Chapter 1
Virginia City, Nevada, 1867
Deadshot ducked down low and spun to his right, taking cover behind an old barrel. Slugs flew past him, hitting the walls and pillars of the saloon. The town was quiet. There were no sounds except for gunshots. Those who could get away headed home; those who couldn’t were hiding. It was Deadshot against the entire gang of bandits.
It wasn’t anything new. Deadshot had gone up against many gangs in his lifetime. He knew what needed to be done, and he would make sure that not one of the outlaws walked away alive. Killing men like them and making the world a safer place was his life’s mission.
Deadshot glanced out from behind the barrel. There were five bandits left, and he had to figure out where they were hiding without getting shot. His eyes roamed the empty landscape. It looked like a ghost town, nothing but dust and tumbleweed. In the distance, between two buildings, he saw the shimmer of the sun reflecting off a pistol. It was a good hiding spot, but not goodenough. Deadshot swapped his Colt for his Hawken rifle and took aim.
He wasn’t a particularly patient man, but when it came to taking down filth, he had the patience of a saint. Breathing slowly, Deadshot kept his eye on the empty space where he had seen the outlaw’s pistol only moments before. He waited, keeping his breathing and his hands steady. Seconds passed, then a minute, then two. Everything was quiet. Nobody had noticed him.
After what felt like a lifetime, but was in actual fact closer to three minutes, the bandit leaned out from behind the wall of the building. Acting lightning fast, Deadshot pulled the trigger. The .68 slug flew through the air, its trajectory exactly as Deadshot anticipated, and hit the man between the eyes, sending his wide-brimmed hat flying.
The shot had a ripple effect, causing one of the other bandits to come out of hiding and another to give away his position. Deadshot had to act fast because, just like theirs, his position was compromised. The bandit who had come out of hiding was running across the road, heading toward the general store. Deadshot took his shot, the slug hitting the man from behind, right between his shoulder blades. It wasn’t an instant death, but he would bleed out. The dry sand where he fell was already turning red beneath him.
Deadshot stood up straight, his movements fast and smooth. He needed a better angle to get the other bandit, and that required him to move from behind the barrel. Stepping outinto the open, he aimed his rifle at the bandit who was now in view and pulled the trigger. The slug slammed into the man’s chest, sending him flying into the wall.
There were only two outlaws left now. Deadshot had seen one of them slipping in behind the small stables down the road when the fight had spilled into the street. He had no idea where the last one was, but he would find him and end him. Feeling confident, Deadshot rushed into the alley where the bandit he had shot only moments ago was hiding. The man didn’t move as Deadshot jumped over him and made his way to the general store, keeping to the back of the buildings leading there.
Deadshot couldn’t believe his luck when he reached the stables. Noises were coming from inside, and when he peeked through a slit in the wooden wall, he could clearly make out the form of a man fastening a saddle on a horse’s back. The bastard was going to try to escape. Deadshot wasn’t going to allow that to happen. Moving quietly, he snuck around the stable and then threw open the door. The outlaw spun around and reached for his pistol, but he was too late. Deadshot had holstered his rifle on his way to the stable and already had his Colt Navy pointed at the man.
“Please don’t,” the outlaw said, starting to beg.
Deadshot pulled the trigger.
“Well done,” a familiar voice said from behind him.
A shiver ran down Deadshot’s spine as he slowly turned around. He kept his Colt pointed ahead of him.
“What? You’re going to shoot me?” the voice taunted.
Deadshot moved his finger, pulling the trigger, but nothing happened. No jolt, no loud noise, just silence, and then laughter coming from the outlaw in front of him. Deadshot stared into the eyes of the man who had slaughtered his family. Deadshot pulled the trigger again, but still nothing happened. He looked down at his hand and nearly choked when he saw that it was empty.
“It must kill you, knowing that I murdered your family, and you never found me,” the man said, smiling.
Deadshot reached for his rifle, but like his pistol, it wasn’t there.
The outlaw laughed again and then drew his pistol and pulled the trigger.
Deadshot sat bolt upright in his bed, sweat dripping from his forehead as the sound of the gunshot echoed in his mind. Slowly, he pressed his palm to his racing heart and took a couple of deep breaths. It was the same old nightmare that had been plaguing him for years. Sometimes the location changed, or the number of bandits, but it always ended the same.
Something didn’t feel right, not that it ever did right after waking from a nightmare, but this time was different. Deadshot wiped the sweat from his forehead and ran his fingers through his clammy hair. His throat felt dry. He needed something to drink. Being careful not to move too fast, Deadshot swung his legs off the side of the bed. His knee had been acting up, and he had no intention of making it any worse. He reached for the box of matches on his bedside table and lit the lantern.
Before he could even get to his feet, a loud gunshot ripped through the night. He might have been dreaming before, but this was real. Deadshot had no idea what was going on. He’d been living in his little house for years without anybody disturbing him. The people around town knew him and respected his privacy. They also knew not to look for trouble with him.
Feeling curious and irritated simultaneously, Deadshot jumped into action. Whatever was happening outside needed his attention. He might have retired from bounty hunting years ago, but instincts like those never leave a person. Moving quickly, he half-ran, half-limped to the window and peered outside into the darkness. Deadshot’s knee ached, causing his leg above and below it to burn. It was a familiar feeling that he tried to minimize by taking things easy. That wasn’t an option at that moment, so he chose to ignore it and focus on the task at hand.
Deadshot had experienced a lot of pain through the years and was an expert in dealing with it, which basically just meant that he had learned how to do what was necessary while suffering. He’d been punched, kicked, strangled, stabbed, and shot. Those experiences made him stronger and helped him become the best bounty hunter he could be.
None of that mattered at the moment. All that mattered was figuring out what was happening and putting an end to it. That was something that Deadshot was extremely good at. He watched carefully; his eyes, despite his aging body, were still sharp and trained to see things other people might miss, even in the darkness of night.
There were movements in the foliage that surrounded his cabin. Tree branches were pushed aside, and leaves rustled. The movements were high, meaning that whoever was out there was on horseback, and there was more than one.
Another shot rang out, this one sounding much closer. Moving away from the window, Deadshot rushed to one of the two cupboards in his bedroom. One held his clothes, the other his weapons. Deadshot had removed the hanging rails and added shelves and hooks to secure his precious arsenal. Grabbing his Colt Army, which he kept loaded, and a handful of .44 slugs, he set out into the night.
As he moved, silently and carefully, he slipped the slugs into his pants pocket. All the while, his eyes were searching and his ears listening. His senses were still sharp, despite his aging body. Deadshot might have retired and settled into a slow and uneventful life, but he still tried to keep himself as healthy as possible. His knee protested, as if to prove that he wasn’t doing a very good job. Deadshot didn’t even flinch. When it came to hunting, he didn’t allow himself a moment of distraction.
There was movement up ahead; he could hear the leaves rustling, so he positioned himself against a thick tree, lowered his body into a crouching position, and waited.
