Sorry about the wait for chapter 2. I promise chapter 3 will come sooner, and thanks for the feedback! :)
For a Few Dollars More
It takes six months. Ashe has something to work towards now, and she discovers that, when she puts her mind to something other than mean rebellion, she's damn good at it. She starts going to her father's business parties, starts paying attention, and she hears things. The people who run the world don't pay attention to little girls, and Ashe hears things: dangerous things, secret things, interesting things. She starts forming a plan.
She moves money her parents won't miss into a private bank account (opened with the help of lax laws and lax parental control) and memorizes the names of contacts. She learns everything there is to know about military hardware, spending her after-school hours memorizing how to operate every manner of weapon there is—or at least any weapon someone might want to buy. There's more to a gang than looking cool. They're a business like any other, and while her parents might not have taught her much, Ashe knows how to run a business.
She buys a house in Santa Fe. She spends two weeks with her heart in her stomach, wondering when her parents will find out and make her plans twice as difficult, but they don't notice anything from their penthouse apartments halfway across the world. It cements her decision, brings her to make the last few calls, to cement the first few purchases.
When she leaves, B.O.B. comes with her. She doesn't ask. She doesn't have to.
She deletes everything as she leaves—technology makes it hard to start anew, but she's prepared for this for months, and she knows exactly what to do. She takes nothing, not even a photo, as she erases everything from her past. B.O.B. is the only family that matters, and he isn't going anywhere.
"Been a while," says Ashe. She's mastered the twang, that drawl she hadn't had six months ago. She practiced in the mirror, and, when she was satisfied, secretly hired a tutor to make sure it was authentic, that anyone from New Mexico wouldn't think to mock her for her affected accent. Soon, it won't be fake. Nothing about her will be.
"I don't come to town too often," says McCree. He's exactly as she remembered, but bigger. Clean shaven now, too, like he wasn't happy with the beard. While they stand, he wipes beads of sweat off his brow with a stained bandana, trying it back around his neck after.
"Too busy in the slammer?" She regrets it as soon as she says it. Slammer was a bad choice of word—inauthentic—and she shouldn't remember something he said six months ago. Makes it look like she's been running that day over and over in her head, how good it felt to fight, how warm the blood was as it dried on her hands.
"I don't make a habit of running into the law," he replies. "No matter what you've heard."
Ashe wasn't looking for McCree. She's on a stakeout, running recon for a robbery she's planning with the first few members of what she hopes to build into something more. She turned a corner into an alley and found him, hands in his pockets, leaning against the rough adobe of an out-of-business saloon. His hat is pulled so low over his face that it took a moment to recognize him; the lit cigar in his mouth was the tell that triggered her memory.
"And what might I have heard?"
McCree shrugs. "Lots of things going around."
Ashe is going to reply with something meaningless that sounds good, which seems to be the way around here, but she takes a second look around. Ashe is standing in this dark alley behind a black market munition dealers' warehouse—what're the odds that McCree just picked this place to take a smoke break? She doubts he cares about the architecture of a bone dry storm drain.
"You with anyone?"
McCree gives her the once over. She doesn't stand taller—she's already at her full height. "What's it to you?"
"If you're alone, I can cut you in. Better odds with a group."
She's seen him shoot, but more importantly, he's seen her shoot. He settles back against the adobe wall for a long few seconds before nodding and saying, "Alright. I'm in."
"This is a much better score than what I was planning," says McCree, going through the stacks of bills with the glee of a kid in a candy store.
Ashe laughs. It feels good to do it with someone who isn't B.O.B., and with someone who isn't on the payroll. "What were you planning?"
"I heard that closed down bar still had some liquor in it. Was going to take a peek."
Ashe blinks. That's not what she was expecting. Some of the men snicker. She's already having enough trouble controlling them. They're not used to working with someone so young, and she's having to pull out all the stops when it comes to ordering them around, especially with their own leader, Finn, always questioning her knowledge. She grabs McCree by his leather jacket, pulling him into one of the side rooms of her hideout (a converted house in a decent neighborhood, which is not her favorite look, but it'll do).
"What did you go to prison for?" she hisses.
McCree raises his eyebrows, never dropping his smirk. "No bullshit?"
"I think you know by now I'm not the type for bullshit." There were more people in the building than either she or her men had expected, and she'd responded accordingly. McCree had been helped her carry the bodies.
"I spent three months in juvie for stealing cattle."
She knows he doesn't like killing, but there're plenty of other crimes—assault, battery, grand theft auto, that she'd have expected before that one. Looking at the state of his clothing, she'd expect a public urination charge before cattle theft. She kicks the carpet so hard that the point of her boot tears a hole, revealing the wood flooring underneath. That'll cost to repair.
"I don't live in Santa Fe," he adds. "I've got roots on a farm outside the city." He's still got that goddamned smirk on his face, like she hasn't brought a cattle thief into her burgeoning crime organization, like she didn't get the inspiration for the whole thing from running into him on the street. Her face is burning bright red; she can tell from the heat on her cheeks.
"Did you say juvie?" she asks. "How old are you, McCree?" She'd assumed him to be eighteen or nineteen the first time they met, what with his strong jawline and height, but now she's wondering. She's wondering hard.
"Funny story," he says. His shit-eating grin is growing. This must be a conversation he's had before, one he likes having. There's a smugness in his stance she doesn't like one bit. "That first day we met was my fifteenth birthday."
Ashe swallows every emotion she's feeling so she doesn't give him the pleasure of reacting. "Well, well, well," she replies. "You're a good shot for a fifteen-year-old."
"Not the first time I've heard that," he says, stuffing his share of the wad of bills down behind his belt. "I've gotta get back home—I've got to help my grandpa with a drive that's gonna take up the next month or so, but I'll be back in Santa Fe. Hit me up.
"And how will I find you?"
"I'm sure it won't be a problem. See you around."
He tips his hat to her on his way out, and she can see the child in him for the first time. He acts like a cowboy from another century, but even a farm boy couldn't have avoided the modern world growing up. He must really want to believe in it. Part of Ashe does too.
The next time Ashe sees McCree it's lounging around the backside of a repair shop, wrapping tough cigarettes with tobacco dregs. She's on her way to a bank robbery, half-hearted mask in place, half-wanting the world to know it's her who's planning to burn it to the ground. He walks in stride beside her without an invitation, and she doesn't tell him to get lost.
That night, McCree's lighting Cuban cigars.
They meet in a bar, McCree emerging from the men's bathroom with shaky knees and swollen lips. Ashe buys them both a drink. Halfway through the whiskey, one of McCree's buddies recognize him, and Ashe finds herself in the midst of broken beer bottles and flying fists.
Twenty minutes later they're stealing motorcycles from Los Muertos and headed out to the open country, wind in their hair. She wakes up hungover in an irrigation ditch, makeup smeared and McCree's hair in her mouth. Her heart is hammering in her chest. She smiles.
There are diamonds, and a party, and two teenagers so drunk they forget the way back to their base. By the next morning Ashe can only remember bits and pieces, but finding McCree pantsless and with strings of diamonds covering the important bits jogs her memory. When she turns on the news all anyone can talk about are the celebrities sobbing about their lost jewels. The photos of her are blurry, and while McCree's are clear, to the authorities, everyone in Santa Fe looks like him.
The weapons dealer calls Ashe a tart, slaps her ass, tells her she was almost as sexy as she is feisty. She breaks his teeth in right then, but while she's getting ready for bed that night, tipsy enough to sleep well, McCree shatters her window into pieces and holds up a lighter.
Ashe wasn't named for the flame, but she's plenty good at starting them.
"I've been thinking about it," he says. "We work good together."
They're sitting around after a decent haul, their pockets stuffed full of cash and cigarettes. McCree brought the cards, and he's slowly drying Ashe's men to the bone through poker. He's probably cheating, but she can't figure out how yet. When she does, she'll join.
"I've been thinking too," she replies, like this is as new to her as it is to him. "We're making plenty of dough, but it's all small stuff. We should think bigger picture."
"Yeah?" McCree's got new chaps, white ones that stand out on the streets. She hasn't seen the worn farmhand plaid in weeks.
She takes a stroll around the card table, hiding her laughter at B.O.B.'s hand. He's a good poker player—he taught her—but McCree's just doing that well. She'll catch him sooner or later and win back Nunez's trousers. What she'll do with them, she hasn't decided.
Finn's the only one at the table with any chance left. Head of the mercenaries she's hired, she likes him half as much as McCree, which means she tolerates him twice as well as all his men and women. He's fallen into line of late, and besides, with that five o'clock shadow and enough muscle to match a bull, he's not so bad to look at.
"People've been trying to resurrect that old Deadlock Gang," says McCree, pushing even more poker chips forward. "The one from the '70s. 1970s, I mean. Think we got a shot at it?"
"I always liked their symbol," says Finn. "The skull with the lock in it. Might not be the most original, but it'll scare people away."
Finn lays down his hand, casually conceding. Ashe doesn't miss the wink she levels McCree's way. She rolls her eyes. All Finn's mercenaries with no interest or love for their little business follow her ass with their eyes, but she can't get the guys with a decent personality to pay attention. It doesn't matter. Ashe doesn't need to chase.
"How about it?" says Finn. "If we become something official, hell, I'll drop my rates."
"You'll do more than drop your rates," says Ashe. "We have to be in this together."
Ashe meets B.O.B. and McCree's eyes. They've both been there since the beginning, in one way or another. B.O.B. nods ever so slightly, her eternal rock in a world she's constantly shaking up. He puts his fist out into the center of the table. McCree, much less stable but, in many ways, easier company, doesn't sit up for a long second, leaning back into his chair. Beyond the easy smirk shadowed by the brim of his ten gallon, Ashe can see his few wheels turning. Her stomach lurches—the idea of him not agreeing never occurred to her.
"I'm in," he says. "We've been having some good fun here. I do have some roots elsewhere I gotta attend to now and then, but that shouldn't be a problem." Casually, almost lazily, he joins his hand with B.O.B.'s.
"We all have something," says Finn. His eyes are narrowed while he contemplates dollar signs in his head. Their weapons have been selling well, and they're just starting to attract the attention of other gangs for their success. With the right planning, the right strategy, this could be more profitable than mercenary wages could dream of.
Finn puts his hand in the center of the table. Ashe joins with hers and wishes she could save this image, the sight of these men come together because of her. Because of her, Deadlock is going to work. Because of her, these men have somewhere to go.
Their first true firefight. The new Deadlock versus the Santa Fe branch of Los Muertos. It's a bloodbath, one that's determined by accuracy and skill rather than the luck of the draw. Ashe tries to keep count between her and McCree, but at the end of the day, she only has the totals of the dead. The other gang retreats back to Mexico. People begin to talk about Deadlock, and they aren't speaking of the past.
Ashe is undressing when she gets the text. It's from a number she recognizes as McCree's—she doesn't have it saved because he so rarely uses it, preferring to annoy the hell out of her by showing up when and where he wants, only half-aware of other people's plans.
'the matador, pls' lights up on her screen. Ashe starts putting on her clothing, but slowly, not convinced this really matters. The Matador's been around a long, long, time, and she knows what it caters to. She doesn't have much of a desire to party at the moment.
About five minutes later, there's another text: 'i need you.' Goosebumps raise on her arms. No one has ever said that to her before.
She's out the door in three, fully dressed and glowering at anyone who looks at her too long. The streets are far from empty at this time of night, but she sees no one as she speeds through them on her stolen motorcycle, the red paint glinting dark in the reflection of the streetlights. There are few in Santa Fe left who'd face her, even in the shadows. That's how Ashe likes it.
The streets might be empty, but The Matador isn't, even at this late hour. Ashe doesn't get carded despite being underage and doesn't get questioned despite being a lone woman entering a bar full of shirtless men in cowboy hats. The bar isn't one of those clubs with all the pulsing lights and grimy dance floors—that's not McCree's style. No, this place is old-fashioned, with a wooden bar countertop and posters of old Western films on the wall. The jukebox is playing Johnny Cash, although the volume is still much too high.
Ashe doesn't spot McCree, not at the pool table, not at the bar, not even grinding in dark corners. It's only when she hears someone mention that they can't get into the bathroom because of some kid that she heads towards the men's room and kicks open the door.
McCree's on the other side. Ashe has to blick rapidly in the stark lighting, too bright after the dim smokiness of the bar. McCree is slumped against the floor, back to the wall, long legs stretched out in front of him. There is foul-smelling vomit congealed in the drain. Ashe leaves it alone—someone else will clean up McCree's mess. She's more concerned about the bruise blooming on the corner of McCree's mouth.
When he doesn't give any indication of moving, she sits down next to him. There are a million things she could say, most of them snarky, too many of them cruel. She waits for him to speak. He's wiping away tears. She can smell the alcohol on him, thick enough to gag. He pulls his hat down to hide puffy eyes.
"I'm an idiot," he mumbles.
Ashe privately agrees. He goes into firefights too quick with no way of getting out and doesn't have the guts to finish off the enemies until it's down to the wire. He wears ridiculous clothes, ones that even she can't get on board with, and smokes cigars that'll give him cancer in an age where humans have created sentient gorillas on the moon. He's an idiot, but she doesn't like hearing him say it.
"What happened?" asks Ashe.
He wipes his nose with the back of his hand, an absolutely filthy habit. "I thought Finn…he'd been giving me these looks, sending all this sweet talk my way. I thought he was interested…well, he was. But not like I wanted."
McCree's chin trembles for just a moment, an admission that can't be hidden with a wide-brim. "Won't laugh?"
"No," says Ashe. "I won't laugh." McCree smells terrible, but she is struck with the desire to put her arm around his shoulder, something she has never done for anyone.
"I thought maybe he liked me. Maybe he wanted to date me."
McCree instantly flushes red and resolutely looks away from her, his eyes boring a hole into the urinal. Ashe puts her arm around his shoulder. "What did he do?"
McCree puts a thumb to his lip. "Oh, this? I don't care about that. He just made it clear he…that he wanted good ol' cocksucking Jesse from juvie. It's all that anyone wants."
"Shut up," she replies. "That ain't true. And if it is, that's not your fault." She can't find the words to continue, so she squeezes him closer to her. She can feel the bones of his shoulders through his plaid shirt, can see the fuzz still on the borders of his facial hair. Finn is at least thirty, maybe thirty-five. McCree is sixteen. A spark of flame erupts in her chest, filling her with a kind of anger she has never felt before, one that turns her blood to lava. She understands now what people mean by the term "seeing red."
"Ow," says McCree. "You're hurting my arm."
She's been squeezing into his shoulder. She relaxes her grip. "Don't worry, Jesse," she says. "I'll take care of Finn."
"Aw, hell," he says. "You don't have to do anything like that. Plenty of guys—I mean, I just…usually I don't let it get to me."
"Deadlock ain't just a name, Jesse," she says. "It's more than that." She pauses, trying to find the right ones, embarrassed by the ones she picks. "It's a family. And family looks out for each other."
"You really mean that?"
"I don't waste my words on meaningless bullshit. Of course I mean it."
"That's mighty nice of you," says McCree.
Jesse leans his head on her shoulder, unwashed hair tickling her nose. He needs a good scrub and a decent meal or two before she'll let him get near her sober, but right now she lets him fall asleep against her, dried vomit on his collar and all. He might have given her the idea for Deadlock, but she brought him in. He's a great shot, sure, but when he goes home, he's just a kid who lives with his grandparents. She'll take care of him. She'll take care of everyone in Deadlock.
She'll certainly take care of Finn.
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