Chapter 3

The boss stood up.

The other four thugs in the booth stopped laughing, leaned back against the sofa, folded their arms, and settled in for a show.

The skinny guy even whistled, pointing a finger in my direction.

The heavy metal music was still roaring, but the atmosphere near the bar palpably shifted. A few patrons noticed the commotion. They didn't say a word to stop it; they just silently picked up their drinks, shifted away, and cleared a space.

In this Caldwell-controlled town, the thugs had a simple way of finding entertainment: bullying outsiders who looked defenseless. Clearly, I was now the toy they planned to use to kill the long night.

He stopped in front of my cramped table.

I stayed completely still, head lowered.

"Hey, beggar," he barked, his loud voice cutting through the bass drum track in the background.

I ignored him, my eyes fixed on the wood grain of the table.

The heavy bartender had already turned his back to wipe the liquor cabinet, looking thoroughly determined to mind his own business. Over at my two o'clock, the four men were watching, but none of them hovered their hands near their weapons.

"I'm talking to you, are you deaf?" Seeing I wasn't responding, he impatiently kicked my chair.

I still didn't look up.

"Fuck, what a pathetic piece of trash."

He cursed, then raised his right hand and fully inverted his half-finished beer. The liquid poured over my head, soaking my canvas jacket.

He slammed the empty bottle onto the table.

"Get the hell out that door." His tone was dripping with provocation. "We don't allow stray dogs to spend the night in this town. While I'm still in a good mood, you have ten seconds to get out of my sight."

I watched the beer drip from my hair onto the floor.

Right now, I had a handgun and two spare magazines pressed tight against the small of my back. The safety was off, and a round was chambered. My original plan was to tail them and make my move when they left the bar and isolated themselves.

But now, they had delivered themselves to my doorstep.

I slowly raised my head, moving my gaze from the beer-soaked table to his right hand.

The diamond ring on his pinky caught a glint of the dim light.

"What are you looking at? Keep staring and I'll gouge your fucking eyes out." Noticing my stare, he reached out to grab my collar.

I didn't dodge his hand. I just looked calmly at the ring and asked a question.

"Did the owner of that ring say anything before she died?" My voice wasn't loud. It came out a bit raspy.

He froze for a second. Following my gaze, he looked down at the diamond ring on his pinky, then looked back at my face. Due to the heavy stubble and dirt smeared across my features, he didn't recognize me.

But he understood what I said.

"What the fuck is it to you?" He sized me up.

"I asked you," I said, my eyes still locked on his hand. "Did she say anything?"

The interrogation completely enraged him. In this town, they were used to operating with absolute impunity. No one had ever dared speak to them in that tone.

"So you're just a crazy bastard looking to die." He broke into a sudden grin. Then, he whipped out the large-caliber revolver tucked in his waistband.

The hammer clicked back with a sharp, mechanical snap.

A second later, the cold steel barrel was pressed directly against my forehead.

The bar's music kept thumping, but the patrons at the two nearby tables quickly stood up and scurried to the other side of the bar, clutching their drinks.

Over at the booth, the four other thugs stopped chatting. They rested their hands on their holsters, whistling and jeering.

"Put a hole in his head, boss!" one of them yelled.

He held the gun with one hand, looking down on me with absolute arrogance.

"You wanna know what she said before she died?" He ground the barrel hard into my forehead, wearing a nonchalant smirk. "I'm in a good mood today, so I'll tell you. When we hoisted that bitch up with the rope, her neck cracked so hard she couldn't make a sound. She kicked in mid-air for about two or three minutes. Her face turned totally purple, tongue hanging out and everything."

As he spoke, he tightened his grip on the gun with that ring-bearing right hand.

"Why do you care anyway? You some poor relative of hers?" His finger slowly tightened around the trigger. "Say one more word, and I'll pull this trigger right now and send you down to hell to see that shameless whore."

As he spewed all of this, I just sat in the chair, absorbing every single word that poured from his mouth.

I didn't roar. I didn't even react physically.

I simply looked at him, burning his face explicitly into my memory.

"You can try." I looked at him, my voice flat.

"What?" He either didn't hear me clearly or was stunned to receive such a response. He froze.

"I said, you can try sending me down there." I locked eyes with him. "Because that's exactly where I came from."

I made my move.