The main man laughs at Creed’s threat, as if it’s hilarious to him. I have to say, I don’t blame him. While Creed is a big motherfucker, it’s easy to not be afraid when you’re holding a weapon trained on him. After all, the men surrounding us don’t know how fast Creed and Jiro are. Since Achilles is still alive, I have to assume he’s not half bad himself. And no one can tell me I can’t duck faster than a bullet when I think I’m about to be shot.

Seriously. No one can tell me. And if they can, I’m already dead so. . . whatever.

But the more I look at Hawthorne and beg him for help, the more I recognize he isn’t going to shoot. The longer we stand here, the more his gun droops despite his friend’s words. I find my mark and I focus on it. If I can just convince him to turn on his buddies, we can—

Jiro moves before I even know we’re enacting a plan. There was no warning, no, “hey, maybe you should duck,” for me. One minute, we’re facing off against each other, a regular western standoff, the next I’m being shoved to the side and a knife is in the main guy’s throat. The wet gurgle he makes as he clamps his hand to the knife blade is sickening but I don’t feel faint as I roll and bounce to my stomach, beginning to crawl away and avoid the conflict. I’ve already been told my best asset is that I make good bait. I don’t agree with it, but in situations like these that feel like war, I have to agree I’m probably more of a liability than any help for the other three highly trained guys. That isn’t what surprises me though.

As I’m moving, the guy who wanted me to dance appears above me, kicking me over on my back and training a rifle on me. “Shame I won’t see you dance,” he grunts, his finger on the trigger.

My short life flashes before my eyes. Fuck, I haven’t made a dent in my bucket list yet. I should have taken that vacation when I said I wanted to. I should have lived a better thirty-one years or some shit. Done more charity. Goddamn it, I’m about to die and I’ve barely had the best dick of my life.