Tim turned the gun over in his hand, feeling the weight of it. He'd handled plenty of rifles, gone on what seemed like hundreds of hunting trips, but he didn't think he'd ever feel comfortable with a handgun. It seemed designed for only one purpose: to hurt people?

"You ready, Prospect?" asked Tig as he appeared from nowhere, causing Tim to jump.

"Yeah, I'm ready," replied Tim. He didn't really understand why they were doing this, sneaking into a warehouse late at night to threaten a bunch of Mayans, but he knew better than to ask questions.

"Then let's go." Opie pulled down his ski mask and stepped through the open door, motioning for Tim to go left. It was just the three of them and Tim sort of wished that Jax was there, since he was the only one that Tim actually trusted.

Which was kind of ironic, if you thought about it, since Jax had stolen Julie. Tim shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts and get his focus back in the game. Except that was a poor choice of words and he knew it. This wasn't a game.

He crept silently through the warehouse, gun held out in front of him like he'd seen cops do in the movies. Through the shelves, he could see Opie and Tig making parallel progress up toward the lit front of the warehouse. From the sounds of things, there was a heated poker game going on up there.

Tim slowed down and let Tig announce their presence, then eased to around the corner of the aisle, just barely letting himself be seen.

"Boys, we know you took something of ours and we want it back. Give it over, and no one gets hurt," said Tig.

The biggest guy at the table stood up. "Bullshit. Get the fuck out of here."

"I'm not playing," said Tig, the tone of his voice sending a shiver up Tim's spine.

"I'm not neither," replied the Mayan, his hand edging toward a gun on the table. Tig shot him in the leg, the man doubling over in pain as his buddies jumped to their feet. Opie rushed in and tossed the gun off the table, pressing his own gun into the temple of a nervous looking guy who couldn't be more than 20.

"Abecrombie, a little help here," called Tig.

Tim found it very difficult to make his feet co-operate, but he managed to walk over to the table, hoping that the shaking in his hands wasn't too obvious. When he got close, Tig grabbed his gun and forced Tim to press it into the stomach of the nearest guy. Tim elbowed Tig, wishing that he would back off, but the psycho just threw an arm around him and laughed.

"Someone tells us where our stuff is in the next 15 seconds or the kid here's going to shoot someone," announced Tig.


Tim looked at him, trying to put fury into his eyes, knowing that's all Tig could see under the ski mask.

"What? I am right, aren't I? You've never shot no one before. Nevermind that, first one's the hardest. Where was I?"

"Fifteen seconds," reminded Opie.

"Oh, right. Fifteen seconds. One...two...three...four...five...six...seven...eight... Really? No one cares about this kid? Nine...ten... You know a gut shot's really going to hurt. Eleven...twelve...thirteen...fourteen. Last chance.... Fifteen. Damn, go ahead then."

Tim knew that there was no way he was pulling the trigger. The guy looked up at him, pleading, his words coming out in a whispered stream of Spanish. Even though Tim had enough trouble with English, he knew the guy was praying, pleading for his life.

"Do it!" commanded Tig.

Tim held steady, his nerves becoming more calm even as the situation got more tense.

"Man, you just can't get good help these days," remarked Opie. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a second gun and jammed into the guy's neck. Tim could feel him start to shake.

"Over there, man, in the bottom desk drawer," said the guy, crumpling at the knees. Tim grabbed his shoulder and helped ease him back into a chair. He took a step back, keeping his gun pointed in the direction of the table.

Tig walked over to the desk, opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a skinny blue duffel bag. He unzipped it, looked inside, and then nodded in satisfaction.

"Thank you for your co-operation," said Tig, his mouth curling into a mocking smile. "We'll be on our way now. You fellas enjoy the rest of your evening."

Tim took his cues from Opie and began to back away from the table, keeping his gun up and his hands steady. After they'd backed halfway out of the warehouse, they turned and ran to their bikes, then headed back to the clubhouse.

The cool night air felt good onTim's face and he wished that it could wash away everything from the warehouse. He felt horrible, shaky and off-balance, and all he really wanted to do was go home and call Julie.

But he knew he had to go back with the guys, knew that he had to spend some time hanging out with them, knew that he was going to get a lot of shit for not being able to pull the trigger.

So, when Tig slapped him on the back and said "Better luck next time" and Opie chuckled in such a way that let Tim knew that they'd been playing him, that they'd set him up and had known all along he wasn't ready to shoot anybody, he felt a tiny bit of relief. And when Emily Duncan handed him a beer and half a bottle of Jack, he could see an alternative to calling Julie.

He could get drunk and screw around, the way he always did when he wanted to forget. It had always worked in the past. And for a few hours, it seemed to be working. But Tim found that he couldn't get the feel of the gun out of his hand, or the wispy sound of Spanish out of his head. He definitely didn't like what had just happened and, if he was honest with himself, didn't like where he was headed. But he knew he wasn't quite ready to be 100% honest with himself yet.