Alan crept slowly through the mill, angered by the layout. He’d hoped that the emergency door he’d broken into would lead him quickly to Alex, but instead it had been the gateway into a maze. The door opened into a narrow corridor that took him up a few flights of stairs before opening up onto one of the main production floors.

As he moved between the large pieces of archaic apparatus, he felt like he was in a museum that paid homage to bygone industries.

Each piece of equipment was tinted with thick orange rust. No one had operated anything within this building in years, and it saddened Alan at how quickly the world moves on.

A life without a smartphone or the Internet seemed impossible, but he could recall a time where the only phone he had was nailed to the wall of his family home.

Technology and the demands of human consumption had moved on quicker than humanity’s capability to adapt, leaving behind generations of dissatisfied people who clung drastically to the ‘good old days’.

Restoring his focus, Alan felt the cool steel of his gun in his hand, reconnecting with the weapon. It had been a while since he’d pulled the trigger of a gun, but in his days as a marine, he was as deadly as they came.

A small part of him cursed himself for not taking his shot at Sykes as he’d approached the bar.

He could have pulled the trigger and ran, leaving Sykes to rot under the relentless sun and for Sam to deal with his own problem.

But it wasn’t Sam’s problem. It was an amalgamation of separate circumstances that had seen Alan’s own partner manipulate a vulnerable woman into a drug war, and her own good deed pulling a viable saviour into the mix.

Sam was doing what was right.

Therefore, so was Alan.

His personal revenge was outweighed by Alex’s safety, and as he glided between the defunct machinery, searching for a way to Alex, he hoped he wouldn’t be too late. As he rounded one of the machines, he noticed one of Vasquez’s men sweeping the area. Walking with clear boredom, the man lazily held a gun in his tattooed hand, a cigarette in the other.

Alan pressed himself against the large apparatus to shield him from view. As the man sauntered past, Alan slid around the side of the machine and swiftly draped his arm around the man’s neck. Before the henchman could call for help, Alan slid his other hand over the man’s mouth and locked his muscular arms in position, blocking off the man’s air supply and lowering him to the ground.

As he squeezed the consciousness from the man’s body, Alan left him prone on the ground and took his weapon.

Two weapons were better than one.