Way Back Home: Why Don't You Do Right?

Notes: This chapter gets very violent at the end. Some people finally get what they deserve.

Rex had been very happy to see them when they returned to the Lucky 38. Honey felt a twinge of annoyance at herself for leaving him there alone, but - then again - she hadn't really wanted anyone tagging along on her adventures the last few days, canine or otherwise. The dog followed her to the bathroom while Arcade got started scrounging up breakfast, and John wandered off to explore the place. She slipped into the tub, warm water up to her chin, and tried not to think about the last twenty-four hours. Tried not to think about the electric feel of Swank's hand on her thigh, and the decidedly less-amazing theatrics that had taken place in his suite.

You banged my best friend, pussycat. Not exactly what I expected from a broad like you. Can't say I'm real thrilled with the fact that you moved on from me so damn fast.

Fuck you, Benny. You shot me and left me for dead. We're not even close to even.

I thought you agreed no hard feelings. Besides, you know why I did that. You can't hold it against the Ben-man for trying to save Vegas from the evil clutches of Mr. House, dig?

Come mierda, you asshole. You knew I loved you and you killed me anyway. I would have just given you the fucking chip.

No you wouldn't have, and you know it. You always took that job way too serious. Besides, everyone knows pussycats have nine lives, anyway. You've got a few more to go.

You're just in my head, just like that pinche real you is probably dead in an unmarked Legion grave by now.

I wouldn't count on that, baby. You know Caesar's gonna leave me for you. So...how'll it be? Crucifixion? Gunshot to the head? Me, I'm hoping you choose the ring fight. Never did sit right with me that you couldn't fight back the first time I killed you.

Get out of my head. Leave me alone. Honey splashed some water on her face, trying to drown the sound of his voice out of her brain. In the kitchen she heard Arcade curse softly as something started beeping. There was the smell of smoke. She should probably get in there and help, but instead she was in here, having a conversation with a murderer.

"So here you are," John announced himself as he came around the corner. For a moment she considered grabbing a towel to cover herself, but then she paused. He'd already seen everything she had anyway; no point in getting a perfectly good towel all wet.

He looked around the bathroom appraisingly. "You got some nice digs here, sister." John sat on the bench next to the bathtub and offered her his cigarette. She sat up a bit and let him put it in her mouth, his fingers brushing her lips. The smoke was hot, harsh, and somehow reassuring in her lungs; when she breathed back out se found herself relaxing against the back of the tub with a sigh. Something about exhaling the smoke made her feel better, somehow, like she was letting go.

"Yeah, I suppose this place is okay," she told him, gripping the soap from the side of the tub and beginning to lather herself up.

"Okay? Shit. We haven't got anything like this at home."

"What do you mean?" She started as he took the soap from her, but then his hands began to lather her back. Gently, softly. The tension seemed to seep from her shoulders as she felt that one spot between her shoulderblades finally get clean. Since she was shot she never could quite reach it; feeling the dirt come free was incredibly liberating.

"Any of it, really," he said, voice soft and gravelly. "We got some buildings that run off generators, but no power like this. No running water, and if you want hot water you gotta make it over the fire."

Honey nodded. "Most of the Mojave's like that, too, although Vegas gets our power from Hoover Dam."

"What's that?" There was the softness of a washcloth on her back and she bit back a moan. It was so nice to be touched gently by someone with no ulterior motives. It had been a long time since she felt comforted by another person.

"The dam?" She was surprised, but so relaxed by now that her voice didn't show it; she sounded half-asleep, even to herself. John's hands moved up to her hair, gently wetting it and working the soap through it, one tendril at a time. "Hoover Dam sits across the Colorado River, to the east of here. You know when we went to Caesar's camp? We were right near it."

"And it makes power?"

Honey nodded into his hand, and John began to rinse the soap from her hair. His fingers lingered briefly on the scar tissue on her head, tracing the lacy ridges. It felt nice.

"Yes, the water running through it generates electricity. I'm not an engineer, so I don't quite know how. But that's where we get our power from. And it's why the Legion in here, why Caesar is attacking here instead of to the north or south."

She could feel John nod, the motion making a vibration down his arms. "So what's this NCR I keep hearing people talk about? Is that all the fuckin' soldiers I see stumbling around?"

Honey's laugh resonated inside the curtain her hair made with her head tipped forward. She flipped it back and rested against the side of the tub to look at him again. He really was a good-looking man, she thought. Looked dangerous enough with his dark eyes and ironic brows, a combat knife shoved in his boot, but there was something more there. Something to make you keep looking.

"I forget how little you know," she said, as he made his way to the other end of the tub with the bar of soap. His sleeves were rolled up, and he reached into the water to pull one of her feet out. Tenderly, he ran the soap across the underside of her foot and she gasped out a giggle.

"I know plenty," he said, and this time something changed in the air. It sounded provocative. "Just not about this."

"The NCR," she began, "is the New California Republic. After the bombs fell, they started up a government out west. They've been...well, pretty successful." John dropped her foot back into the tub and grasped her other ankle, pulling that foot out and soaping up her calf in low, slow strokes. "The problem is that they tend to take what they want without asking much about it first. They're not all bad - I guess I prefer them to the Legion - but...well, they've reached too far this time."

"Ah," John nodded knowingly, dropping her foot back into the tub. He stood, stretched loosely, and grabbed a towel for his hands. It looked like he was going to ask her something, and then Arcade's voice called out that food was ready and if they wanted any, they'd better hurry up.

"I could eat a whole brahmin, so don't expect me to save you any," Arcade called, and Honey smiled.

"Better go get some grub," she said, sitting up to get a towel of her own. John smiled at her, threw her a wink, and headed out the door.

Forgetting me already, baby?

Hush, you.

"I'm sorry, clearly I must have wax or something in my ears. I thought you said you wanted to take out all the Omertas, and then you asked for our help," Arcade looked mildly annoyed. "And that can't possibly be right, because it would be suicide."

John leaned back in his seat, rocking the chair back on two legs. He lit a cigarette over the lunch dishes, and smiled slowly at his new friends. Honey looked like she might be in on it, but then again, that was no surprise. That girl'd be down for most any massacre, he thought. And really, he couldn't do it alone.

Just the same, he'd made a promise to Joana, and he planned to keep it.

"C'mon, Arcade," Honey's voice was wheedling, sweet as her name, and he could see the doctor's hackles go up almost automatically. "Just think of all those poor girls in there, strung out on Med-X and working for peanuts just to feed their addiction."

He could see Arcade's feelings warring on his face. It was clear he wanted to go in and help the prostitutes, but that outright violence was something he wanted to avoid.

"Fine," the doctor grumbled after a minute. "I'll go. But I can't promise I'll shoot anybody."

"That's fine, dear," Honey's hand caressed his, and John spared a moment to be amused. Like an old married couple, except they fuck other people. The look in Arcade's eyes was less happy, but it was clear he agreed, at least on some level, that this was the right thing to do.

"So I'm figuring we hit 'em late," John started again, leaning forward so his chair legs dropped onto the floor, setting him level. He took a drag of his cigarette. "Maybe very early in the morning, between three and six, when everyone's tired and half-fucked from chems and booze."

"Better make it a little later, then," Arcade cut in, and John didn't miss the surprised smile Honey shot him. He shrugged. "What? I figure around eight or so most of them will be sleeping. It's not as if these are upstanding gentlemen, after all."

Honey shook her head, holding her hands up, and smiled. John continued, "Ok, so we go in when we figure everything'll be relatively quiet and only a few gamblers. We don't want to hurt the little guys, just the fuckers in the shitty suits. And we take 'em out one by one. Joana'll get the working girls up into her room where it'll be safe." He pulled out a piece of paper and the pencil Honey had found him in the desk in her room, and began sketching floorplans.

"So I'll go straight there first thing and stay there with them," Arcade said as John pointed to the location of Joana's room, off the courtyard and to one side.

"And I'll stick with you and we'll head up to take out the big guys upstairs," Honey said, pointing to the balcony overlooking the casino floor. She let out a sigh. "I sure wish Cass was here. We could really use another gun, and she's got a good head on her shoulders."

"Sure wish I was here for what?" There was a voice in the doorway, sardonic and lilting, and when John turned his head, a pretty woman about his own age stood there, arms crossed, cowboy hat tilted back. She smiled at them and gave a small wave, and then Honey was up and crossing the room to hug the new woman.

"You came back!" The new woman, the redhead, looked a little embarrassed as Honey hugged her, then gave in and leaned into it.

"Yeah, well, I couldn't let you have all the fun taking on those red-flag fuckers," Cass said, and John found he liked her already. "So what's the new project?"

"We're going to Gomorrah. Apparently we're going to kill all the Omertas and take over," Arcade said in an overbright, sarcastic tone that did nothing to hide how he really felt about this plan. John let out a guffaw at the sound of it, and the look Arcade shot him was softer than his usual snarky expression. He replied with a wink as Cass walked over the table, and took far too much pleasure in watching the doctor's cheeks turn pink.

Cass sat, dropping gracelessly into the empty chair, and John caught of whiff of whiskey, like perfume. Yeah, be definitely liked this gal. "Seriously?"

Honey nodded, taking her own seat again. "It's John's idea," she gestured. "John, meet Rose of Sharon Cassidy. Cass, this is John."

Cass held out her hand and he shook it. Firm, solid grip, dry hands; she would be a good shot, he bet. And if she ran with Honey, he had not doubt in her abilities. "John McDonough," he said to her, and she nodded.

"So you're the one who wants to take out all those shitheads, huh? What's the big plan afterwards?"

He leaned back in his chair again, lifting the front two legs of the chair off the floor and balancing with his knee on the underside of the table. "Gonna hand it over to the working girls there."

Cass let out a low, appreciative whistle. "Yeah, definitely count me in. I don't even need to know the plan, just point me at 'em and let me know who I can shoot." Next to him, John could see Arcade roll his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn't fall out of his head. He bumped the other man's knee lightly with his foot and Arcade flushed again.

Yeah, definitely cute.

"The real question," Honey was saying now, "is how we get the guns in through the front door. Little stuff isn't going to hold up to whatever those guys are packing."

"Hey, I've got an idea," Cass jumped in. "How 'bout we just go in and shoot every single asshole who tries to stop us?"

They spent the rest of the day lazing around the suite; Honey took a long nap with Rex at her side, and Cass tried to teach John to play Caravan before giving up in frustration. Arcade went back to the Old Mormon Fort for a while in the afternoon to gather up supplies, and shortly after sunset Cass headed to take her own bath. When John went in to check on Honey, he found her passed out, a used syringe on the floor next to the bed and the dog snoring softly beside her.

Coming out of her room, he found Arcade just coming off the elevator. The doctor started a little when he saw someone standing in the hall, then his expression softened.

"Thought you might not come back," John said, eyes tracing the lean lines of Arcade's legs. He wondered if his legs were even paler than his face, if that was even possible.

"Almost didn't," the blonde man said shortly, setting a battered black doctor's bag on one of the tables in the front hall. "They asleep?"

"Honey is," John said, drifting down the hall towards the lounge. "Cass is taking a bath."

Arcade nodded, following him almost unconsciously. "That's good. We all really should - that is, I should go get some sleep as well." The doctor paused, halfway down the hall, and looked back towards the bedroom. "Tomorrow's a big day, and it'll start early."

"Come on," John said, softly, and watched as two different ideas began to play across Arcade's face. "Come have one drink and a game of pool with me."

"I don't know how to play."

"Don't worry," he said with a wink, circling back and looping his arm through Arcade's. "I'll teach you."

The doctor stiffened slightly at the unexpected physical contact, then relaxed as John guided him down the hall and through the door. The heat of his body through his heavy white coat felt good against John's forearm. He smelled like soap, and something soft and almost flowery. Some kind of cologne, or toilet water?

The billiards table sat on the other side of the room, massive and green, with the balls floating loosely around it and two cues resting against it, just waiting for someone to come along and play. John wondered how long they'd been like that - surely no since before the war? A small cube of crumbly blue chalk sat next to them, and he picked it up and helped himself to a pool cue, testing the weight of it in his hands as he smeared chalk on the tip.

Arcade picked up the other one, tossing it gently back and forth as he waited for the chalk. John finished and handed it off, and began racking the balls in the plastic triangle.

"Feels nice to have a hard piece of wood in my hands again," Arcade said, and John - who'd been lifting the plastic triangle up to put it away - dropped it with a shocked laugh and a clatter. Billiard balls scattered, knocking into the walls of the table and the six ball sunk itself in the near corner pocket. He turned to Arcade and saw the other man looking at him, a self-satisfied smile on his face.

"What'd you just say?" Was he flirting with him? Flirting? With him? This was amazing.

"You're not the only one who can make obscene jokes, you know," the taller man said, leaning his pool cue against the table and pulling off his doctor's coat. He placed the neatly-folded jacket on the back of a nearby chair and turned back. John couldn't help himself, though; he was staring and he knew it. The doctor was lean under that heavy coat, though his shoulders were broader than expected. Who knew he had a waist under that jacket? Now John did, that was for sure.

"Apparently not," John said, winking at him and grabbing the plastic triangle and a couple striped balls. He gestured to the other end of the table. "Care to help me with my balls?"

The guffaw Arcade let out made John's knees fill with jelly. Was this really happening? He'd thought the doctor a bit too tightly wound for this, but apparently he'd decided John was okay in his book. Somehow. The blonde man walked to the far end of the table, hands on the green felt, and he tossed balls back to John, who caught them carefully and set them in the triangle. In a moment, he'd re-racked the balls and lifted the frame away, and Arcade had lined up his first shot.

He watched the dark wood of the cue dance between Arcade's pale fingers; the tip of one fingernail had a bit of blue chalk on it, and somehow that one detail made him realize something he'd been denying to himself: he really liked this guy. It wasn't just that he wanted to jump his bones - and oh, yeah, he really, really did - there was something more going on here. There was something in the curve of Arcade's jaw that made John want to kiss it, something in the way he rolled his eyes when he was annoyed that made John want to run a finger up his cheek and take off those glasses.

John had never been in love, and he didn't think he was now, but damn if this wasn't different from any other flirtation that had come before.

"You gonna go?" Arcade was watching him carefully, one eyebrow raised and a sardonic smirk on his face. Did he know what was going through John's head? Fuck, what he wouldn't give for a hit of Jet right now, something to give him the room to breathe, to think this out -

He startled, turning his pool cue in his hands, and nodded. Arcade took a step back to give him the space to plan his move, but John didn't need it; instead, he tossed the cue aside and took the three steps to Arcade almost at a run. Before the blonde man could react, he had his hand on the doctor's cheek, fingers grazing the stubble there, and was guiding his chin down to bring their lips together.

John leaned up slightly - the doctor was a couple inches taller - and leaned into it, pressed himself against Arcade's cool, dry lips. The doctor parted his lips slightly, a tongue snaking its way out, and John had a moment to marvel at it, at the fact that the man before him was a man, not a boy, he'd done this before, and why was that a surprise to him?

He shifted forward, one hand on Arcade's hip, and there was a loud thump as the other man's pool cue dropped from his hand onto the carpet. He'd wanted this from the first moment he'd seen him, and now it was happening and he almost couldn't believe it. Had he taken a bunch of chems and this was all an hallucination? But a dream wouldn't be leaning into him so tenderly, wouldn't be slipping one pale hand up his sleeve to guide John closer, wouldn't be pressing his body against John's so deliciously. A fabrication, a chem-induced fantasy wouldn't be turning so hard against his thigh.

Their bodies slid together, somehow in sync, and John slid even closer into the circle of Arcade's arms, one hand working its way up the other man's back, pressing his shoulder-blade to pull them closer together, and he could fee a shiver go through Arcade as they crushed themselves together. The same shiver seemed to work its way into him, starting at his lips and making its way down his spine and into the root of his -

"Hot."

The two of them jumped apart, almost guilty. Cass stood in the doorway. She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, smirking. John felt a distinct and intense urge to shoot her.

"Cass," Arcade said, flushed and sweating and smoothing down his perfectly-arranged hair so that it ended up in disarray. Fuck, he was cute. John rocked back on one foot and felt around his pockets for his cigarettes. Found them and pulled one out. He lit it in a fumbling way and sucked the smoke down almost desperately.

"Arcade. John," Cass said with mock-seriousness, and she pushed up off the doorway, uncrossing her arms, and began rooting around in the bar across the room for a bottle of something. "Don't mind me," she teased. "Just looking for a drink."

John looked at Arcade, trying to meet his eyes, but the doctor turned away, gathering up his jacket and carefully keeping his back turned to both of them. "I should be heading to bed anyway," Arcade said, his back still to John as he headed for the door.

"Alone?" Cass cracked.

"Just like you always do," came Arcade's voice from down the hall, and despite his annoyance, John stifled a laugh. Maybe there would be another time.

"Couldn't have waited another ten minutes?" John settled on the couch and Cass walked over, brandishing a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

"Only ten minutes, huh?" She poured neatly, not a drop missing the glass, and handed one to him. "A peace offering."

He took it gratefully, and tossed his cigarettes and lighter on the table. She took one and saluted him casually as she lit it.

"Alright, you're right, probably would take longer, but…" a shiver worked through him as he thought of the way Arcade had tasted, of mint and yucca. The monster in his pants twitched uncomfortably. "You're a goddamn harpy for coming in like that."

Cass shrugged. "Figure if we're all gonna die tomorrow, I'd rather live it up tonight at least," she picked up her glass. Despite himself, John smiled and raised his glass to hers and they clinked, the sound of it echoing through the otherwise empty room.

"I'll drink to that," he said, and so they did.

Arcade went in first, a good hour before the rest of them made their way down the elevator and across the street. Honey didn't know why she felt nervous - there was no good reason for it, she'd walked into plenty of fights and, aside from that one time, she'd always walked back out.

Nine lives, pussycat. By my count you're down at least two, which leaves you seven. I'd gamble on that.

She wiped her hands on her pants, then realized they weren't sweaty after all. Next to her, Cass wore a smile that bordered on a grimace in the brutal desert morning. John, on her other side, had a lit cigarette clenched between his teeth and one eye screwed up against the smoke. He'd helped her this morning, scrounged a hit of Med-X from the bottom of his bag, and now the headache that seemed to plague her every waking moment had rolled back a bit, like the shores of Lake Mead when they hadn't had a monsoon.

He saw her looking at him, assessing him, and flashed her a smile.

"Ready, sister?" She was. She nodded, and they crossed the street, casual except for the fact that they were the only people not scattering like drunken radroaches in the sunrise. The door swung open slowly, and they paused for a moment in the doorway, eyes adjusting in the dim light. Too soon - way too soon - a thug in a cheesy suit and a fedora approached.

"Hey. No one but Omertas are allowed to carry guns into Gomorrah! Check your weapons with me."

Honey cocked her head at him the same way that Rex always did. She looked up at him over the tops of her shades and batted her lashes slowly. Behind her she could hear Cass groan - her friend wanted nothing more than to shoot the shit out of this place, but Honey could see the gamblers on the casino floor, could hear the shouts of people partying in the back. The Omertas might all be a bunch of bullies, but there was no reason for the rest of these people to be caught in the crossfire.

At the same time, though, she could smell blood already and it was intoxicating. Tempting.

Go on, pussycat. Fuck 'em all up for the Ben-man. You know you want to.

"Sorry," she said, flicking her eyes up in the bouncer's suspicious dark ones, "No one parts me from my weapons." Lucky was in her hand in a moment, and before the bouncer could react, the shot was fired into his gut, one clean bullet to the belly, and then he was down and bleeding out at her feet, his mouth opening and closing with no sound.

At the other end of the room, another bouncer turned, too slow - he was caught in the face by a shotgun blast from John, who whooped gleefully as he fired again, this time into the guy's neck, just to be sure. There was a scream from the receptionist, who went down behind the desk in a puddle of blue fabric, and Honey took the room at a run, crouching down and crawling around the desk to talk to the frightened woman.

"Please - please don't kill me!" The woman cried. She was shaking, anxious, half-turned away from Honey and curled up into something of a ball. Honey leaned forward and put her left hand on the woman's shoulder, intending to comfort her.

"It's okay, we're going to -" was all she got out before the receptionist turned, her face livid and vengeful. A .357 magnum appeared in her hand; behind her, the floor safe stood open. Everything happened in slow motion: the receptionist fired her revolver. It barked a report at the same moment that Honey turned, crunching up against the side of the desk and aiming her pistol at the other woman. There was a familiar, searing pain in her left shoulder as she fired her own gun and the receptionist's head exploded in front of her, a fine mist of red blood spraying across Honey's arm and the side of the desk. She fired again as things began to speed up, and watched as the woman's body dropped before her, an inelegant heap on the shiny parquet.

Her shoulder aching, burning with the gunshot, Honey poked her head up over the desk. Cass and John had disappeared onto the casino floor, and she stood slowly, using the side of the desk for leverage. She could hear a couple screams and the sound of guns going off, and so she straightened, gripped Lucky more tightly in her right hand, and made her way into the casino.

Gamblers cowered under the gaming tables around her, some of them covering their heads with their hands. Three more Omertas lay dead or dying on the gambling floor, and as she made her way along the back wall, she saw Cass fire into the teller's room, dropping another. Ahead of her, John was making his way into Brimstone, where she could see a few more thugs getting their weapons ready.

Honey paused, shoving Lucky back into its holster and whipping her trail carbine off her back. Looking up at the Zoara Club, she could see doors opening and closing. She waited, crouched behind a blackjack table, until she saw two men walk, guns in hand, to the rail. They were Omertas; she peeked through the scope of her gun, and realized the one in the hat was Big Sal. Mercedes had had to have a "little chat" with him and Cachino once about her behavior in Brimstone. That "chat," if she recalled had left her with bruises all over her ass and one broken finger. Fucking pendejos.

That meant the guy with Big Sal was probably Nero, the head, the mythical boogeyman of the Omerta family. She let out a laugh and pressed the rifle butt into her good shoulder. This was too fucking easy. Nero pointed to something down on the casino floor - maybe the body of one of their goons - and Big Sal nodded, his face puckered.

Before they could turn and run down the stairs, she'd fired four shots, one into each of their eyes. Both men's bodies dropped, Big Sal's mouth open in an expression of surprise and confusion, bloody tears working their way down their cheeks. In a crouch, she made her way around the room towards the back of the building, to the club where Cass had followed John just moments before.

Maybe they'd put too much work into this bit of mayhem; maybe these assholes just weren't all they were cracked up to be. Either way, John had expected more resistance from the Omertas. There was a bodyguard at the back of the club who gave him a little trouble, but when he ran out of shells in his shotgun he let it drift in one hand and grabbed the combat knife out of his boot. It was easy enough to dodge behind a table while the guard wasted his ammunition and then go flying at him while he reloaded, slicing his stomach to ribbons and butting him in the nose with the back of the handle.

Cass was behind him, shouting at the bartender to get on the floor; from the whimpering he heard, it was clear the girl was having a hard time following orders. He was turning, ready to go help, when a shot whistled behind his ear.

That one nearly got me, he thought, dazed. He turned quickly, and found the muzzle of a revolver in his face. It was held by a short man in an Omerta suit, standing just a bit too close.

"The fuck do you think you're doin' here?" The guy with the gun asked. He was bald and his voice was tougher than his face, which looked like it wanted to collapse in on itself. A smile tried to make its way onto John's face and he bit his cheek to force it back, and there was the metallic tang of blood in his mouth.

"Easy, brother," he said, hands raising slowly. He let the knife fall to the carpet. "What we're doin' here is we're havin' a little coup." Behind the little man he saw Honey make her way into the club, one shoulder dark with blood but still holding her rifle up, ready for a fight. Hell of a woman.

The man laughed. "That so?"

"Yeah, it is," Honey's voice behind the man made him turn his head, though he kept his gun on John. "I took out your bosses just now, so if you want to live through this, you might as well back down."

"Fuck you."

A sigh from the boss. "That's not very nice language, Cachino." A chill worked its way through John's chest and he took a small step to one side, just far enough that if the gun went off it would miss him.

He's a filthy monster, Joana's voice rang in his head as clearly as if she was standing next to him. When he closed his eyes he didn't see her; he saw Nicole, blue eyes wide as Vic undressed and smacked her for his friends.

Cachino. Vic. The Legion shitheads. All cut from the same fuckin' cloth.

The chill was more than that now; it was as if his hands and feet belonged to someone else. Before he could think about it too hard - after all, when had thinking ever gotten him anywhere? - John dropped and kicked one foot out into Cachino's knees. The other guy yelped, his finger squeezing the trigger, and a round fired into the ceiling behind him, barely missing his head as Cachino fell to the ground.

John could see Honey out of the corner of his eye; she approached slowly, straightening and stretching her neck. The trail carbine she let drop, pointing it at the floor, as she walked over, a curious expression on her face. Next to him, Cachino lay on his back, arms flailing; he'd dropped his gun in the scuffle and now it lay twenty feet away, under a table, useless to both of them. John had dropped his empty shotgun, but he didn't want it.

No, for what he had planned, he wanted his knife.

He landed on Cachino hard, popping him once in the jaw to keep the gangster off-kilter, and then sat on his chest, the suit's elbows pressed under John's knees. Cachino's eyes were wild, with too much white showing, and something in John seemed to break with pleasure at the sight of it.

"I hear you like to fuck up little girls, eh, Ca-chin-o?" He said it like that, drawing out each syllable of the man's name, and though the guy struggled under him, John felt a hot knot of rage in his chest grow. He grabbed Cachino's chin in one hand and what hair he had on his head in the other, and slammed the man's head into the floor. It was carpeted, but there was still a goggle-eyed expression as the back of his head smacked hard.

"I don't know -"

"Joana," John growled, his face low against the other man's, his lips pressed almost to Cachino's ear. Behind him, he heard Honey strapping her rifle on her back.

There was the smell of urine. The fucker pissed himself.

"Alright, I'm sorry," Cachino's voice was high, pleading. John wondered if that was how Joana sounded when he fucked her with a pool cue, or the time he -

"Not as sorry as you're going to be." The smile that crossed John's face felt as ugly as it probably looked, but he didn't care. He might not have been able to make Vic pay, but he was going to make this son of a bitch suffer for every goddamn thing he ever did to a woman that she didn't want. "Honey," he didn't look, but he could feel her there, could almost feel the feral smile he knew she had. "Can I have my knife, please?"