The steady beeping of the EKG kept me awake, I'd asked the nurse to turn it down, and she'd ignored me; I hated the fucking day shift nurses with a passion.

The smell of too much antiseptic was cloying, invading my nostrils and making me nauseous, or maybe it was the chemo…

The sudden realization that I had to piss didn't help my mood.

I dragged myself out of bed, trying not to look in the mirror as I wheeled my IV pole along next to me; the chemo was making me shaky again; I glanced at my arm; my skin was an ugly pale, the kind of pale only the deathly ill get.

And death stared back at me when I dragged my gaze to the mirror; I looked like a fucking scarecrow, dark circles under my eyes, bruising up and down my neck, dotting my exposed skin like the world's worst tattoo.

I sighed and coughed so hard I felt a rib pop out of place again.

This was my last round; I'd know tomorrow if it helped before we tried a more aggressive form of the drugs.

I was going to tell them no, I was going to go home, drag my gangly ass out into the woods behind my house with a bottle of Jameson and my Glock, and blow my head off.

I was going out on my fucking terms. I did my business and staggered back to bed, so weak that I almost didn't make it; I collapsed onto the poor excuse for a mattress, hoping I'd die in my sleep and save me the trouble of hearing them tell me I wasn't gonna make it…

Outskirts of Dongola, Sudan, 2010.

I finished the injection; the kid barely cried, his mother rocking and consoling him in Hausa. I gently poked him in the stomach, drawing a reluctant giggle, so I followed up with another one until he laughed like a baby should. I showed his mother a hidden lollipop, and she nodded, smiling.

I presented it to him with a flourish, and his smile was million-watt; he was too young to thank me, but that smile was all I needed. I told her to keep an eye on his arm in broken Hausa, and she beamed, nodding her thanks and heading out into the heat of the day, her boy smiling at me over her shoulder. I checked the rolls, I didn't have any other appointments left, but that meant less than zero in Dongola. So I re-inventoried my kit, making sure I had enough vaccine, gauze, and PPE for the next few days.

Someone cleared their throat behind me, and I turned to see Dave leaning against the doorframe, a smile on his face.

"Hey, Zack."

I returned his smile, "Hey, boss."

Dave Mason was a paradox, a former Special Forces dude who found Jesus in between deployments; now, he ran an NGO that provided medical clinics and field medical services worldwide. He'd given me a chance after we'd met in the gym, dragging me through his own personal training course and letting me do something useful with my new lease on life.

He was built like a linebacker, broad-shouldered, and narrow at the hip, with piercing blue eyes and sandy blonde hair, he always had a smile on his face. Dave had single-handedly dragged me back from the brink; I owed the guy everything.

Now his eyes twinkled like he was the only one in on the joke.

"Settling in?"

I nodded, leaning against the supply closet, "Yeah, nicely, been a long road, but I'm thrilled to be here, and I'm not gonna stop thanking you for taking me on."

His smile got a little wider, "The Lord brought you to me for a reason kid, I'm just happy to help you."

Someone screamed outside, and Dave's head snapped around.

I was at his side in a flash, spying the technicals roaring up the road and the heavily armed men hanging off the side.

Fucking Janjaweed.

I felt Dave press something into my hand; I looked down to see the Glock 26 he was palming me. When I looked back up, his eyes had turned hard.

"If they start it, shoot for what you can hit and then head for my hut; there's more ammo there and a couple of AK's. The only way we get through this is through them."

I sucked in a breath and nodded, press-checking the Glock to make sure it was loaded and slipping it into my waistband.

"Good, now follow me and keep your hands visible."

He started out the door with a smile on his face when the trucks rolled to a stop. Calling out to the men in Arabic, I barely spoke the local lingo, but I got the gist. He was welcoming these animals, trying to keep them from killing everyone there.

From the rambling response he got, I doubted things were going our way; the men were ragged, bloodshot eyes from the Brown-Brown they liked to fill their off-time with, armed with a mix of AK's, M16's and PKM's. I noticed that the guy Dave was talking to was wearing a necklace of ears.

They looked fresh.

Our civvies were running and screaming, trying to get to cover.

The smile never left Dave's face as he tried to talk them down, but his hands dropped lower and lower, to where he had a .45 tucked at the small of his back.

I stepped off to the side, clearing my line to the gunner of the lead technical, his shaky fingers resting on the butterfly trigger of a "Dishka" machine gun; the 12.7mm rounds would fuck our shit up if he started hammering away, he racked the weapon twice, and my blood ran cold.

I knew how to shoot, growing up in the country, but I knew shit about combat, Dave had trained us all up, but there was a difference between the flat range and killing dudes.

The leader stepped up and shoved Dave, bringing his AK up, and suddenly the difference didn't matter. I snapped the gun out of my waistband and fired five shots at the honcho, shocked when he pitched forward in a spray of blood. I tracked the front sight and fired the rest of the mag into the gunner, his head snapping back and then forward as he fell, slamming off the receiver of the MG before he collapsed to the truck bed.

I was already running for Dave's hut; the chatter of AK fire chased me all the way there, rounds kicking up little plumes of sand as I sprinted, more afraid than I'd ever been in my life.

But if we didn't stop them, they'd wipe the town off the map.

I crashed through the door, hitting the floor and rolling as rounds punched holes in the wall all around me. I snatched up an AK sitting by Dave's bed and a bandoleer of magazines, racking the charging handle and flipping the selector down to full auto.

I had to get their heads down.

Dave rolled in the door, blood pumping from his arm.

"MotherFUCKERS!" He snarled, kicking the door closed as they tore our little hiding spot apart, "Nice shooting, man, toss me the other AK!"

I slid the weapon his way and pulled the Iraqi off-hand, sticking the barrel out the window and spraying half the mag in their direction.

"The fuck do we do now?!" I yelled over the return fire.

"Swap your mag! We're going out the back! Single shots shoot until they drop; I'll be right with you!"

I nodded, grabbing a new magazine and trying to seat it; my hands were shaking and numb from the adrenaline.

Dave laid a hand on my arm, "You're doing fine, slow down."

I took a breath and did as he said; the mag slid home with a soft click that I barely heard over the gunfire.

Dave grinned and nodded, tying a bandage around his bleeding arm.

"On me, kid!"

He bolted for the back door, snatching up a bag of something as he shouldered the door open. I was right on his heels, my nerves firing, and my heart racing as we flanked the assholes. Tears were running down my face, and I was pretty sure I'd pissed myself, but the screams of the civvies drove me forward.

We hit an alleyway, and Dave motioned for me to slow up; he peeked the corner and waved me forward. We'd popped out behind them, their backs to us as they hosed houses indiscriminately. Dave glanced back at me and grinned, something evil in his eyes.

It was a look I'd never seen before, and it scared me a little, but if I was honest, my grin probably matched nicely.

They'd tried to kill us; they would kill the people we cared for.

They'd kill that little boy after they raped his mother.

We'd kill them first.

My nerves vanished, and the rush that I felt was intoxicating. Dave stalked down the alley, and I followed until we stepped into the street, the twenty-odd militia still preoccupied, his hand dipped into the bag he'd grabbed up, coming out with a shape a blind man could recognize.

Grenades were pretty universal.

An idea occurred, and I slung my AK pointing at the Dishka; Dave nodded and flashed me a thumbs-up; I climbed up the truck, stepping over the body of the gunner ignoring the smell of blood and voided bowels, curling my fingers around the spade grip of the weapon and tracking the sights to the backs of the men in front of us, my blood firing with something like murderous rage.

Dave waved and held up three fingers.

Three.

He pulled the pin.

Two.

He let the spoon fly free.

One.

He reared back and hurled the grenade in a high arc; it landed mere feet behind the formation.

And dropped his hand to his side.

I hit the butterfly trigger, and the weapon roared to life, the heavy rounds tearing them to pieces; the grenade detonated, spraying them with shrapnel. I knew they were screaming. Still, I couldn't hear anything except the thunderous report of the weapon that had become my whole world.

One spun towards us, and I cut him in half, one arm flew off to the side, and intestines trailed as his body blew apart, cordite filled my nostrils, and I was sure I was screaming; the truck rocked as I held the trigger down, sweeping the gun from left to right.

Blood sprayed the sand, limbs blew to pieces, and I kept shooting.

"YOU CAME TO THE WRONG VILLAGE, MOTHERFUCKERS!" I screamed, laughing obscenely.

I was thrilled…

Beyond thrilled.

I was damn near aroused.

Dave waved his hands, and I ignored him, hammering their dead bodies for everything they'd planned to do.

Something grabbed me by my belt as I cackled and slung me out of the bed of the truck to the hard pack below. I hit the ground and rolled, shaken by the impact.

But my head cleared.

Dave grabbed me roughly and hauled me to my feet, something unreadable in his eyes.

"You okay?"

My ears were ringing, and I was still buzzing hard, but nothing like what I'd felt behind that fifty.

I nodded, suddenly ashamed, "Dave I…I'm-"

He cut me off, "It happens, they were animals, and you did the right thing. Just… be careful. C'mon, let's go check on the civvies."

I swallowed the lump in my throat, buoyed by his words.

"Yeah, on you, boss."

He smiled and slapped my shoulder, heading for the nearest hut. The smell of blood and cordite hung heavy in the air. The rebels' bodies were nothing more than hunks of meat spread out over the far end of the street.

I stared at my handiwork, struggling with how I'd never felt more life flooding through my veins than while I was taking theirs.

A baby cried somewhere, and I pulled my gaze from the mess, charging off to help any way I could…

Kobane, Syria, 2015.

"HOLD HIM!" I shouted as bullets cracked by outside; the two Kurds, Eylo and Zoran, were struggling with a third; his gut was blown open by fragments from an RPG. I kept a knee planted on his shoulder as my gloved hands searched for his aorta; the bright spurting arcs of blood told me that he had seconds.

It was a miracle, but I felt the pulsing vein under my fingers, clamping down hard as the kid screamed bloody murder. The hemostat slid into place, holding the artery closed; he had a chance.

The fire outside got even more intense, sizzling snaps of AK rounds blended with the whoosh-BOOM of RPG's.

ISIS bought those fucking things in bulk.

"I stopped the bleeding!" I yelled in Kurdish, the two fighters relaxed as much as they could, AK's snapping up to cover the windows. I jabbed the kid with morphine, painting an "M" on his forehead in blood, a futile effort; the closest hospital was over the border in Turkey, and they'd let this kid die to prove a point.

The door slammed open, and my Glock was out and aimed at the sound before my eyes had the chance to track the sights.

Two guns greeted me, held by big bearded guys, their eyes obscured by anti-flash shades.

Marine Raiders.

Uncle Sam had finally decided to get involved a few weeks back.

I slipped the Glock back into my holster with a soft click, "Sorry guys; we're a little keyed up around here."

One nodded, and they lowered their rifles, "You the NGO medic? Briggs?"

I spiked the bag on a saline IV for the poor kid; if I was on the stick, he'd need a colostomy at the very least. I kept my eyes on my work as I answered.

"Yeah, that's me; what can I do for you?"

"They're calling for a general evacuation of all US citizens, which right now is just you. Daesh is rolling hard; this place might fold."

I squeezed the kid's hand as he slipped into unconsciousness. My heart rate shooting through the roof as the Raider's words sank in, I shook my head against the terror and grief.

"They've been rolling hard for weeks, and I've been here the whole time, so has the rest of my outfit. Where are they?"

The guy who I assumed had rank since he was doing all the talking shook his head, "I…I'm sorry. They're gone."

I froze for a moment.

Jack, Cecelia, Aaron.

Fuck.

"How?" I whispered

"Suicide truck hit the Kurd CP about twenty minutes ago."

I rolled my shoulders, trying to keep the tears out of my eyes, "They were good kids, too good for that shit. Command is toast?"

He nodded again.

"I…I can't leave; there are too many people here that need help."

He sighed, "Bud, you know what they'll do to you if they take the city."

I nodded and ran a hand over my gun.

"Got a plan if it comes down to it."

We stared at each other for a long moment.

"Well, shit," his buddy whispered, "I think we've got his answer, D."

The dude in charge huffed, clearly not thrilled with me, but the fire outside intensified even more, and he knocked his shoulder into his buddy's.

"We gotta roll, fall back, and hit 'em from higher ground," He looked at me, "Take care of yourself; we'll keep the rain coming."

I nodded, "Appreciate it, guys, be safe."

They hustled out without a look back.

"Zack?" Someone whispered in Kurdish.

The voice was my buddy Eylo, a nineteen-year-old kid; he should've been chasing pretty girls, maybe going to college. Instead, he was here fighting for his life against some truly evil motherfuckers.

So it goes.

"Yeah, bud?"

His dark eyes were full of concern, "They wanted you to leave?"

I nodded, digging for a cigarette; it took a couple of tries to get my lighter to work, my hands shook, the grief of losing my friends hitting me like a sledgehammer.

"So why did you not go?"

"Because it isn't right," I whispered, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air. I rolled my med bag up and slung it over my shoulder, snatching my AK and gently pushing the door open the door to the battle raging outside, pulling back when around, stray or aimed, clipped a chunk of mud from the wall.

"Watch him," I pointed to the knocked-out fighter, "I'll be back."

Eylo nodded and offered me a weak smile; Zoran kept his eyes on the windows but flashed me a thumbs-up.

I took a breath and pushed out the door, picking my way through the rubble, moving from cover to cover, keeping my angles covered, and watching for snipers.

I hadn't made it a block when a 105' round hooked in and blew the hut away; Eylo, Zoran, and my patient were vaporized in a flash of light and a thunderclap of sound that damn near blew out my eardrums, knocking me to the trash-strewn street, my head collided with a piece of rubble and knocked me out cold.

Nasiriyah, Iraq, 2019.

Dave sat across from me, sipping his tea; I kept an eye on the street.

Even now, you had to stay on guard.

"So, Daesh is toast, kinda anti-climactic, huh?"

I nodded, taking a long slug of mint tea, "They all belong in the fucking ground. Just glad I lived long enough to see it happen."

Dave sighed, "I know this was rough for you. Nobody would blame you if you hung it up."

I snorted humorlessly, "Where am I gonna go, Dave? Back to the States? You know as well as I do that there's nothing left for me there."

He winced, "Yeah, I know, I'm sorry, man… I wasn't thinking… jet-lag."

I smiled, "I know, brother, no harm, no foul, but it's the truth. I'm ready for whatever comes next."

He still looked apologetic, reaching into his bag and setting a folder on the table.

"This one has me stumped; I thought of you because I know what you're about. These people need the Lord, big time, but they also need quality medical care. I want you to head in and set up a clinic, but you might need to get…unconventional."

He slid the folder to me, and I flipped it open. Just skimming it was enough to have my interest.

"Thailand?"

Dave shook his head, "Roanapur is an entirely different animal; it's almost its own nation. A real wild west type place, criminals head there because it's about as far from any semblance of authority as they can get. Russian Mob, Triads, Yakuza, Cartels, Colombian and Mexican, and the good old fashioned Mafia. There's also a smattering of pirate outfits that run the local waterways."

I lit a cigarette and leaned back in my chair as he continued.

"All of this mess, and thirty-thousand people caught in the middle. It's as close to hell as you want to get. If you do this for me, you'll have to pull out all the stops; you're going to have to work with at least one of these outfits if we set up on their turf."

I nodded, "Nothing we haven't done before. I know the drill. It'll be rough, but you're right, these people need help, and that's the mandate." I smiled, "I haven't shied away from it before, and I won't start now."

Dave smiled, "I know, and I know you've never been much of a believer, but I think God put us together for a reason; you're a good man Zack, one of the best I've ever known. To go through what you did and still hold onto the good? That's a miracle if I've ever seen one."

I couldn't help the emotion at the hot rush of memories and Dave's naked praise, my voice thick with emotion as I answered.

"Thank you, Dave, and not just for saying all that, but for everything. I could live a hundred years and never be able to properly thank you and Kathy for everything you've done."

He waved me off, "I'd do it again in a heartbeat; I love you like my own kid."

I held back tears, remembering Mom, Dad, Jen…

Angie…

I sniffed hard, putting it back in the box, "Well, I'm in. When can I get outta the desert?"

Dave looked a little shocked, "You don't want to take some time and think about it?"

I shook my head, "Nah, I need to keep moving. It's too hot here anyway; my fucking eyeballs have been boiling for the last four years."

Dave smiled but didn't answer, lifting his glass. I gently tapped mine into it with a soft clink.

"I'll make the arrangements."

Roanapur, Thailand, 2020.

Hot.

That was the only way to describe it.

The surface of the sun had nothing on Roanapur in July.

I'd showered before I left the hotel, and I was already soaked with sweat, bouncing down the road into the city proper in the back of a rickety taxi, being assaulted by Thai rap as it thumped out of the speakers; the weathered old driver smiled at me around his broken teeth, blackened by years of smoking and Betelnut, bobbing his head to the music. I gave him a million-watt grin in return.

Just because my ears were a cunt-hair away from bleeding was no reason to be impolite.

The city was vibrant, even during the heat of the day, harboring the kind of paradox that I'd only seen once before, in Rio, little kids begging in abject squalor as half-million-dollar cars drove by. It was easy to see what Dave had laid on me; this place was home to some of the worst kind of criminal on the planet, drawn by the lack of any real law enforcement, where all of their illicit activities were far beyond the reach and watchful eye of the governments of the world.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the raggedy edge.

We blew through the outskirts of the city, heading downtown. I hummed a tune, staring out the window. The place looked like any other third-world city I'd called home over the last few years. But I knew from all the info Dave had dug up that it was anything but ordinary.

Monsters came out at night.

We rolled to a stop, and I slapped enough baht in the driver's hand to keep him in Betel and hookers for the foreseeable. He grinned and thanked me as I stepped out and onto the hardpack, grabbing my bag and giving him a wave before he sped off. I eyed up the building as I strolled to the door; any faster and the goddamn heatstroke would've done the job the mosquitoes couldn't.

The place was a bit of a wreck, dust-covered everything, the surgical suite was a mess, but Dave said he'd worked something out that would secure us some real funding, and to expect visitors. I knew what he'd probably had to do to make it happen, and I had a decent idea of who would come calling.

We were smack in the middle of Hotel Moscow territory, the HQ of the Bratva in Roanapur. Dave's info pegged the honcho as a woman everyone called "Balalaika" after the Dragunov's Russian nickname. She was Russian Airborne, served in a few different theaters before getting fucked by Moscow, she and her boys wound up here. Word on the street was that she was beyond dangerous and a crack shot with her namesake, or anything else she could get her hands on for that matter.

I dumped my suitcase in the back office and set off in search of a broom.

It was gonna be a long day.

The sun was slipping below the horizon, turning the streets a warm orange, before I finally finished scratching the surface of the mess. I collapsed into a chair behind the receptionists' desk, reaching over to flip a light switch.

Nothing.

"Fuck me," I whispered. Pulling myself out of the chair and heading off to look for the breaker. After a fruitless search of the three exam rooms and my office, I headed for the basement, igniting the light on my phone as I picked my way down the rickety steps.

The breaker was in the far corner because, of course it was. With a snap and a hum, the building lit up; I blinked to clear my vision at the sudden harsh light.

Huh.

The basement was a dirt-floored expanse that covered most of the clinic's underbelly. The walls looked almost reinforced, heavy steel plating over what I assumed were cinderblocks, with channels cut for floodwaters.

Adding that to the list of questions I had about this place's integrity, I headed back up, wheeling a second chair into my office for my inevitable meeting. It was a simple thing, but it had a desk and a filing cabinet that I could use to keep track of patient info. Dave's words came rushing back as I slid into the rickety chair.

Third drawer, left side.

I pulled the drawer open, revealing a beaten-up backpack and a bottle of bourbon.

Dave had come through yet again…I set the bottle on the desk, ignoring the puff of dust, and spun the lid off, pulling out the bag as I took a short pull from the bottle, the burn felt amazing and chased away a little of the jet-lag. From the way the backpack shifted, the weight of it, and the dull thunk as it hit the wood, I had a sneaking suspicion.

Aw, Dave, you shouldn't have.

I unzipped it and grinned.

A tuned .45 sat in the bag, An STI Staccato, expensive and designed for hard use. Five boxes of ammo and six double-stack magazines, each holding thirteen rounds, greeted me in the front pouch, along with a black leather shoulder rig that wouldn't print under the light clothing I'd have to wear here.

I pulled my phone out, keying up some suitable music, and set about loading mags for my new best friend; the lid went back on the bottle, I didn't need to face down Russian Mob goons, much less trained soldiers, with half a bag on.

I lit another cigarette, and the rounds snapped into the new magazines as Alannah Myles crooned about Black Velvet.

It was therapeutic for me, zen almost. I'd always been a gun guy, the way some guys are gear heads or sports nuts. I loved the sharp snap of a 9mm, the almost gentle push from a full-sized .45, all the way up to the world-shaking explosion of a .50 cal.

I finished the mags, casting a glance to the lobby, no one yet.

I rolled out a towel, breaking the 1911 down to its parts, thoroughly inspecting every inch of it; the interior was stainless steel, while the outside was matte black, a smart move to protect against corrosion in the salt-rich environment this close to the ocean.

Plus, you just don't nickel plate a whole-ass weapon.

For thine enemy maketh war on shiny objects.

I reassembled the weapon almost absent-mindedly, as headlights shone through the windows.

Showtime.

With a final glass-smooth slide-click, the .45 was back together; I gave it a couple of test cycles, making sure the four-pound trigger reset the way it was supposed to; satisfied, I slid a mag home and racked a round into the chamber, slipping the safety on and foregoing the holster, for now, tucking it into my waistband.

A soft knock sounded from the front door. I killed the music and got up, making my way down the short hallway, a few silhouettes milled around on the sidewalk as I approached, pulling the door open.

An absolute bull of a man greeted me, nasty looking scars crisscrossing his face. His cropped hair and the way he held himself screamed "military." When he spoke, his accent was present but not overwhelming.

"You are the new Doctor?"

He was probing to see if I'd tell the truth.

Smart.

I shook my head, "I'm a Physicians Assistant, sent by my organization to get this clinic up and running."

He nodded and stepped aside, revealing a tall blonde woman, she was a couple of inches shorter than my six-foot two-inch frame, but the presence she exuded made her height irrelevant. She was draped in a Russian Army greatcoat over a dark-colored business suit, striding up to me like she owned the place, which, to be fair, she did. A thin cigar glowed in her left hand, the smoke circling her head like a halo, her right came up as she closed the gap. The soft glow of a streetlight hit her, and I realized that I was looking at a predator, a caged wolf; this was a professional soldier.

She was also lovely, piercing blue eyes and a waterfall of cornsilk hair, a slightly aquiline nose over full lips. I noticed the scars around her right eye the closer she got, trailing down her face and neck into the collar of her button-down shirt, but they did nothing to detract from her looks; in my mind, they only enhanced them, she'd been through it, someone who's seen the elephant more than once. There was a kinship there that transcended ideologies or nations. We knew just how bad it could get.

It didn't hurt that I had my own share of scars to hide.

"Mr. Briggs? A pleasure to make your acquaintance." Her voice was smooth and inviting, but with an edge to it, a tinge of a Russian accent that turned it husky.

I shook her outstretched hand, nodding, "Likewise, Ma'am, your reputation precedes you. Would you and you men like to come in?"

The offer was unnecessary; I couldn't have stopped her if I tried.

"I think that would be prudent, but Sergeant? Wait here, Mr. Briggs will be an excellent host, I am sure."

The big man flinched, clearly hating the idea of his boss being alone with an unknown, but he nodded; the other men watched me like hawks, their faces promising violence if I stepped out of line.

"Yes, Kapitan."

They had nothing to worry about; just because I'd quit caring if I lived or died didn't mean I had a death wish.

A fine line.

I beckoned her to follow, feeling the itch between my shoulder blades that came with having someone close behind me; we weaved through the waiting area and into my office.

"May I take your coat?" I offered

She quirked an eyebrow at my show of manners but turned and let me slip the heavy coat off her shoulders and hang it on the back of her chair as she settled in.

I held in a whistle; she had a figure to match the rest of her, a perfect hourglass if her body curved the way her maroon suit did. I buried that suicidal shit and settled in opposite her, gesturing for her to lead off.

Her smile was predatory, but I liked the way it lit up her eyes. She took a drag off her cigar, leaning forward; I pushed the ashtray her way. She thanked me with the barest of nods and spoke in that smooth rolling cadence.

"I assume our mutual friend has filled you in about our arrangement?"

I shook my head, digging in my front pocket for my smokes, searching for my lighter that seemed to have vanished when the clink of a Zippo drew my eye to her; the lighter already glowed, I leaned forward until the flame made contact and the cigarette glowed.

"Thank you. No, we haven't had the chance to speak since I landed. Dave gave me the rundown on the area, but time didn't allow for specifics. Above and beyond that, I'm to extend you every possible courtesy."

I chanced a smile at the end.

One that she didn't return.

Her blue eyes flashed, and all of her earlier congeniality vanished in an instant.

Shitballs

"That is… a little too general for my taste, the implication of wiggle room is a fallacy, allow me to educate you." She knocked the ash off the end of her cigar, gently pushing the ashtray inside my reach. She tucked the cigar into the corner of her mouth and steepled her fingers on the desk.

"Rule number one. I own this operation, and by extension, I own you. I have extended you an unimaginable courtesy by allowing this," She waved her hand at the room, "to proceed, you operate, and operate safely, at my leisure."

I didn't reply, simply sat and listened; her meaning was clear.

If you piss me off, I'll burn this block down with you in it.

She flicked her cigar, the ash forming a small pile in the tray.

"Rule number two. The moment I feel that your organization's continued existence in Roanapur is unnecessary or that your interests do not align perfectly with my own, I will not hesitate to terminate our agreement. Am I clear?"

Her voice carried an edge to it, the timbre of command, reminding me that this woman had led men into combat and out the other side.

Now I nodded, picking my words carefully, "Crystal clear, ma'am. I'm here to help sick and injured people, nothing more, nothing less. I understand that I operate at your leisure alone. And I meant no offense."

She smiled predatorily, like a shark circling prey, "People rarely do."

I stubbed my smoke out and lit another one, nodding my assent but keeping my mouth shut.

A more human smile crossed her face, her eyes regaining some life, "Now that my message has been received, there is the matter of the state of this place. If you are to operate under the umbrella of my protection, it won't do to have a threadbare practice; there will be supplies arriving by week's end, along with what equipment I was able to procure."

I chanced it, at my own peril, "I wonder, ma'am if there's a catch to all of this. You've made your point perfectly; this is your house; my question is, why let us operate at all?"

An eyebrow inched up as she regarded me for a long moment, the temperature in the room slowly dropping. My fingers slowly walked towards the edge of the desk, closer to my gun, my gears turned, wondering if I could beat her to the draw, knowing that I couldn't

I was pretty sure I was dead when she laughed softly.

"So, you're not like the other missionaries, are you? I think you have a head on your shoulders, Mr. Briggs."

I relaxed, letting my hand slide back onto the table fully, "Sometimes I impress ma'am."

She relaxed almost imperceptibly, "The catch, as you put it, is that you will treat my men, should the need arise, as it frequently does, and deny that same treatment to my enemies. The civilians of Roanapur are fair game, but the Triads, Cartels, and other undesirables will be turned away without question or preamble. If you have a problem, refer to rules one and two."

I nodded, the price of admission it seemed.

"Understood, ma'am."

She flashed me a smile, rising from her chair, I followed suit, "Brilliant, expect delivery of your supplies in short order."

"Thank you, ma'am. I'll walk you out."

She threw her coat around her shoulders and stalked out with me close behind. When the door opened, her men visibly relaxed.

Loyalty ran deep here, it seemed.

I stepped out onto the sidewalk, nodding at the big Sergeant; he barely returned it, focusing on Balalaika.

"Kapitan."

She smiled, million-watt, "Sergeant."

I leaned against the door, watching the exchange, thankful for the fresh air.

A shadow moved out of the corner of my eye, the Sergeant saw it, and he started moving, reaching for his Captain. Time slowed to a crawl as adrenaline flooded through me; I turned my head to where his gaze was fixed.

The gun came up fast; I darted forward and shoved Balalaika into his arms, getting between her and the threat, my gun clearing my waistband with a whisper of cloth on metal.

"CONTACT!" Someone screamed, a million miles away, some things were universal.

I only saw flashes.

A sneering face.

The barrel of a .45.

Muscles in his arm tightening to squeeze the trigger.

My left hand pushed his gun away from my face, grabbing his wrist; the shot was stunning, sparks and fire burned the side of my face, and my hearing blanked with a whine.

I felt myself smile.

My forearm collided with his arm, and I drove my gun into his, knocking it to the pavement. He was unarmed now; his face shifted into a mask of pure terror.

But there were no brakes on this train.

I twisted my wrist, trapping his arm, rolling my gun to sweep it across my body and away. The barrel came up and darted forward of its own accord, my muzzle colliding with his throat with a muted crunch.

He reeled away; the front sight tracked his wide-eyed face for a heartbeat.

I felt but barely heard the shot that rippled up my arm, the flash blinding me in the darkness of the street, but the hot splatter across my face and the smell of blood, sickly-sweet and immediate, let me know I'd hit my mark.

Headshots bleed like a motherfucker.

I blinked away the flash, scanning the barren streets; my eyes snapped to the rooftops.

"CLEAR!" I thundered out of reflex in my best "Be heard above everything else" voice.

Squealing tires answered me, and I realized I was alone on the sidewalk as the retreating tail lights of Balalaika's SUV whipped around the corner.

"WELL, YOU'RE FUCKING WELCOME!" I screamed after them, more than a bit pissed off.

My vision went fuzzy, and I swayed a little, hearing something like water pattering to the pavement. I reached a hand up to my face, coming away with way more blood than what had sprayed on me from the dead asshole twitching in the gutter. I hissed as my fingers made contact with a furrow in the side of my head, a little souvenir; his shot must've grazed me. I poked at it and only felt pain instead of any motor function loss.

Just a graze.

Grumbling about all the bullshit life had to offer, I kicked the clinic door open and made my way back inside, hoping against hope that there was a suture kit in this shithole.

I set the kit down, pulling out a hooked needle and thread, a lit cigarette dangling from my lip; the mirror was helping me assess the damage, a groove, about two fingers wide, laid open the side of my head, pinpoint black specks ran the length of the cut, gunpowder burns at close range.

I dragged on my cigarette, keyed up some music, and set about cleaning it, biting back a scream when the iodine made contact.

Fuck my whole fucking life.

I slugged some more bourbon, enough to keep my hands steady and the pain at bay.

Satisfied that I was as disinfected as I could get, I started closing the wound as The Temperance Movement waxed poetic about her Midnight Black hair. The needle sank into my skin, and I ignored the sharp pain; in a place like this, I'd get infected with some flesh-eating bullshit and come out of it looking like a leper.

Wanna know how I got these scars?

Saving a bitch of a Russian Mob boss from a hit in the absolute asshole of the universe.

The first day was a doozy; it was all downhill from here. I snipped the end of the thread, satisfied with my hack job. The black thread ran from the corner of my left eye to midway across the side of my head. Dizziness hit me, and I puked into the trash can, checking my pupils in the mirror once the retching stopped.

One was pinned, the other blown wide.

I had a fucking concussion, which meant I wouldn't be sleeping tonight.

The cap spun off the bourbon again as the music built, I might not sleep, but I'd be goddamned if I wasn't going to enjoy myself.

A few hours later, I sat on the tile, my throat raw from smoking, completely fucked up.

I was so close, an inch to the right, and it'd all have been over.

Finally.

I sniffed, feeling the tears threaten to well up, and if I started drunk crying, that'd be it for the foreseeable.

With more effort than I thought possible, I shoved it back down.

Gunfire crackled in the distance; I willed it closer.

With any luck. Roanapur would be the death of me.