“Fine,” I said. “But if he shoots me, you better do the paperwork right.”
Floyd made a noise, almost a laugh. “You’d haunt me if I didn’t.”
The radio sparked again:“Shots fired, repeat, shots fired. No injuries—glass only. Subject retreated to office. Deputies holding exterior. Civilians sheltering in cold storage. Advise next steps.”
Floyd’s face went hard, but not blank. More like every muscle in his body recalculated the odds. He downshifted, then turned to me, the rawness in his expression so naked I wanted to look away but couldn’t. “We’re going in the front. You stay behind me, do what I say.”
I nodded, surprised by how little I wanted to argue. “Understood, Sheriff.”
For a split second, his lips twitched. “Asshole.”
“Right back at you.”
He parked across two spots, slammed the truck into park, and reached over to pop the glovebox. “If he’s got you in his sights, get down and cover your head. Don’t play hero.”
I grabbed the kevlar vest he tossed at me and slipped it on, feeling ridiculous and grateful in equal measure.
Then he paused, one hand already on the door. “He might listen to you, Ran. I’m trusting you.”
Nobody called me that anymore, not since high school. The word landed like a punch to the ribs, or maybe a pat on the head, and I didn’t know which was worse.
“I’ll try,” I said. “But if he wants to talk about the old days, I’m putting it all on you.”
He snorted, then was gone, out into the late-afternoon sun, his silhouette framed by the open truck door.
I watched him walk away, and only then did I realize I’d been holding my breath since the station. I let it out, one slow exhale, and followed.
Inside the bar, the air was a punch of old beer and fried food, overlaid with the acrid twang of burnt gunpowder. It took my eyes a second to adjust, and when they did, I saw the world through a haze of cigarette smoke and neon. The only light came from the Miller Lite sign over the bar, washing everything in the sickly blue of a dying aquarium.
Gator Jenkins stood in the middle of the linoleum, feet spread like a man about to be washed away. He had a gun, but he was holding it wrong—like someone who’d only ever seen one on TV. His shirt was inside out, his jeans slouched low, and his face looked like it had been scraped over gravel for a few miles. I could see the dried salt of old tears in the bristles on his cheeks.
Floyd hovered at my shoulder, close enough I could feel the heat of his body. He murmured, “Just you and me,” and let me go first.
The floor creaked, and Gator spun, eyes wild. “Stay back!” His voice cracked, the gun waggling between us like a compass gone crazy.
I raised my hands, palms out. “Easy, Gator. Nobody’s here to hurt you. It’s just me. Ransom.”
He blinked, eyes not tracking. “You—nah. You’re with them.”
I kept my steps slow, knees bent, every muscle tight. “Not with anyone, man. Just here to talk.”
From the corner, one of the bartenders peeked over the edge of the counter. Gator whipped the gun around, almost dropped it, then managed to bring it back my way. “I said—back off!”
I stopped. “You want me to leave, I’ll leave. But I gotta tell you—this is not how you win her back.”
He laughed, high and brittle. “Win her back? She won’t even pick up the phone.”
I nodded. “Yeah. She won’t. Not after this, either.”
He stuttered a step, like the words hit harder than they should have. “What do you know about it?”
“Enough,” I said, voice flat. “Enough to know that waving a gun around is just going to get you on the wrong side of every badge in the county. And enough to know Mary never liked guns.”
Gator’s lip curled. “She hates ’em. Always did. Said I should get rid of Dad’s old piece after the wedding.”
I took another slow step. “So why now? Why this?”
He looked down at the gun, like he’d never seen it before. “Because I got nothing left, man. Nothing. She lost the baby and then she lost me. Or maybe I lost her. I don’t even know.”
