'The Price of Revenge'

Alison Gleason looked at the long haired man lounging in her bed and smiled. At first glance it was a pretty smile --- like the rest of her --- at least, on the outside. But if one took the time to look a little deeper, you'd see other things besides 'pretty' lurking just beneath the surface.

Mockery --- directed both at herself and at the world in general. Pain was there as well. Not so much the physical kind, but the longer lasting mental/emotional kind. But perhaps the largest lurker of them all was despair --- again, directed outward as well as inward.

These 'Three Amigos' --- mockery, pain and despair --- combined in her to create a waking dream world of a wild, frenzied hopelessness, only briefly alleviated by liberal doses of sex, drugs, booze and self loathing.

But then the long haired man in the bed knew all that --- and loved her still.

But then, how could he not? For Martin Strongheart believed with all his soul that 'Man Above' had guided his footsteps towards her long ago ---perhaps even in earlier lives --- and that, come what may, they were destined to be together.

They'd first met years ago when they were both rebellious teenagers. Alison was a poor little rich girl with a strict but doting father, a dead mother and two psychopaths for brothers. Martin was an orphaned Mohawk kid with brooding good looks, a bad temper and a hungry heart. Both of these young, star crossed lovers had been in and out of various forms of trouble for years.

When their vastly different orbits finally converged at an unchaperoned beach party, it seemed to him that their fate's had been sealed. He'd seen her dancing wildly round the fire and knew in a heartbeat that he had found the love of his life. She'd gotten wasted on cheap wine and expensive hash and he'd taken her home in his rusted, battered pick-up. Old man Gleason was waiting for them on the front porch with his hound, his nearly empty, twelve year old bottle of Scotch and his favorite shotgun.

Martin was sure that he'd either get the hound or the shotgun --- instead he got the old man's stern looks, pointed questions and then, begrudgingly, and offer of the vintage Scotch --- which at first Martin wisely declined.

"So Martin,' Gleason had said as he poured himself his third or fourth drink. "You say that you've never met my daughter before tonight?"

"No sir," the serous looking eighteen year old had said. "I'd seen her around before, but I've never spoken to her."

"And why's that?" the old man had asked.

"Because , Mr. Gleason, she's way out of my league."

Gleason had looked for some time at the deep amber liquid in his fancy cut glass before asking: "Because you're an Indian?"

The answer came quickly. "Because I'm a poor Indian."

"So," Gleason had pressed, switching his gaze from the amber liquid to the cold eyes of the youth. "If you had money, you'd consider yourself 'good enough' for my daughter?"

A ghost of a smile twitched at Martin's frowning features. "No sir--- but at least I'd be powerful enough to try. And who knows --- perhaps Man Above might smile on me."

Gleason's gaze stayed on the long haired lad as he took a sip of his drink, then put it down and leaned forward. "Are you a religious man, Martin?"

"Not really, sir --- but if I was, it would be in the old ways, not the new."

"Really?" Gleason had asked, turned to his silent, sullen daughter who was glaring daggers at him from the shadows, then turned back to the fierce looking man-child that had brought her drunken ass safely home. "And what is, in your opinion Martin, is wrong with the 'new ways'?"

That ghost of a smile once again flitted across Strongheart's handsome but already aged features. 'They're way too soft. Too 'forgiving'. But then I've never been very good at 'turning the other cheek', sir. Though I do like that part about 'an eye for an eye'."

Gleason had grinned at that --- much like he did when he saw the wild animal he had just targeted go down under his well placed bullet. "I kind of like that part myself. How old are you, son?"

"Twenty-one," lied the eighteen year old.

"And what do you do for a living?

This time Strongheart actually laughed --- briefly and without humour, but a laugh just the same. "Just about anything I have to, sir."

Gleason's bushy grey eyebrows rose at that. "Legal or illegal things?"

Strongheart's cold eyes had flashed. "Legal when I have a choice --- the other kind when I don't."

"What about drugs?" the old man had pressed.

"Daddy, how about you give it a break?!" Alison said with considerable force. "For Christ Sake, he just brought me home from a beach party, not a fucking gang-bang!"

Gleason turned and pointed his trigger finger up towards Heaven. "Mind your language, Alison. Your mother may be listening."

"Mother's long since passed out from the 'medicine' you and your golfing-buddy doctor got her hooked on. And even if she did hear me, as long as she has her pills, her unholy Trinity of Wade, Saint Janet and my shitty little brother, she doesn't give a flying fuck about you or me!"

Gleason's anger flared --- more so because secretly he agreed with his defiant daughter. Still, his own strict upbringing had taught him that a father --- a 'good' father --- must discipline his children. But as Gleason moved to do so he found the tall, imposing form of Martin Strongheart blocking his path --- and his anger flared even brighter.

"Get the hell out of my way, boy!"

"Sorry, sir, but I can't do that."

Looking up at the young Mohawk's chiselled features, arguably the most powerful man in the Thousand Islands suddenly felt something he had not felt for a very long time --- fear of another man. He felt that way because the look in Martin Strongheart's eyes was not one of a nervous young man confronting his girlfriend's angry father --- but that of a calm, collected, stone cold killer.

Just like he'd done with a wounded rino or a charging lion, Gleason easily stood up to other men --- grown, experience men --- powerful, dangerous men. Even that psycho drug dealer Mad Santa! But looking into this kid's s was like looking into a bottomless well --- a well you did not want to drink from no matter how thirsty you were!

Woodenly the older man took a step back. His mouth was dry, his heart pounding, his body was dripping sweat. "She --- she can't talk to me that way! Her mother loves all her children!"

"I'm sure she does, sir," Martin said calmly. "But right now your daughter isn't thinking straight. I'm sure tomorrow morning she'll see things differently."

Martin ended with a smile, yet Gleason got the impression he was staring up at a grinning wolf. The flaring anger that had suddenly became fear, now morphed itself into something else --- something that Ralph Gleason had used all his life to scratch, cheat and claw his way up from his father's run-down pig farm to becoming one of the biggest, richest land developers in the Thousand Islands ---- intuition. Or, as Ralph liked to call it --- especially after his third or fourth Scotch --- his 'gut feeling'!

"I like you, Martin. You brought my daughter home safe and now, when she angers me, you put yourself in harm's way to protect her."

"I meant no disrespect, sir."

"I know you didn't, son. And to prove it, I want to offer you a job."

"A job? Doing what, sir?" the cold eyed youth had asked --- all the while fighting down the urge to look at Alison, still sulking silently in the shadows.

Gleason had smiled. "Security mostly. When she needs it, you can be Alison's personal bodyguard. And --- whatever other little problems I need taken care of".

Martin , Tigerhad thought for a moment, then turned and looked directly at Alison. "What about you, Alison? How do you feel about me working here?"

Alison had stepped forward, her young face aged by the dark shadows and an even darker life. "I wouldn't mind it," she said. Then, turning to her father: "I wouldn't mind it at all, Tiger."

Martin Strongheart had worked for Gleason from that night on.

***

Now, five years after the Pandemic caused the death of her older sister and her mother --- as well as the 'Death of the Modern World', Alison Gleason stood looking down at the only man she had ever truly loved. Oh, there had been other 'lovers' since that night of the long ago beach party ---- many others --- but they were all nothing more than a shot of booze or a hit of the latest designer drug --- all just futile attempts to dull the pain of living.

Strongheart however was her rock, her anchor, her reason to keep breathing. At times, she hated him for it, and this was one of those times. "So Tiger, you're really going with my little shit of a brother to kill an old boat builder?"

Strongheart laid back against the headboard and smiled.

There were also times when she hated that smile --- for it made her knees go weak. This, however, wasn't one of those times.

"From what you father told me about the man, I'm going to make sure that the 'boatbuilder' doesn't kill your 'little shit' of a brother."

Alison's eyes widened and her right eyebrow arched. "Oh? And what makes him so dangerous?"

Strongheart breathed deeply and widened his smile. Alison fought the effect and partially won. "Apparently he was in the 'Special Forces' branch of the Canadian Army. Back in the day he was considered a real 'bad ass'."

"Back in the day?"

Strongheart shrugged. "He retired fifteen or twenty years ago. Been living like a hermit ever since. Building wooden boats that he can't sell."

"He sounds like a dangerous man," she said, forcing herself to turn away from the bed.

"At one time I'm sure he was," Strongheart replied. "But time dulls even the sharpest knife, Kieflin."

The name was a rather impolite Mohawk word for 'outsider or foreigner', but he used it as an 'endearment' of sorts between them. He was her 'Tiger' and she was his 'Kieflin'. The name never failed to move through her like a verbal caress. He'd first called her that on that long ago beach party. 'Kieflin,' he'd said, looming over her like a long haired mountain. 'You are truly a shining example of your white race. Come, I will take you home before you make a complete fool of yourself.'

She'd loved both him and the name ever since.

"So you expect the boatbuilder to put up a fight?" she asked.

In one continual, fluid motion Strongheart left the bed and was suddenly holding her in his arms. The nearness of him engulfed her, causing her to almost miss his words. "I'm sure he'll try, but I don't intend to give him the chance."

She frowned. "You'll kill him right away?"

"I'll capture him if I can, kill him if I have to. His fate however rests in your brother's hands."

"Then he's a dead man already and just doesn't know it," she said with obvious disdain --- and not for the intended victim. "He has been ever since he insulted the little shit and ran him off his property. I know my little brother. He's even more dangerous than Wade, and that's saying something."

"Wade's alright," Strongheart said. "Quiet, strong, determined."

She flashed a mirthless smile. 'That sounds a lot like you, Tiger. But you're also dependable, gentle, at times even tender. And honourable --- in a weird, Indian sort of way. Wade thinks being honourable makes you weak and a loose".

"And Billy-Ray?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"Billy-Ray should have been put down at birth! He's a hot tempered, self-centered, grade-A asshole!"

Strongheart smiled. "You forgot 'psycho'."

"I didn't forget, but their all psychos --- Billy-Ray, Wade, even my father. It's just that he and Wade are functioning psychos, while Billy-Ray is a total basket-case!"

"Well, I work for your father and he told me to go with the 'basket-case' when he meets this boat builder, so that's what I intend to do."

"Fine then," she said. "Go on --- but I'm coming with you!"

Ralph Gleason was the only man that Martin Strongheart was hesitant to confront. Not because he feared him, but because Gleason had given him more than just a job --- he had given him a home and a family. Illegal and dysfunctional it certainly was --- but it was the only one he had. As for Alison, in her own way she was just as crazy as the rest of them --- but he loved her and somehow that made things alright.

"I'd prefer it if you didn't" he said as he pulled her close to him. "Your father would be against it, but you'll do what you want anyway --- just like you always do."

She leaned in and kissed him gently on his ear --- then bit it. "Take me to bed, Tiger," she hissed. "Now!"

***

"What the hell is she doing here?!" Billy-Ray demanded when Strongheart drove up to the Big House early the next morning. The rusting, battered pick-up he'd first driven Alison home in years ago had been replaced by a black, gas guzzling Ram 350. The gun-rack behind the seat held an AR-15 and a Mossberg 'Defender' shotgun. Strongheart himself had two handguns and a knife on him and an ice cold look in his eye.

Alison, sitting in the passenger seat, leaned across Martin and smiled up at a frowning Billy-Ray. "I could ask you the same think about your weirdo girlfriend over there. Can't stand to be away from your little shaved headed psycho?" Both looked at the weird looking young woman in question.

She was standing over by his truck, smoking the stub of a cigar while casually holding a cut-down AK-47 over her right shoulder. The morning sun glinted off her many face and ear piercings as well as the freshly shaved left side of her head. A band aid on her cheek only partially covered a nasty looking cut. She called herself Twig and had been hanging around Billy-Ray and his bunch ever since she turned up at the Gleason compound early last spring. When asked about what she had been doing before she arrived at the compound her only answer had been 'hunting Crazies'. No-one thought it prudent to press her for details.

"She's not my girlfriend," Billy-Ray said far too loudly. "Just one of my bad-ass posse!"

Alison laughed in his face. "Your 'posse'?! More like your skank-ass 'pussy'. Tell me baby brother --- does she shave that as well?"

"That's none of your goddamned business! Me, Twig and the rest of my crew got some business over on the north shore --- and we don't need any help from you or Chief Stick-Up-His Ass!"

Right from the very beginning there had been no love lost between the then nineteen year old Martin Strongheart and Gleason's very troubled nine year old youngest son. In Billy-Ray's mind he had spent his turbulent formative years with Strongheart's stoic, frowning face watching every move he made and reporting it all to Billy-Ray's disapproving father.

The pair of siblings locked stares and wills, and, as usual, Big Sister eventually won out. Billy-Ray turned his anger on Martin.

"She's your goddamned girlfriend, Strongheart! If you want to take her to a gunfight, go right ahead! Just keep her out of the fucking way!" With that he stomped over to his own truck, yelled at Twig to 'get her skinny ass inside' and then at the waiting driver to 'start the blood motor, dip-shit!'

'Dip-Shit' was in fact, 'Big Ears' --- real name Leroy Flood --- the same young man that had driven into Sam's boat yard the week before and, truth be told, wasn't too keen to be going back there. One who was keen however was Dean Hengst, the long, lean lad Sam had dubbed 'Snake-Eyes' and had ended up peppering him in the legs with a load of light birdshot. Said legs were still sore and healing but now functional, though Snake Eyes dulled the pain with a gruesome threesome of booze, drugs and seething hatred. He'd also acquired another small machinegun to replace the one that had gotten left behind at Sam's.

The third 'amigo' of that disastrous day, plump faced 'Pizza Boy' ---real name Teddy Smyth --- had outright declined the invitation to attend Sam's killing --- which, as it turns out, will prove to be a very sage decision on Teddy's part. (He who wisely runs away, lives to eat pizza another day.)

Billy-Ray scrambled up into the plush cab, his snake-skin cowboy boots with the extra high heels almost allowed him to reach the 'assistance' handle on the top of the door frame --- almost. Once inside he turned to Leroy and punched the nervous looking young man on the shoulder. "Well, Ass-Wipe ? What the fuck are you waiting for?!"

"Ahhh, sorry BR, but is your sister really coming with us?"

"Jesus Christ, Retard, what the fuck does it look like?!" Billy-Ray yelled. "Now, just shut the fuck up and drive!"

Like most of the men that worked for Gleason, Leroy Flood was drawn to the boss's beautiful daughter. Unlike the others however, Leroy's feelings for 'Succulent Alison' were not ones of mere 'lust and longing', but of 'love, caring and worshipping from afar'. Snake Eyes and several other men teased him about it, saying things like 'The 'Bitch Queen' gives little Floody-Wuddy a heart ache instead of a hard-on'. But Leroy knew that his love was pure and true --- and one day he'd prove it to them all!

Mother Flood's sensitive baby-boy suddenly felt the sting of Billy-Ray punching him on his shoulder a second time. "Come on, Lee-Ror-Dooo! Put the fucking peddle to the metal! I want to have that old man's head by noon!"

Leroy stole one more quick glance at his lady love in Strongheart's truck, put Billy-Ray's overlarge SUV in gear and stomped on the gas. The overlarge vehicle left a black strip on the driveway and the smell of burning rubber hanging in the air as it roared down the road like a hungry beast, eager to ravish its next prey. Trying his best to ignore the bad feeling that he had about this little 'adventure, Strongheart followed along as he always did --- paid by the father to protect his son from all enemies, both foreign and domestic --- and the most dangerous one of all, Billy-Ray himself.

***

At the same time as the youngest Gleason offspring and bevy of followers were leaving Clayton, New York and heading for the International Bridge that spanned the St. Lawrence joining Canada and the US, the Witch was gliding into her home birth near Mohawk, Ontario. Seventeen year old Donny MacTavish, Sam's honorary 'First Mate', leapt onto the dock --- as agile as only the young can be --- and snugged the bow line to a post with a few twists of his deft hand.

"All secure at the bow, cap'n!" Donny called out.

They had just come from letting a number of volunteers, including Helen, Doc and Abner Hays, off at the Mohawk Marina and Sam, Donny and Fiona had sailed The Witch back to the boatyard. The three of them were eating lunch on a picnic table down by the dock when they heard the sound of tires in the gravel parkinglot.

"Looks like you've got some company, Sam," Donny said round a mouthful of sandwich. "You expecting a customer?"

But Sam had already recognized the deep, rumbling sound of Billy-Ray's twin mufflers and knew exactly who had just arrived. Sam had been expecting the little shit to comeback, but he thought it would be a night, not in broad daylight. Sam got up and headed for the boatshed.

"Danny, Fiona, come! It's not safe out here."

"Who is it?!" Danny asked as he followed Sam in side. "Crazies?!"

"Sort of," Sam said as he quickly unlocked an old sea chest. Tossing two blankets on the floor, he reached in and took out his deer rifle, a short barrelled Marlin 'Trapper' and a box of 30.30 shells and handed them to Danny. "You remember this one from last fall? Load five in the tube, one in the chamber --- and keep the safety on."

The young man nodded, both nervous and excited at the same time. He'd been hunting and target shooting for several years and, like most Pandemic survivors, was familiar with the use of firearms. "You just being cautious, Sam, or are you expecting real trouble?"

"It's the ones that Sam rescued me from," Fiona said coldly. "Billy-Ray Gleason and his pals!" She them calmly turned to Sam. "Anything in there for me? I don't want to greet the little shit empty handed."

He reached in and brought out an old fashioned revolver with aged ivory grips.

Fiona smiled at him and hefted the antique weapon. "You fathers?" she asked.

"My grandfather's. He said it once belonged to Al Capone."

"Who's he?" she asked.

"A famous gangster from a hundred years ago. You ever fired one of these before?"

Her smile widened as she opened the cylinder and spun it. "I had a boyfriend who sold guns. He preferred automatics, but I always liked these oldies."

Sam then dipped into his war chest and brought out a box of .38 Specials hollow points. "My my," Fiona commented. "Aren't these called 'cop killers'?"

Sam's eyes widened. "You do know your guns."

"I know revolvers," she said as she deftly loaded all six chambers. "Automatics can jam." A flick of her wrist snapped the cylinder closed. "Wheel guns never do."

She dumped the rest of the box into her small shoulder bag just as a car horn sounded loud and long. A voice then called out from the parking lot. "Come out, come out, wherever you are, old man! I told you I'd be back! So come on out and face me man to man --- if you've got the nerve!"

Sam shoved his Colt 1911 next to his belt buckle, pumped a shell into his grandfathers WWI shotgun and moved towards the front of the shed. "Danny, take the front window, but stay in the shadows. Fiona, you watch the back door."

"And you, Sam?" she asked. "What are you going to do?"

"Me? I'm going out and talk to the lad."

She shook her head, her dark eyes flashing. "He didn't come here to talk, Sam, and you know it! Just kill him quick. Danny and I will help you with the others!"

Sam frowned and Danny's jaw dropped. "Kill him quick?" the youth repeated. "Just like that?!" The Marlin 'Trapper' he was holding suddenly felt like an anchor dragging his soul down to hell. "But we can't just kill them in cold blood!"

Fiona turned the full force of her baleful stare on him. "Why the hell not?! Billy-Ray came here to kill Sam. I say we kill them first!"

"But --- but it's not right!"

"Right's got nothing to do with it, Danny!" she hissed. "We have too!"

"But why?!" the young man asked.

Those piercing eyes fixed on him once more. "Because if we don't, Billy-Ray will kill us as easy as he would a bug. But first he'll torture Sam, gang-rape me and probably make you watch --- or even join in."

Danny's white face flushed red. "I'd never do that!"

"Never say never, Danny. You'd be surprised what enough fear and pain will make a person do." She drew a deep breath and hefted the old revolver. "But I'll not let him take me again. I'd rather die first." Fiona's full lips compressed into a grim line. "So let's kill them all and save ourselves!"

"Is that really what you want?" Sam quietly asked. He was standing up by the front door. Billy-Ray was once again calling for him to 'come outside and face him like a man', but Sam's gaze was on the fierce looking young woman standing in the center of his shop. "Do you really want to step out there and kill people?"

Fiona's pretty face twisted into something not so pretty. "I want him dead. He hurt me --- inside and out. As long as he's alive I'll never heal. So 'yes', I want to kill him. Him and the others just like him!"

Sam held her gaze for several long moments, then nodded agreement. "Alright then," he said in a calm, cold voice that he hadn't used in nearly two decades. But if we do this, we do it my way. Agreed?"

Fiona nodded quickly. Danny took longer.

Sam laid out the steps. "I'll go out first. Danny, you follow and go left; Fiona follow Danny, then go right. We then wait for Billy-Ray to make his move. If he talks, we listen. If he shoots, we shoot back."

"Why wait?!" Fiona demanded. "Why not just kill him?!"

Sam's voice cut like broken glass. "I've killed a lot of men in my time, but I've never murdered any. I'll not start now."

Silence followed, then first Danny, then Fiona nodded again and Sam continued.

"If or when shooting starts, each of you fire once at Billy-Ray, then stop and look around for other threats. I'll do the same. Find cover if you can, drop down if you can't. Shoot anyone holding a weapon. Got all that?"

"Got it, Sam," Fiona said eagerly.

Danny seemed less keen.

"Danny," Sam said quietly; "if you want you can stay inside and cover us from the window."

"What?" the youth asked, seemingly confused. Then his eyes focused and he frowned. "No! I'll follow you out, Sam. I go left and wait. If trouble starts I shoot once at Billy-Ray --- then at any other threats."

Sam reached out and clapped the youth o his shoulder. "Stay low, pace your shots, aim center mass."

"Aye, aye, Captain," Danny said, a new determination in his voice. "Let's go."

Sam met Fiona's fierce gaze, then turned to the door.

***

Martin Strongheart couldn't believe what he was seeing. "What the hell is your brother doing?!"

"Being an asshole as usual," Alison Gleason said glibly from the passenger's seat.

"If he gets himself killed, 'Kieflin', your father will have my ass!"

"Loyalty's such a bitch, Tiger" Alison smiled, her words dripping sarcasm. "But don't worry. I'll tell daddy how you risked your own life to save my retarded, baby brother, so lets just sit here and see what happens."

But Strongheart was already pulling a strange looking weapon out from the back seat. It was short, squat, black and very dangerous looking.

Even since he heard that the old boatbuilder that Billy-Ray and his 'posse' had run afoul of a week ago was a retired member of the Canadian Special Forces, Strongheart had known that sooner or later he would have to 'clean up' Billy-Ray's mess. To do that he would need the appropriate tool --- and Strongheart believed that the FN 2000 bullpup was just the thing! Used by SWAT teams and 'special forces' all over the world, it was light weight, accurate and took a fifty round clip of 5.56 caliber NATO ammunition. Strongheart had four extra clips in the tactical vest he was slipping over his head.

Alison leaned over and spoke to him through the open door. "You look like a cross between Desert Storm and the Standoff at Wounded Knee."

Strongheart gave her a half smile and turned to go when the front door to the shop opened and older man with a full grey beard and a shotgun stepped outside. A teenager with a deer rifle followed him, then a dark haired woman in her late twenties. The young woman was carrying a handgun.

"Shit!" Strongheart said to himself and, snugging the FN 2000 into his right shoulder, started to walk forward.

***

Billy-Ray smiled as he saw the shop door open and Sam step through. A more cautious, even prudent man might have noticed Sam's set jaw, crouched stance and steely eyed stare --- but then Billy-Ray had never been a very cautious lad --- and as for being 'prudent', that particular attribute was as far above him as the distant stars. Rather he fell back on old, if not comfortable traits, at least familiar ones --- he let his churning emotions override his limited intellect and pressed forward regardless of the cost. Raising the stockless, short barrelled shotgun he'd been holding alongside his right leg, he wracked a shell into the chamber, let out a wordless scream and fired.

***

While Billy-Ray was calling for Sam to come out and face him, the other three in his 'posse' took their assigned positions. Leroy stayed nervously behind the wheel with the motor running and silently worrying about Alison. The punk-rock/Goth/Grunge/Hippie chick Twig stepped out of the SUV with her ever present AK-47 in hand and wearing a S.W.A.T. vest crammed with extra thirty round mags. Dean/Snake-Eyes exited the vehicle on the far side. His nasty little 'space gun' having been taken away from him by, Sam the last time he was here, Deadly Deano had been resourceful enough to come up with an even nastier and bigger one!

He'd gotten it from Bad Santa on his own gun-running/drug-dealing personal island out in the St. Lawrence. It was an MGL 32 Grenade Launcher , capable of pumping out a dozen deadly rounds in as many seconds --- and a whole box full of various explosive nasties to go with it! Santa had charged him a high price for the weapon, but Dean would pay anything to see the man that had nearly crippled him face down in the dirt!

The actual price for the weapon had been a five hundred tabs of Gleason's crystal meth made in his 'secret' lab just outside of Ottawa. Dean had risked his life stealing from his boss, but he figured it was well worth it to get his revenge on Sam.

Bad Santa had smiled when Dean told him what he wanted the grenade launcher for and had even tossed in a couple of rare phosphorous ones for free. "Just think of old St. Nick, Deanie-boy, when you send one of these up the old man's ass!"

The two of them had laughed at that, tried a couple of the tabs of the meth and washed them down with twelve year old scotch. St. Nick had then ordered up two T-bone steaks and he and Dean had gone off for a soak in the hot tub with a couple of hookers.

Now, several days later, Dean was once again standing in the boatbuilder's parking lot. Earlier when he'd showed Billy-Ray the unusual weapon, the high-heeled little psycho's smile had gone from ear to ear! "Deano, my man! With this you can burn the old fuckers's place to the ground!" They had both laughed at that, but then Billy-Ray had pulled out his massive Colt Python and shoved it in Dean's face. "But remember, Deano, I'm the one that kills the old fucker, not you! You blow up his shit --- but you leave him to me! You got that, amigo?!"

Dean, the pain from his healing legs still bad, especially the right one, had reluctantly agreed. The extra stash of meth tabs he had stole for himself kept the pain at bay, but they fucked up his head --- and he wanted to be clear thinking when he offed the old fucker. He badly wanted to kill Sam himself ---- shove one of those phosphorous grenades up his ass just like Bad Santa had joked about back in his sauna --- but Dean also knew that it was never a smart move to cross Billy-Ray --- especially when he had the psycho look in his eye --- which he seemed to have all the time lately!

'Fuck it!' Dean said to himself. 'Dead is dead. As long as the old man buys the farm, why should I care who the fuck pulls the trigger?'

But deep in his black heart Dean did care. He cared one hell of a lot!

***

As Billy-Ray's wordless scream of rage filled the parking lot, the eight pea size led pellets from his shotgun blast headed towards the open door that Sam had just stepped through.

Now, Gentle Reader, a bit of background info that you may or may not be aware of is necessary here. A shotgun shell is not like a 'regular' bullet from either a handgun or a rifle. Those are basically one piece of metal made to match the size of the barrel. Shotguns however can shoot all manner of things. Each caliber (size of barrel) can shoot different amount of metal 'pellets' of various sizes, depending on your intended target. 'Birdshot' for small game has many small pellets, (what Sam shot at Dean's legs); while 'Buckshot' has much fewer but larger pellets, (what Billy-Ray was now shooting at Sam.) The weight of metal is the same in both shells; it is the size of the pellets that differ.

And, unlike a 'bullet' from a handgun or rifle that goes much like a well thrown football, 'shotgun pellets' go like a tossed handful of rice or peas and are very deadly at close range, especially the fewer but larger pellets. However they quickly spread out in a fan or vee shape and do not go all that far before losing their power.

In this particular case, seven of the eight pellets from Billy-Ray's first shot missed Sam, passing all around him --- one however hit his upper left shoulder. The pea sized led projectile spun him sideways but was not big enough to shatter bone or pass right through as a bullet from a rifle or a handgun could have. Yet there still was enough force to stagger him and cause his own first shot to miss Billy-Ray completely.

After that everyone started shooting at everyone and though it lasted less than a minute, it was the longest, most terrifying minute of their lives. And when it was finally over several people were either dead, dying or seriously wounded.

***

"Jesus Christ!" Strongheart swore when he saw Billy-Ray go down. It looked like he'd hit the old man with his first shot, but after that both the teenager with the deer rifle and the chick with the handgun started firing at the stupid little shit! Strongheart watched in shock as Billy-Ray was hit at least twice, stood there staggering around on his faggoty high heel cowboy boots, them flopped over like a gaffed fish lying on the floor of a bassboat!

"Shit!" Strongheart swore again and turned back to his truck. "Kieflin, stay there!" He then he opened up with his FN 2000. The deadly little machinegun spread it's 5.56 NATO rounds hither and yon all over the cluttered boatyard. Fortunately for Sam, Fiona and seventeen year old Donny MacTavish, Martin Strongheart hadn't taken the time to snug his weapon securely into his shoulder, but had fired quickly from the hip --- the result being that the entire thirty rounds in his magazine went wide of their intended marks. To be fair to Martin's seemingly rather shoddy 'marksmanship', the FN 2000 zipped through those thirty rounds in the blink of an eye, leaving Strongheart suddenly standing in the open with an empty gun --- a fact two of his three intended targets instinctively took full advantage of as both Sam and Danny opened up on the long, lean Native American. Fiona however continued to fire at Billy-Ray as she walked slowly forward.

Danny's shot from his deer rifle took Strongheart high in his left shoulder, passing clear through and out the back. Miraculously the 30/30 slug missed bone, but took out a hell of a lot of muscle and tissue. The six of the eight large pellets from Sam's shotgun blast passed all around Strongheart ---- three of them striking the truck where Alison Gleason was sitting wide-eyed with fear. Two hit the body and one shattered the left back window! Alison screamed, but her cry was drowned out by her brother's woeful wails as he bled out not fifty feet from her.

It was seeing her lover go down however that made her get a grip --- both on herself and the door handle --- as she through caution to the wind and scrambled out to help Strongheart, the only man that she truly cared about.

Ignoring her dying brother and the flying bullets, Alison climbed out the driver's door and ran towards her fallen lover. Sam and Donny continued firing at Twig and Dean Hengst, but Fiona only seemed concerned with killing Billy-Ray. Twig was on her second thirty round clip while Dean, as instructed, continued to pump grenades all around the boatyard, the result being that now everything was in flames and swirling grey-black smoke now drifted over the seemingly peaceful river.

The only person of the nine people there in the burning boatyard that was not yet involved in the fight was Billy-Ray's driver, big-eared Ronnie Peavers. His sweating hands frozen to the wheel, Ronnie's numbed brain took in the gruesome sites all around him. He saw the girl who, until recently, had been their prisoner/sex-toy calmly firing bullets into Billy-Ray's squirming body. He saw the weird looking girl Twig emptying clip after clip from her AK at the other shooters while his 'sometime friend' Dean Hengst firing grenades all over the place! The smoke and flames caused by the grenades were engulfing the once quiet little boatyard. Then he saw that scary bastard Martin Strongheart stagger and go down. But it was when he saw Alison Gleason leave the relative safety of her SUV and head towards the downed Strongheart that Ronnie finally broke free of his paralyzing fear. The woman of his dreams was putting herself in harm's way and he had to help her! The fact that she was rushing not towards him, but her lover, mattered not a bit. 'Princess' Alison was it danger, and he had to save her!

He put the big truck, still rumbling like a waiting beast, in gear and stomped down on the accelerator. It sprang forward with a roar, spewing dirt and gravel from its oversized wheels. Ronnie turned the metallic monster in a tight circle, passing by Fiona who was busy reloading her pistol. He felt the heavy truck lift slightly as it passed over Billy-Ray's already dead body, yet he paid it no mind, so intent was he on reaching his 'lady-love'. Stopping the truck between Alison and those firing from the boatshed, he yelled at her to get inside.

"Not without Martin!" she yelled back. "Now get your ass out here and help me!"

As ever, Ronnie did as he was told. Instantly at Alison's side, he helped her move the big Mohawk. Hit in the shoulder, Strongheart's whole left side was covered in blood. Together Ronnie and Alison got him into the back seat and Alison got in with him. When Ronnie just stood there looking at her, she turned her withering gaze on him. "Well move it, asshole! Get us the fuck out of here!"

Once again Ronnie did as he was told. As he climbed in behind the wheel, the passenger door suddenly opened and Twigg jumped in. Blood covered one side of her half shaven head and more dripped off her left elbow. She still had her AK and after firing a burst out the window, turned and yelled for him to 'get the fuck moving!'

"Where's Dean?" he heard himself ask over the roar of the motor.

"Dead," came the reply. "Now move it!" The AK was suddenly in Ronnie's face.

And as ever, Ronnie did as he was told.

***