21st Bullet: The Black Wolf Beneath the Crescent Moon ②

The warehouse was torched. The cindered wood could be smelt miles away, the ocean air wafting in the burnt smell. The metal that managed to survived looked deformed and misshaped, often have this grim and experimental look to it. Deacon tried to avoid using Spells. His main Spell, Furor Cinereus, was his most destructive yet reliable. Over the years, ever since he was a rookie, he honed the power so that he could unleash controlled blasts. The explosion wasn't strong enough to kill anyone but it was enough to cause some serious damage.

Luckily, there were two men who managed to survive.

Uvo had them tied up. They weaselled, their faces in complete fear. They were scrappy men, wearing dirty jeans and a leather vest of the Chain Dogs crest on their backs. One of them had short black hair with a unshaved beard whilst the other had dirty blond hair with the eyes of a ferret. Strange men, they were. Truly oddballs.

"Please!" Balt begged. "Let us go! We ain't do nothing wrong! We're just some guys working for Monroe, you know? We don't got anything important to tell, honest!"

"Shut it..." Weason demanded but Balt wouldn't stop blubbering.

A loud clap sounded out, grabbing the attention of everyone. Uvo rubbed his palms, took deep breaths and closed his eyes, which wasn't really visible due to him wearing sunglasses but Deacon took a guess, and then reopened them.

"Calm down, fellas," Uvo said. "We still got the whole night ahead of us. We just want to ask some questions about where you're keeping a friend of ours."

Balt racked his head for the answer. Yeah, he remembered now. That bruised up Killright.

"That Black kid with the headband?" Balt asked. "Yeah, we got him, so what?"

"We wanna know where he is," Deacon replied. "If you don't, you might wanna start thinking about your life insurance."

"Y-you're crazy man," Weason replied. "We don't know anything about the kid. All we know is that he's a tough nut to crack. If you want him in a trade, you're asking the wrong guys."

Uvo smiled. "We're not exactly 'trading' folk. We kind of take what we want, lads."

Weason faltered. "We don't know where he is."

"How can we believe you?"

"We're just grunts!" Balt shouted. "Low-paying grunts who can't even solve 7x8."

Weason raised a brow. "It's 56, you nimrod. Don't include me in your stupidity."

"If you wanna live," Balt hissed, "stick to my words."

"Your words will land us in prison."

"Oh," Uvo whipped in, "you're not going to prison. Well, for now. Too much on our plate. However, we don't mind beating your faces in to get what we want so I recommend you choose wisely on what benefits you. Pretty faces or broken teeth?"

Balt gulped and Weason tapped his foot, conjuring an answer. "Okay," Weason said. "You got us. We know where that Killright is. But, it's not an easy place to get into. Do you know about the Glam Casino? The one in the red-light district of San Fran? Most of the biggest criminals and outlaws hang around there. If you walk in with your uniforms, Death Arms and crap, you'll turn into honeycombs."

Deacon stroked his chin, his cigarette's smoke hovering in the air. "Exactly where in Glam Casino is Andreius being held hostage?"

"Probably in the basement. It's about five levels below surface. Only the most private of stuff is kept in there. Tons of dogs are in there so don't think you'll stroll right through. On the last level is Monroe's most trusted man."

Uvo's brow raised. "I thought Monroe didn't have a right-hand man?"

"He doesn't but everyone in Chain Dogs know Monroe trusts him the most. His name is Keith Hardwood. Strong, experienced and the most of all, deadly. Most of his body is robotic and he can turn stone pillars into pebbles. Word of advice, don't stand in front of his right straight."

Deacon nodded. "Noted."

"So," Uvo said, "ready to party, my friend?"

Deacon sighed. "Just don't make me drink."

♱♱♱

The power tools sparked to life as Navier welded a plate of metal onto the Desert Mover. The part fit perfect onto the vehicle and Navier took off his mask to eye the work. The bike was completed. He revved the engine and it purred to life, the lights flashing brilliantly. He unscrewed his water bottle and took a delightful look at the reborn Shirley.

He took a sip. The Killright was going to die in the next three days.

Navier took a long stare at the wall. On the wall was some dreamcatchers, a portrait and some animal hide. It was his father's animal hide. When he was small, his father took him hunting one evening. It was cold but everything was warm thanks to his father, like a fire in the arctic.

The deer pranced about in the bushes in its almost senseless fashion. The young Navier didn't understand how animals worked. He thought of them as nothing more as directionless creatures that only followed their instincts that told them what to do in order to live.

That afternoon, his father took the his Winchester rifle and propped the stock onto his shoulder. The barrel was smooth and his grip was firm. Navier watched his father's still and relaxed state. His statue-like presence almost scared him. The way his body barely even twitched, all the muscles falling in line to his mind. To have such control over his body was the root core for a hunter.

A click.

A bang.

The bullet pierced the windy air and struck the deer in a final blast. The deer swayed its head, its body draining of all life before dropping to the ground. Navier couldn't even register the gunshot, the noise so sudden and finally echoing in the caves of his brain.

They walked over and saw the deer. It was huge.

"That was amazing, dad," Navier said. "Could you teach me to shoot like that?"

"Of course," his father said. He had a comforting chuckle before handing his son the bullet casing. "This is my promise. One day, when you're old enough to hold a rifle, I'll teach you how to shoot. But remember, not every animal needs to die." He showed Navier the huge rifle. "When you shoot, you must tell yourself why are you shooting and for whom are shooting. Is what you're shooting going to benefit you and the people around you? You must ask these questions and answer them quickly. By the time you've placed your finger on the trigger, your conviction must be present."

Navier's big, juvenile eyes gazed in awe at the rifle. He still had the same stare anytime he picked up that rifle. That rifle was his pride and joy and so was the bullet casing that hung around his neck.

"Father..." the young man breathed. "I wish you could tell me what to do." He crouched down and rubbed his neck. "Ever since you've died, I've felt angrier than ever. I'm angry at the Killrights, I'm angry at the Black Angels, hell, I'm angry at you for leaving me." His eyes blinked and the slightest drop of a tear rolled off his cheek. "Can't you help me one more time, father? Can't you give me one more lesson? Even just one?" He began to cry. He cried for a long time, the night hearing his cries in his garage. In the garage was a lonely soul slathered in anger. His anger bloomed across his body, across his mind, across his heart. He knew none of the cure.

Where laid the cure to the pain over him?

He stood up, wiped his face and looked over to see the large Death Arm. It listened. Despite the massive and depressing amounts of energy he could feel being emitted from the dangerously massive sword, he could feel something of that of a creature. The sword felt alive, ready to embrace, show him a truth beyond his understanding. If he touched it, he was well aware he was going to die an unpleasant death. That bringer of Death was held by an obnoxious young man that had saved his skin before. He owed him nothing.

Turning his body away, Navier walked to his bedroom and went to bed. When it was over, it was over. Whether he fixed the Desert Mover for Vadars or to sell, he did not know. What he did know, was that he needed sleep. Much of it.