‘Just like that?’ Wilheim queried, taking a long sip from his wine until the glass emptied.
‘Just like that. Simplicity is a wonderful thing. It’s simply a choice of keeping us happy, or we lose our temper and make a mess.’
‘Then who am I to object?’ Wilheim queried, amused, his disgusting gut straining to be released from his vest as his throat clicked and rasped in a chuckle. ‘Clearly you have the stronger resolve. This one is just a plaything though, no fancy of mine. Take her. But be warned, it’s not in her nature to stay in one place. She’ll scamper away. She’s a traitor, you know. And a whore.’
Wyld spun her gun barrel to the criminal, ceasing his outburst immediately. ‘Maybe so,’ Wyld agreed, thumbing the hammer back with a snap. ‘But she’s our whore, so she’s coming with us.’
Misu, taking all her time not to panic under the sight of a hundred eyes and a room of brandished weapons, manoeuvred to her friends. Her fingers dug into Jacques’s shoulder, reassuring herself that they were here and not a cruel illusion. She thanked them, meekly, hiding the bruise beneath her left eye with a ribbon of hair in shame.
They withdrew, backing away through bodies that all waited, and watched, for a signal from Wilheim to subdue them.
It never came.
The closer to the daylight the trio got, the more anxious each brandishing thug became, and as they slipped out into the city streets, they each ran as fast as humanly possible but not before Wilheim spoke his last words.
‘You won’t live out the end of this day, you know?!’ he promised, sternly. ‘I won’t let you.’
Jacques could only shrug. Maybe that would be the case, but it wouldn’t stop them from damn well trying. ‘Well, those of us on the Den do like to take chances,’ he stated, and then vanished into the sun.
* * *
Nobody pursued. All waited for the command.
Wilheim drew on his cigar, blowing a series of perfect rings. Not even midday and things were already moving in his favour. It was a sign, he concluded, taking another swig of a well-deserved drink, a sign that he was favoured from above. To the untrained and the rowdy, to which there were plenty in his company, this was a confusing delay. Surely this wasn’t going to be ignored, was it? People had been killed for far less.
The tranquillity was ruined by a query, spoken by one brave enough to interrupt.
‘Boss?’ he called, gesturing in surprise to the door. ‘Aren’t we doing something ’bout this?’
Deliberately letting the seconds tick by, Wilheim puffed his last, grinding the cigar stub into a glass ashtray and finally ordered his decree.
‘They’re going to try and run. They need to get away quickly, making such a mess that they cannot return.’ Wilheim spoke the words that caused elation: ‘Let them take the Gambler’s Den and the moment they leave the station, I want it boarded, and everyone inside killed.’
‘And what of Misu?’
‘I said everyone, didn’t I? We have men in the Bad Lands who can make the Gambler’s Den disappear. Store it elsewhere and wait for things to settle down. Take as many as you need and run them down when it’s time. I want that train at all costs, understand?’ Wilheim grunted his last condition. ‘But I want it out of the hands of the law.’
Lock and Key
Franco was no stranger to incarceration.
He had spent many nights in a cell, for reasons too numerous to recall. Suspected of everything. Convicted of nothing. Having to find comfort on a stone floor or wooden bench was once second nature when the legitimacy of his enterprise was called into question, and this time was no different, though it was a long time ago since he had to endure this kind of treatment.
The cell looked like any other, the bars on the outside wall thick and imposing, with a wrought-iron door and slatted bars opposite looking out into the jailer’s office. The jailer himself was nothing out of the ordinary either. Gaunt in face, brash about his status and power, he had mocked Franco, repeatedly, kicking over his food at mealtimes, making crude sexual remarks about those in his employment. His ratlike features curled with glee every time, believing his prey was becoming increasingly agitated.
Franco did no such thing. The slurs he had heard before, and every weak-willed turnkey felt himself a god. That was nothing unique in the slightest.
But Alex Juniper worried him. Fiery, passionate, the man was clearly trouble. Dangerous, even. Considerably more so than his cellmate.
Ketan sat opposite on the floor, stretching his legs out, checking on his healing wound. The dressing remained tattered; rough inconsistent stitches doing their work to hold the flesh together. At least the surgeon was competent enough to pull the bullet out, though with considerable bruising and not a small amount of pain. They had barely spoken since being thrown in together, waiting for the other to begin and letting time slip away. Finally, a product of his ego, Ketan made his thoughts known.
‘Oh how far you’ve fallen,’ he mocked, rubbing his wound over and over. ‘You’re not used to being down here with us normal people. Getting them nice coat tails filthy. Damn shame.’
Franco rolled a stone between his fingers, skimming over and around, an anxious tick he would perform with cards though in this case had to make do. ‘Sitting in the dirt clapped in irons? That’s no one’s perception of normal, you fool.’
‘I would rather be in the dirt than have my head in the clouds looking down on everyone else.’
Franco limply tossed the stone, with little weight and force, hearing it crack against the cell wall, dangerously near Ketan’s head. He scowled in return.
‘Whatever did I say to give you that absurd notion?’ Franco grunted.
‘You did plenty.’
‘I have barely been here! I went to find you because your father was concerned about these people you are running with and I can see he was right to be! Your shenanigans with these folk have got me and mine arrested!’ Again another stone was taken and thrown, snapping once again on impact. ‘Arrested. Clean for years and you force this on me.’
‘Maybe you deserved it.’
Deserved? Was he out of his mind? How could Franco have deserved any of this? ‘What is wrong with you? What is this? Do you simply hate me?’
‘There’s plenty of reasons to put hate upon you – a long, long list.’
‘Or is it jealousy?’
Ketan’s nauseating, constant grin slipped slightly, giving a tell-tale sign.
‘Look at the hard truth there. You’re jealous. I made something of myself here, built things up and gained my reputation, and I didn’t need to turn over banks or shake down others to get it. That’s how it’s earned, not by waving iron in faces. There’s nothing down the barrel of a revolver
