelle.

Neither manage to notice the tall woman creeping up from a nearby corner.

The ginger brought his radio to his mouth, pressing down on the call button, emitting a burst of static, just as Jack took action. Reaching around from behind, she swept his legs with her foot. At the same time, the blonde pushed at the base of his neck. Tripping, the guard plunged headfirst into the floor--the walkie caught between, smashing it and his nose--with a grunt. The other turned at the noise, just in time for Jack’s gloved fist to connect hard with his jawline. He instantly rag-dolled from the strike--spit flew from his mouth in an angled arc as he limply spiraled down to the floor.

The ginger weakly rose to his knees, obviously reeling from the farmer’s trip. Jack brought her foot down on his back, slamming him into the linoleum once more.

“That coulda went worse,” Isabelle said, walking towards the farmer. A few seconds later, the walkie-talkie, damaged but still working, clicked to life.

“Repeat, Mr. Loew.” The voice on the other end was deep and heavy, like dark chocolate. It cut through the slight hiss of the static the radio produced like a needle through cloth. “I didn’t catch your last transmission. Please repeat.”

Still though, there was something not...right about the voice. The man seemed to enunciate the wrong words in his sentences--as if he wasn’t quite used to speaking. The effect was somewhat disturbing and hard on the ears. It was pronounced enough that Isabelle and Jack both shared uneasy glances with one another.

“Let me take care of the two here, then l-let’s fuckin’ get,” Isabelle quickly offered, trying her best to hide her discomfort as she reached to the guards’ belts, finding a set of handcuffs with each. Dash locked both of the men with their arms behind their back and then tied their legs in place with zipties. Moving near Jack, the pair headed through the doorway.

“How’s the leg?” Jack asked as they briskly walked down the dark hallways. They took a left at Dash’s gesture.

“It’s better than a bullet to the chest,” she replied. “Hurts like a bitch, but isn’t slowing me down that bad.” Isabelle pointed ahead. “Looks like another laser set.”

Dash nodded, giving a small spritz around the field. They circumvented the beams once more and made their way further down.

They came to another T-junction.

“Fuckin’ this again,” Dash spat.

“Jus’ an addon, sug. It’s gotta be,” Jack reasoned.

“Whatever it is, I don’t like it.” She pointed left--the farmer followed. Glancing over at Jack, she said, “But all things considered, we didn’t do too bad. Hell, we’re just a few turns until we hit the vault.”

Jack nodded, breathing out in relief. “Yeah. We did goo--”

The farmer never finished her sentence. A tile sunk under her weight, and each heard a distinct, ominous click fill the room.

“Goddamnit! Son of a bitch!” Jack snarled loudly as the hallways exploded with light.

“Bullshit!” Dash cried out, disbelief scrawled all over her face. “There’s not supposed to be a motherfuckin’ pressure plate here!”

“Whatever! We need to move!” the farmer called out, unholstering her gun.

They sprinted down the hallway, Dash guiding them down another T-junction. In short order, the athlete’s limp became more pronounced. The farmer halted her just before they rounded another corner.

“Catch yer breath,” Jack ordered, gently moving the athlete against the right-side wall. She withdrew a small mirror and carefully peeked it around the corner. In the distance there were twelve men in combat fatigues, armor, and assault rifles marching towards the intersection, along with a towering, gigantic male figure at their flanks. The blonde swore under her breath. “They’re comin’. They’re comin’--shit!”

Dash felt like she was sweating weariness, leaning back against the wall, nearly slumped over. “Fuck. What do we do? Run or shoot?” she whispered in a panic.

The farmer held out her hand. “Give me a flash, we’re doin’ both.”

Isabelle wordlessly complied, reaching into her pockets and handing the woman a grenade. Jack followed suit, pulling out a grenade of her own from her jacket’s pocket. They didn’t have too many tricks aside from these, but if now wasn’t a good time...

Jack pulled the pins on both, holding the safety levers tight in her large palms. “Gonna throw these when they get a hair closer. When the first goes off, ya run left. Go as fast as ya can--I’ll catch up.”

“We’re going together, Stetson,” Dash argued, pointing a finger at the farmer.

The tall woman shook her head. “No, sug. Yer goin’ on without me.”

“Fuck you,” Dash exclaimed, Jack’s glare the only thing keeping her volume in check. “I’m not leaving you.”

“This ain’t no back an’ forth! Yer jus’ gonna have ta trust that I’ll catch up.” She paused, then added, “Jus’ like I trusted you’d pull through at the bank.”

That got Isabelle’s attention. She weakly rose and shook her head. “We’re so fuckin’ stupid...” she quietly said.

“God takes care-a fools an’ children,” the farmer replied, using an expression her grandma was fond of back when Jack was both. She swallowed, despite her brave words. “If things go ta hell, I jus’ want ya to know--”

“Spare me that shit, bro. It’ll...it’ll be fine. Everything always ends up OK around you.”

“An’ you said I was the sappy one.” Jack smirked, letting go of the safety on the flash grenade. She threw it around the corner, squinting her eyes shut and covering her ears with the back of her hands as Dash did the same. They each heard a muted pop, followed by frantic chattering that flooded the hallway with voices.

“Get goin’!” Jack called out, rolling the other grenade. Dash took off, sprinting down the way. The few soldiers not caught off-guard by the blast took a few unprepared pot shots at her. Isabelle narrowly dodged, ducking around the next corner just as the second grenade went off.

Jack took that as her cue. She crouched low and popped out her head and arm briefly, her gun armed and at the ready. An entire chamber was squeezed off in a rapid series of pulls, each one striking true and sending three men to an early grave. The farmer sprinted toward the corner Dash disappeared around a mere moment ago as bullets fired by the blinded men ricocheted across the hallway. Most narrowly missed her, but for a stray round that grazed the back of her thigh. She hissed in pain, but shut her mouth as she returned to the task at hand.

The blonde briefly hid behind the corner, transferring her gun to her off hand. She opened the weapon and dropped her spent shells with her right, while quickly feeling her pocket for a speed loader with her left. Loading her revolver with five more fresh bullets, she quickly peeked out once more, firing off two more that hit dead on, dropping the thugs like sacks of grain. By now, the others had started to recover from the flashbang’s effect. As if to make a point of it, a shot smashed into the wall, almost blowing through her skull. Just an inch or so over... Jack took the message and fell back. She ran, throwing out her two spent shells and feeding some of the loose bullets she carried back into the gun’s waiting maw.

The hallways blurred by; Jack was lost before she knew it.

Oh ya fuckin’ dummy. Ya blew it. Ya shoulda seen the vault by now. Fuck, her mind shouted at her. She glanced behind her and saw a guard round the corner. She took a shot, missed. He dove back behind cover. Ignoring him, the farmer continued down the halls in a dead sprint, adrenaline taking away the fatigue and pain of her bleeding thigh.

Jack pressed down on her headset. “Ya at the vault, darlin’?”

“Here and waiting on the ICE to melt.”

Spike cut in. “What’s your location, Stetson?”

“No fuckin’ idea. Been runnin’ like a bat outta hell,” the farmer panted out.

“Any way you can backtrack?”

She turned, taking another warning shot at the corridor behind her. They seemed to have taken to hiding--the farmer wasn’t a genius, but she figured they were contacting another squad in order to set a trap up ahead. A pincer maneuver would be the best idea they had against a woman like her--she had already proven that a straight up gunfight would get at least a few more killed before they sent her to the grave.

“Nothin’ doin’, Drake. They’re on my ass like butter on toast! There any way ya can distract ‘em? Shut off coms, tweak electronics, somethin’?!”

“They’re running an encoded frequency on a military channel. I’ll try, Stetson, but no promises! Stay strong!”

Jack continued running, passing by a closed door. Up ahead, she saw a fairly large vent that she could potentially squeeze through. Another idea clicked through her head. She risked a peek behind her. Clear. For how long, she couldn’t say. If she could just get a minute...two, tops.

She ran to the vent and yanked hard at the grating covering it with her hands. For one terrifying moment, it seemed like the cover wouldn’t budge. Then it began tearing off. The farmer pulled even harder, tearing the metal away from the screws. Tossing the cover to the side with a clatter, she reached to her thigh and left a small dollop of her own blood at the entrance of the ventilation system. She then backtracked to the door she saw a moment ago, clasping her wound as tightly as she dared in order to not leave a trail.

With a fierce kick from her good leg, she breached and quickly dove into an unlit office. She scanned the room for something to hold the door steady and settled for a rather uncomfortable looking vinyl chair. Throwing it against the entrance, she jammed it on two legs underneath the door knob. Jack quickly looked around, noting a wooden desk with a glass top holding a computer monitor, a set of heavy looking bookcases at either end on the far side, and a couch in a nearby corner.

Outside, she could hear heavy footsteps--the troops must had finally decided to brave the hallway. Jack quickly moved, hiding behind the desk.

The noise in the hallway died down after a moment, fading to her left. Letting out a shaky breath, Jack started to slowly rise from her hiding spot.

The door was hit by a colossal impact that felt like it shook the very room. A large, steel-rimmed boot punched through the wooden frame like it was paper. It hung limply for a heartbeat, then pulled out. Jack rose to her knees, resting her arms on the desk’s glass top and clutching her revolver so tightly that her hands nearly shook. She sucked in a breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop; waiting for--

The loud, ear deafening noise of a shotgun ruptured the door, sending wood flying. Jack squeezed off one round that went wild, smacking into the door frame. It felt like slow motion. Like every frame of the moment was a year’s worth of time. The large figure at the door--Too large to be a Torani man. Somini; gotta be, the farmer thought--the dark, crisp suit, (reinforced kevlar under that class piece, dollar to doughnuts) the double barrel shotgun, (Remington Spartan 310. Fired one, back in the day. Was pretty cheap, compared to Dad’s other guns. Felt nice in my hands all the same. Dad had good taste when he took me and Mac to the target range) and, lastly, his grey, clouded eyes that seemed to pierce and cut Jack to the bone in that single fleeting frame before the man fired (his eyes what the fuck are up with his eyes oh God in heaven Elondrie an’ his light I’m sorry Izzy I lo--).

The shot ruptured through the room, deafening Jack’s left ear as the monitor beside her blew up, sending plastic and glass cracking directly into the side of her face. The impact of the screen knocked her onto her back and jarred the revolver from her hands; it skidded across the room, coming to rest at the base of a bookshelf.

She tried to rise, tried to do anything as the giant of a man deliberately took his time entering the room. He reloaded his shotgun nice and easy--Jack could hear every mechanical click and snap as he did so. From her right ear, she even heard the spent rounds drop onto the plush ocean blue carpet.

“What the hell was that about?!” she heard a voice call from out in the hall.

“Nothing,” the man replied, his voice deep. Unnatural. “You should really keep looking for the thief. Check the vents.”

It was that fucker from the radio. Jack felt panic and raw fear like she had never felt before--she couldn’t move her body. Nausea ran through her gut and her bladder felt filled to bursting.

“Why did you shoot in here? What the hell’s your pro--”

“The Queen wouldn’t like hearing about one of her own... being hassled by a private. Forget my doings. That is an order.”

“Y-yes, sir,” the voice from the hallway replied. Jack heard the footsteps march away.

“Now... where were we?” the man asked, his strange voice making Jack hyperventilate. He stepped deeper in the the room. “Don’t tell me that you actually died from that shot?”

This was it. He was going to round the desk, pull the trigger and blow her brains onto the tacky carpeting. Show was o--

“Found you,” he said in a monotone, though Jack could almost hear the smallest trace of glee. The Somini rounded the desk and stood directly over her. “You left the Matriarch in a foul mood last time. That money had purpose.”

Jack tried to say that it’s ‘purpose’ was a load of shit, just like the Queen. All she could do was cough and let out a resigned, defeated sigh. He aimed his gun, leveling it inches from her head.

I’m sorry girls, Jack thought, feeling the sting of tears at the corner of her eyes. I tried. I tried, but it jus’ wasn’t good enough.

She sucked in a breath and squinted her eyes shut, waiting for the end.

From the depths of her mind, Jack heard a voice she thought she had forgotten years ago.

Don’t be afraid.

The farmer froze. The panic she felt suddenly nothing but vapor in the air. Those three words got her through a lot of hurt over the years. Sure they were simple. The meaning behind them simple. So was she.

Pa had told her that if words had power, those three made the strongest sentence you could ever see. They taught her everything she needed to know about living. How to get back on a horse after it throws you. How to stop a bull from stomping you.

How to deal with family dying. How to tell a woman that you love her.

How to live through even this.

Don’t. Be. Afraid.

Her left hand crawled slowly, desperately on the ground as she stared up at the face of evil. Her body was numb, Jack’s heart beat so hard in her body that her temples throbbed with every pulse. The shotgun’s chamber was a dark harbinger, one that seemed inevitable to the farmer, as close as the weapon was to her and as tight as the Somini’s finger was wrapped around the trigger. Even then...

If she had to face it, she’d face it her way. Head on. No compromises. No fear. The only thing she could do was try.

Her hand blindly searched the rubble and settled on a long, jagged piece of glass. Jack shifted her grip on it, squeezing it so tight it sliced through her glove, cutting deeply into her palm. With a burst of strength that would have felt impossible a mere second ago, the farmer lashed out with her weapon.

It was too late. He squeezed the trigger.

A dry click.

His eyes widened at the impossibility.

Later on when they finally had a chance to talk about it, Jack would call it divine intervention. Dash just called it ‘dumb luck for a dumb woman.’

Either way, fortune smiled on the blonde as the gun jammed and her glass shard struck true. It embedded just below his sternum--the farmer didn’t take any risks. She put her weight behind a downward pull, cutting through him and making a noise not unlike scissors through cloth. The glass finally ended its journey when it connected with the giant man’s pelvis bone.

The woman crawled away as the man sank down to his knees, his entrails dangling from his stomach. He held his body together as best as he could with one hand, while staring hard at the farmer.

Jack rose, panting heavily. The blonde wiped her mouth as she stared at the dying man.

A pause. He brought a leg up and stood. Without breaking his gaze, he reached down and pulled out the gore-soaked shard. The giant man tossed it to the side and charged, seemingly oblivious to his injuries. Injuries that should have been fatal, Somini or not.

Jack dove to the side, slamming against a bookshelf as the giant’s feet tangled together. He stumbled and fell to the floor.

My gun, she quickly thought, living a nightmare. Like an answered prayer, she found it and moved to the man, landing a bullet in the back of his head. Then another. Then another.

Jack stood over him, her mind briefly a blank slate as she pulled the trigger time and time again, each one clicking on a spent shell. The farmer might have been there until the end of time. She was saved by her earpiece clicking on.

“Stetson? Are you alright?” Dash asked. Jack let out a breath.

“Y-Yeah... I’m here, Bolt.”

“Where the fuck are you?”

“In an office, I--” she looked at the corpse and gave an unbelieving shake of her head. “Nevermind. Look, I’m comin’ fer ya, sugar. How’s that vault door comin’?”

“Took out a few guards while I waited for the welder to do its thing. Should be through the second door in a few minutes.”

“The guards. They had to have heard those shots,” Jack realized, talking to herself.

“What?”

The farmer reloaded her gun with one of her last speedloaders. She looked at her bleeding hand, taking off her glove and using it as an improvised bandage. “If they ain’t swarmed ya, then that means they’re still out here lookin’ fer me.”

“Sit tight then, hayseed. I’ll--”

“You’ll be up shit creek without a paddle once the whole group realizes yer at the vault. I’m comin’ ta help.”

She heard the sound of footsteps approaching. The farmer walked towards the door and held tight to her weapon, prepared to fire as soon as she went outside.

“I jus’ can’t be afraid.”