Misu was trying to hold off those who stumbled upon them with gunfire, though this wouldn’t last long. Her luck wasn’t that good. Soon the pair would be set upon in larger numbers and then all this would be for naught. Jacques’s gun had slipped from his hand when injured, lost somewhere in this miasma of carnage and smoke. All he had in the way of defence was his hip knife.
Staggering, two of Wilheim’s goons were already capitalizing on the carnage, waving the dust away to try and pick off the Bluecoats. They fired at the ones still disorientated, working their way in Misu and Franco’s direction. They had already spied Misu and slowly moved to outflank her.
Jacques jerked to his feet but immediately sank to a knee, unable to ignore the agony the limb gave. Again he tried, but suffered the same result.
His eyes turned to the Red Root beneath him. It spread out as a terrible crimson carpet though for one acquainted with its effects, it held no fear. Jacques was more than aware of its reputation. He had seen those who had been addicted to the substance, withdrawn and prone to acts of terrible violence. The violence was the offshoot though, as he personally could recall witnessing watching one individual needing four Bluecoats to drag him down to the floor. Whatever it did, the results were always the same:
Chaotic.
But what else was this if not chaos?
Fear was for other people. Jacques had told himself this when drinking more than he should, playing a hand for longer than was sensible, or staring down more dangerous men than he.
It was also what he told himself when succumbing to the Red Root for the first time and all the times after that when he was destitute.
It had helped him win fights, carry out jobs his conscience demanded he resist, and a list of other things he was less than proud of.
What choice did he have?
Jacques scooped a handful into a fist and chewed it violently. This entire outcome was a mess. A little mayhem wouldn’t have soiled it further. It was a necessity. Hell, it was damn near his obligation.
The immediate rush that he had felt before when indulging in the drug embraced his being like an old friend. It was the comfort of escapism that sang its sweet song into his ear, questioning why it had taken so long for them to reconcile their differences. A jet of flame tore through Jacques’s body, a burst of colour flooding over his vision. Everything became so light, so delicate in his perception. His wound was nothing. His strength was almighty. Jacques roared, embracing his new-found invincibility.
Invincible, he scoffed to himself. He wasn’t just invincible. With this he could storm Heaven itself and claim its throne if he so wished.
The leg bled but the pain was non-existent, subdued by the potency of the drug. It filled his head with a rage that his deepest frustrations failed to muster, as if a lifetime of anger and torment had manifested into a toxic crescendo.
Within moments he was on his feet. Limps became steps and the steps became a charge.
* * *
As Misu wiped her weeping eyes, she met the dark shapes before her, illuminated momentarily by them firing a round at a struggling Bluecoat on the floor at their feet. The flash brought about a mutual awareness of one another.
Misu struggled to raise her revolver, a process alarmingly sluggish given her disorientation. As did those face to face with her. Her heart stopped beating. Her throat failed to take in a breath.
She suddenly recoiled in alarm, pulling Franco backwards from the black blur that dived between them and launched directly into the assailants.
* * *
It was merciful that nothing could be seen in the dust and shadow.
For Jacques, the knife became an extension of his body, slipping in and out of flesh with brutal speed. Wilheim’s men never saw it coming. It was a gracious mercy. Screams eventually faded to naught. The echo of thuds descended to a repeated wet breaking of bone as the smoke began to part. By the time it did, Misu and Franco had run as best they could in the opposite direction. It was for the best – the sight that they would have been subjected to was haunting.
* * *
The haze thinned, now falling and coating those still standing in a dusting, and those who slumped deceased in a smattering of the desert’s contempt. Misu pulled Franco to his feet once more, ready to make a try for the factory entrance. She positioned them behind the remains of the Gambler’s Den, as the remaining Bluecoats engaged in a final push. The criminals dwindled now with some deciding to willingly surrender, a contrast to those determined to go down fighting.
Leaning against their old home, the clattering of feet on the gangway overhead sought their attention. Marshal Juniper coughed repeatedly, giving chase to a blob of darkness moving vertically up a ladder to a gantry.
‘He’s going after Wilheim,’ Misu stated, trying to get a better view of things. The Bluecoats were pushing back in retaliation, motivated by the intention to prevent a total disaster. Already too many had lost their lives and nothing fired a Bluecoat more than the loss of their kind.
Franco held his free hand out. ‘Give me your gun,’ he said. He didn’t want to retreat any more. He didn’t care about being dragged to safety, out of this nightmare, and to the comforts that awaited him. Something much more pressing was at the forefront of his mind.
Misu placed it handle first, letting him take it into his grip. He immediately lined it up to the gantry hosting the two struggling bodies and tried as best as he could to judge the shot with his good eye.
‘You got him?’ Misu attentively asked.
His body vibrated with every shake of pain that he endured. His fingers fought against their placement with sharp jabs of agony. ‘I got him,’ Franco replied, much calmer than he had any right to be.
* * *
Wilheim heaved forward, charging for a window with a fire escape straddling the outside wall. Sure, its condition might be questionable but taking a chance on it was favourable to staying here. Feet followed quickly behind him before he was tackled and slammed into the metal. Wilheim used his tremendous bulk to his advantage, tossing the assailant aside with a heave.
Juniper took to his feet once again, launching forward, and threw his fists to whatever body part he could connect with. Wilheim brandished his revolver, driving the handle into anything that was in reach. His bulbous body could take the blows. He shielded his head and when an opening was given, he furiously retorted.
Juniper was knocked back, first by a powerful body blow and then a crack of the weapon over his brow. His legs buckled, though they retained just enough strength to keep him from collapsing. He staggered against the gantry railings, a blaze of stars filling his vision. He gazed at the floor beneath.
Then came the click.
As the stars cleared, Alex Juniper stared at the weapon and the criminal who wielded it. The hammer was drawn and barrel steady, aiming square at the marshal’s chest. At such range a kill shot was inevitable. Wilheim couldn’t help but smirk in delight and taunt the lawman one final time.
‘I may not get my time in that damn cell back, Marshal, but this will do for compensation!’
A shot rang out. Blood sprayed.
Wilheim’s fingers spasmed as a bullet tore through his palm, knocking the firearm over the gantry side and down onto the factory floor. He grasped his palm firmly in a howl and looked to the culprit.
Franco lowered his shaking weapon from down below, his other arm across Misu’s shoulders who braced him. The barrel of the weapon smoked with the truest shot he had ever fired though crippled fingers made it difficult to retain. Misu cheered aloud beside him.
Utilizing the distraction, Juniper charged, lunging forward and burying his shoulder deep into Wilheim’s flabby gut. As air roared from the criminal’s mouth in an awful wheeze, he crashed into the gantry railing and spun over the side.
Wilheim slammed onto sand and concrete, back first, giving a staggered scream. The noise drowned out the most horrendous cracking, something from inside his person that had been turned wrong
.
The stomach for fighting subsided in his followers, and those who didn’t escape willingly gave themselves up. Prisoners were taken, cuffed, and escorted back to the train. Juniper considered collecting the Red Root to arrange its destruction but the size of the operation meant a second trip would be needed.
All the while, Wilheim groaned from his place on the ground. The fall had broken his back and every attempt of movement had him cursing, loudly, in pain. There were numerous threats, promises of revenge, all of these unspectacular despite their phrasing. The once-feared kingpin was rendered helpless. Soon, he was joined by Juniper, who found justice in what had transpired and told him as much.
Misu helped Franco along who limped heavily on a leg that may or may not have been fractured. Every step brought them closer to Wilheim’s reddened face, clearly pained at both his injury and predicament. Noticing, Juniper rose from squatting alongside him, with whatever secret words they shared being kept to themselves. Whatever was spoken, Wilheim seemed extremely agitated to hear it.
‘I’m glad to see you both in one piece,’ the marshal stated, patting his gloves together to rid them of accumulated dust and eying Franco up and down, ‘figuratively at least. It seems we’ve both accomplished our ambitions.’
Juniper stood over the criminal and whilst others in his position may have relished the broken body at his feet, he found no pleasure in doing so. His expression remained stoic, uncracked from every curse and accusation Wilheim made in rage. The vitriol increased as Misu and Franco approached. The trio assessed the man at their feet.
‘Of all the people I wished who would come in here guns blazing, Juniper,’ Franco croaked, holding his hand out to the marshal, ‘I have to confess you didn’t even make the list. I owe you a thanks.’
Juniper glanced to the open palm and looked away.
‘Thank Misu. She put this whole thing together. If I had my way, you would be dragged back to the cells after the ruckus you made back home. There will be some calling for your head when word gets out that you’re still breathing, both of you in fact.’ He waved the last of his men away, burlap sacks of documents keeping track of vast sums of untaxed moneys to be used as evidence. ‘But all this led me to Wilheim. I don’t turn blind eyes, Franco. That’s not how the law is done.’
Juniper embraced the gesture, gently in light of the broken appendages. They shook. Misu did so too, acknowledging the Bluecoats’ contribution.
‘You’ve all earned yourselves this freedom.’
‘So what now, Marshal?’ Misu put forward. ‘I assume he’ll just sit behind bars and rot or whatever you have planned. It seems like a shame after all this effort. Something tells me that his kind will try and spring him once more. Are you prepared for such an eventuality?’
Franco coughed the blood from his mouth before interjecting. ‘Not that any of us are judging your competency to incarcerate him. Snakes like him just don’t sit still for long. We both know that.’
Juniper nodded slowly, sizing Wilheim up beneath him. It was a fitting place for a man of such past stature. In turn, the criminal shuddered as he stared at the marshal, speechless, fat beads of sweat draining down his face. It seemingly took a lifetime for Juniper to finally respond.
‘Didn’t you hear?’ the marshal asked. ‘Wilheim Fort was never found. He’s missing, presumed dead. If you see him, I’ll trust you’ll let us know, yes?’
‘Absolutely.’ Franco found difficulty in hiding his smile. Thankfully his features ached enough to prevent it from becoming inappropriate.
Alex Juniper motioned to his men to withdraw to the train and moved to do so himself.
‘And this is justice is it?!’ Wilheim roared, the words cracking from jolts of pain.
The marshal stopped himself. He didn’t look behind him. To do so would give him an acknowledgement of time, one that was no longer deserved. Once, maybe, Wilheim would have been worth more of a response but this matter was over. He was over.
‘Not for all you’ve done. Nothing could possibly be,’ Juniper stated, leaving through the foyer with his work now concluded.
* * *
‘Should I be congratulating you, Misu? Are you happy now that you’ve ruined me?’
She hung over the bulbous frame beneath her. ‘It doesn’t give me a measure of delight to see you broken.’
‘Liar.’ Wilheim ground his teeth back and forth.
‘I’m not. You deserve much worse.’ Misu drew the revolver in her trembling grip. Her quarry silently inhaled.
‘I could do it. I could paint your head in the sand and feel no remorse. I’ve been under your control for so long I can barely remember much else. You’re vile. I hate you. I hate you,’ Misu snarled, raising the gun barrel in line with his forehead. She felt the hot blood in her once more, her grip almost iron-like.
‘Then do it. Stop prattling on and show some backbone. Let the day that you murdered me – and it is murder, do not convince yourself otherwise – be the most eventful of your pitiful life.’
‘You’re a tyrant! You’re … you’re …’ Misu fell over her words, struggling to brand him appropriately, waving her weapon wildly. ‘You’re a sick creature.’
‘And which one of them gave you a home when nobody else would take you in? A job? Ah yes, we conveniently forget what you did to hundreds to save your own ass don’t we? Hypocrite.’ Wilheim managed to generate a broken laugh.
Wild-eyed, Misu drove the gun barrel forward, baring her teeth. He showed no sign of remorse. Her conscience screamed at her to end it once and for all. This was what the years of worry and frustration had led to, a simple binary choice to take his life in reparation. All she needed to do was to pull the trigger. Just to jerk her finger and be done with this for good.
Wilheim noticed the hesitation.
‘See? All you’ve done, all you have ever done, is get by on blind luck or the grace of others. Every noteworthy thing you’ve achieved was by standing on the backs of other people. Strangers. Friends. It didn’t matter who, or where, or why.’ He bragged, ‘Kid yourself more. Tell these people you run with that you’ve changed, that you’re somehow better. You talk big but in reality you haven’t changed one bit. You just wear nicer dresses.’
Franco’s fingers trailed over her shoulder, drawing a small intake a breath from her. A single tear fell as Wilheim stared in frozen trepidation.
‘Misu,’ Franco mumbled. He was quite visible in her sight but leant forward to ensure this. ‘Misu … let it go.’
Her head jerked to the side. ‘Let it go? After what he did to me? To you? To all of us? Are you completely insane? He deserves nothing from us, least of all mercy!’
The weapon was pushed deeper against his skull.
‘Look at him. He’s done for.’ Franco’s hand rested on her forearm, beckoning her to lower her weapon. She resisted. The gun shook. Another tear fell onto the concrete. ‘Whatever he was before the fall, he’s not that now. Don’t let him win. He’s not worth it. You’re better than that.’
His fingers traced down her goose-bumped skin, finally encompassing her hand wrapped around the revolver’s handle in reassurance. It trembled at his touch, its owner letting out a ghost of a gasp.
Enough had died this day in the carnage and despite the allure of obvious vengeance she had rapidly lost the taste for bloodshed. Revenge, while quite appealing at this present point in time, had no allure for her.
Misu slowly thumbed the hammer back to its resting place.
The weight in her palm was heavy, far too heavy for her now. Every pin and construct of metal felt denser to the point where her fingers relaxed around the revolver’s handle. Franco was right, not that it made her feel any better. Instead of succumbing to the darkness called revenge, she sighed, limply tossing the revolver in the sand between them, a good foot away from Wilheim, with a dull thump.
Franco’s fingers interlinked within Misu’s own.
‘I hate you …’ Misu hissed, refusing to wipe her eyes in f
ront of him, ‘but I’m better than that. I’m better than you. Only a good person would give you this opportunity, Wilheim, a chance to reflect on what you’ve done, the pain you’ve caused and end it in a flash. Only a good person would give you a way out that you don’t deserve. It’s only by the grace of my company you even get that.’
Misu adjusted her arm, sharing as much of her partner’s weight that she could comfortably accommodate. She led him to the foyer door, to daylight and past that, to freedom, making sure he took his time with each one. Every footfall landed caused a prick of pain to rob Franco’s breath.
* * *
Wilheim stared at the weapon put foolishly close to him. It was barely a hand from his reach away. A simple pull and he would have it brandished and its terrible roar would prevent suffering this nuisance.
Wilheim stretched momentarily, only for an explosion of pain to thrash through his spine. He immediately thought better of it, staring at the leaving shapes of colour through tear-soaked eyes.
With one final look over her shoulder, Misu ended her piece. They all eyed the revolver in a terrible pause. ‘Remember that only a just person would grant you mercy.’
And with that, they left.
* * *
Juniper had ordered the withdrawal of the injured first, then Wilheim’s men, or the ones who were still in a decent enough shape to arrest. The dead were then tended to, but only the Bluecoats, seeing that they had families to be delivered to and needed decent burials. None of the criminals would be given this graciousness as Juniper exclaimed the train couldn’t hold the bodies of all of the deceased, a clear excuse to the more religious members of his force. The truth was that, to him, they weren’t even worthy of a hole in the ground. The time spent digging one would be a generosity undeserved and not one Juniper was willing to give.
* * *
Jacques heaved with every breath. He found himself slumped against a stairwell, body trembling and mind racing. A tacky wetness coaxed his attention and when finally succumbing to his curiosity, he was disturbed at the sight before him. His hands were coated in blood, which he attempted to wipe away with the first thing within reach. That happened to be a body lying contorted in fear, its throat opened and tongue protruding free from its mouth.
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