“The gang’s regrouped. Most have finally blown their way out after they got turned around chasing me through the town’s interior.” Florence ducked under Owen’s arm and drew him away from the dirty counter. He stumbled alongside her, clutching his side as she dragged him behind the bar towards the trap door. “We’ve dallied too long already. We have to clear out before they circle back this way.”

  “And go where?” Owen demanded.

  “Anywhere but here.” Florence dropped to her knees and searched the dirt until she found the sunken doorframe with her fingers. The rusted hinges emitted a protesting creak as Florence pried the trap door open, revealing a deep, dark channel below. “Come on,” she said, swinging her legs down the chute, “the street level shops will be the first place they look.”

  Owen kept a watchful eye on Dobson and Misty as he neared the opening. He slunk forward like a dog amongst ill-tempered horses, wary of the impending kick, but unsure from which beast it would come.

  It certainly wouldn’t come from Dobson. She refused to waste precious energy on trifling mongrels. The real fight was on its way, and she had to make the most of what little time they had left. She strode across the upturned saloon and hefted the remnants of a heavy wooden table from the floor and propped it on its side. It wouldn’t hold up against gunfire, but it was concealment, not protection, she wanted. The gunmen would be expecting their quarry to be cowering behind the bar. The first few overconfident thugs wouldn’t think twice about checking their periphery before barging inside, allowing Dobson to pick them off before the rest wised up.

  “So, we’re just allowing this, huh? Letting these two slink away without batting an eye?” Misty took another swig of her foul concoction and frowned. “The lass did shoot you, Dobson, in case you forgot.”

  “Thank you for reminding me.” As if the dull throb in Dobson’s chest wasn’t doing a well enough job on its own.

  Still holding the silver can with one hand, Misty swung her stolen shotgun in Owen’s direction with the other, stopping him dead in his tracks before he could scurry down the trap door to safety. “Not to mention Florence made you waste two vials of borg juice. One on the ground and the other on this sad sack.”

  Dobson added pieces to her stolen rifle as she spoke, cognizant of the heavy tread of footsteps moving along the dirt path in their direction. “Let him go, Misty. He’s not worth the bullet.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says me.”

  Misty pivoted in Dobson’s direction. “And who put you in charge, huh? What happened to needing his comm?”

  “We are mere minutes away from a shoot-out. Neither of us are going to have the luxury of watching his ass, making sure he doesn’t get himself killed, while fighting for our skins. He’s a liability. Let him go.”

  Dobson’s gaze flickered past Misty and settled on Owen, delivering a look that said, ‘I’d get out of here now while she’s distracted if I were you’. The man needed no second bidding. He dropped down the open trap door and disappeared from sight. The hatch closed with a soft thud a split second later, followed by the scrape of an iron latch being locked firmly in place below.

  “Unbelievable!” Misty said.

  “We’re better off without him.”

  “Yeah, obviously. I’m not an idiot, I know that!

  “Then what exactly is your problem?” Dobson wracked her brain, searching for a plausible reason for Misty’s sudden bout of anger. “You don’t want to stay and fight, is that it then?”

  Misty’s face reddened in anger.

  “Then go ahead. Be my guest. Follow Owen into the interior if that’s what you want so badly,” Dobson said. “But I’ll be taking my chances here, thank you.”

  The footsteps in the street neared. From the tilt of Misty’s head, Dobson knew she could hear them just as clearly. Misty remained nonchalant to the nearing gang, her burning gaze still fixed on Dobson. “You are denser than the metal plate in your head, woman. I’m not a sniveling coward looking for an easy way out.” The corner of Misty’s lip lifted in a snarl. “I’m mad. At you, primarily, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  It was Dobson’s turn to go quiet.

  “I don’t like that you make unilateral decisions without me, Dobsy. We’re supposed to be a team, remember?”

  What in tarnation was she yammering on about? Dobson could already smell the stench of tobacco and cheap aftershave from the approaching gang. The cliffside shuddered as the gunslingers moved from door to door along the bottom strip, rechecking the ransacked storefronts for stragglers. “Are you seriously upset that I wouldn’t let you kill Owen?” she said.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “That’s not the point! As a team, we decide things together. You’ve got to talk to me, Dobsy. Ask me my opinion. Not just decide everything yourself.”

  “Fine,” Dobson said. “This half of the team has decided it’s not skulking off into the town’s interior. It wants to stay and fight. Is that okay with you?”

  “Of course it is!” Misty threw up her hands, spilling some of her foul drink. “It’s all I ever wanted!”

  “Then we are in agreement.”

  “Fan-flipping-tastic!”

  Dobson paused, confused. “If this is what you wanted, then why are you still shouting?”

  A scowl crept across Misty’s face as her heated gaze wandered off to sulk in the corner. “Because I can’t help but feel a little overlooked. You’re the almighty Dastardly Dob. The best of the best, takes no guff, gives no quarter. And I’m just Mad Misty.”

  Dobson failed to see where this was going. “So?”

  “I can’t help but feel like my reputation taints your view of me,” Misty admitted, her voice laden with an underlying thread of bitterness. “We’re supposed to be partners, ya know? Equal say. My input has value, too. Even if it is just to agree with your opinion. But sometimes I get the impression that you don’t trust me at all.”

  “I, uh…” Dobson’s voice trailed off, completely blindsided by the unfolding situation. It was one thing to not trust Misty, it was another thing entirely to admit it to her face—while the cutthroat queen was armed, no less.

  “You haven’t been much of a partner so far, Dobsy. You do things your way and then just expect me to follow, but I have my strengths, too. I derailed the train, didn’t I? Fixed you back up.” Misty set her can aside and began sorting through the pile of scrapped parts on the counter, fitting random pieces together. She took a shaky breath and continued, “All I’m saying is that little communication goes a long way. You might be better ‘n me, but I’m still an equal part of this team. Ask me questions. Involve me in decisions.”

  “I’m… sorry?”

  “Throw a girl a bone every now and then. Make her feel special.”

  Tugging the stolen hat firmly over her head, Dobson dropped onto one knee behind the overturned table, stating, “I assure you, there is no one more special than you, Misty.”

  Misty kept her eyes on her work, casually constructing what was probably a weapon of mass destruction whilst airing out her feelings. “Can’t help but feel like you’re saying special when you really mean something else, Dobsy.”

  “You want to be asked? Consulted? Fine.” Dobson saw only one way out of her current predicament: pretend she gave a damn. Exasperated, she threw her head back and declared to the ceiling above, “Misty McClain, will you do me the honor of fighting alongside me against a bunch of overpowered goons so that we may steal their train and escape this hellscape?” The final word was more difficult to say. Even as a lie, it tasted like burnt soot on Dobson’s tongue. “Together?”

  Misty brightened at the prospect. “You mean it?”

  Stillwater’s goons were expecting to square off with a handful of defenseless townsfolk, not two battle-hardened mercenaries. Dobson and Misty stood somewhat of a chance if they dealt with the oncoming gang together. That, of course, depended entirely on her partner’s willingness to stop pouting and act like the cold-blooded killer her reputation proclaimed.

  Dobson ran a heavy hand over her face, sighing. “Nothing would make me happier.”

  “Alright, you’ve convinced me. Partner.”

  Dobson’s eyes dropped to the curious-looking object in Misty’s hands. “Do I dare ask?”

  A sly smile split across Misty’s face. “Flash grenade.”

  As if on cue, a deafening blast erupted from the street and slammed against the front of the saloon, sending a shockwave of force rippling through the surrounding stone. The piano lurched in the doorway before rocking back into place as dust and debris rained down from the cracked ceiling above.

  “What the feck?” The nasally voice of a woman said from the outside. “This wasn’t here before.”

  “It’s called a barricade, you idiot,” someone else sneered. “Now move out of the way before I take you out with it.”

  Dobson crouched down behind the overturned table in the corner. Misty, on the other hand, didn’t appear to be in any hurry. She took another long sip from the silver can before tucking it away underneath the bar for safekeeping. Dobson communicated with her eyes, silently imploring her partner to take cover. In true Misty fashion, she replied without speaking—imparting a rather playful wink and finger guns— before ducking down out of sight.

  The second blast ripped through the blocked doorway, splintering the piano into a thousand pieces. The force from the blast whipped across the bare floor, stirring a cloud of dirt into the air, which intermingled with the bits of rock and splintered piano falling from above. Whoever was outside felt it necessary to employ a third blast, which successfully cleared the doorway of any final remnants of the piano.

  One of the goons was sporting a short-range missile launcher. Dobson grimaced at the thought of getting hit by one of those. Lovely.

  “Well?” The gruff voice belonging to their missile-wielding foe rang out, laden with irritation.

  The nasally-sounding woman replied after a pause, “I don’t hear anything.”

  “Then what are you waiting for? Go look.”

  Amidst the pluming dust, the silhouette of a darkly clad woman appeared in the open doorway, backlit by the faint red glow of the light tower. She made it three steps in total before a slug caught her through the ear canal and shot out the other side, cutting her straight through. She dropped without a sound, dead before she hit the dirt.

  “Pumpkin!” Misty hissed from behind the bar. “Now look, I’m a fan of your no-nonsense style and even bigger one of the results. But the time to ask questions is before you shoot.”

  Dobson kept her eyes fixed on the doorway. “I was not aware we had any questions.”

  “Of course we do.” Misty prattled off a series of questions to demonstrate. “Where’s all your money? Which one of you is the train conductor? How much heat are you buckaroos packing?”

  “I heard a shot,” the gruff voice called from the outside. “Was that you, Emma? Did you finally get that saucy bitch that shot Bradley’s nose off?”

  Neither Dobson nor Misty replied. They kept quiet and waited for the inevitable.

  “Emma?” The man’s shadow slipped over the threshold as he neared the entrance from the outside.

  This time, when her target edged through the doorway with his rifle held at the ready, Dobson made sure to ask a question before lodging a bullet through his bionic eye.

  “What rhymes with orange?”