Chapter 15: The Gambler’s Hand

The wind howled across the desolate stretch of the frontier, kicking up dust and scattering the last remnants of a once-thriving town.

Black Dust had crossed into a new territory, their reputation spreading like wildfire, and it wasn't just the government, bounty hunters, or cartel that had taken notice.

Other gangs were starting to feel the heat. The game had changed, and now, every move they made would be under the watchful eyes of those who wanted their heads.

But as the sun began to set over the horizon, Bastian felt something shift inside him. It wasn't the usual carefree bravado, nor was it the lighthearted charm that typically characterized his demeanor.

Tonight, something else stirred in his chest—a quiet intensity, something darker and more focused.

There was a certain calm in him now, a sense that the stakes were higher than they'd ever been before. This was no longer just about cards, jokes, or the thrill of a good chase. It was about survival. And Bastian had always been the best at surviving.

—-~

They had set up camp a few miles out from Crimson Pass, a notorious crossroads town that acted as a hub for smugglers, mercenaries, and outlaws alike. The town had been around for decades, always teetering on the edge of lawlessness, and now Black Dust had come to town for a reason: information.

It wasn't just about gold anymore. The network of crime and corruption needed to be unraveled, and Crimson Pass was at the center of it all.

But something felt different tonight. There was a heaviness in the air, a tension that Bastian could feel in the pit of his stomach. He wasn't a man for many words, but he had learned the art of reading the room—and the signs were all there. Someone was watching them. Someone knew they were coming.

Bastian sat at the edge of their campfire, fiddling with a few of his cards. The flame cast long shadows on his face, and his usually playful smile was gone.

His hands moved with a precision and focus that was different from the usual careless flick of a gambler's wrist. There was a quiet storm in his eyes now.

Barok was nearby, his mind already spinning through possibilities.

Seraphina was sharpening her knives with a quiet determination, a habit she had when preparing for something big. But it was Bastian who had the most to lose now. If he messed up—if his instincts were wrong—this whole thing would go south. This wasn't a game anymore.

"Do you think they know we're here?" Bastian finally asked, his voice low. There was no usual mirth, no teasing, only the kind of sharpness that came when a man knew his life was on the line.

Barok, ever stoic, didn't hesitate. "They know. We've made too many waves. The lawmen are getting closer, and the gangs are circling like vultures. It's only a matter of time before they act."

Seraphina, glancing up from her work, added, "The government is getting desperate. The bounty's gone through the roof. We're on their radar now, not just as outlaws, but as a threat. That makes us dangerous to everyone."

Bastian leaned back, staring into the fire. His cards shuffled with a soft rustling sound, a distraction, perhaps, but his mind was focused. He wasn't just a gambler.

Not tonight. The stakes were higher than a bet, and he knew it. The way Barok spoke about "waves" wasn't just metaphorical. Black Dust had become a ripple in the world's underbelly—and soon it would become a tidal wave.

His smile returned, but it wasn't playful. It was sharp, calculating, like the glint in his eyes when he had his opponent exactly where he wanted them. "Then let's make sure they know we're ready for them."

——~

They rode into Crimson Pass with a sense of purpose. The town's dusty roads were lined with half-built shanties and rundown saloons. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, horses, and the unmistakable stench of danger.

It wasn't just a lawless town—it was a place where the rules were decided by whoever had the fastest draw, the biggest pocket, or the most money. But it had its share of secrets, too. Secrets Black Dust was there to uncover.

As they approached the center of town, Bastian's mind wasn't focused on the chaos around him. He wasn't distracted by the laughter or the yelling or the clinking of coins in saloon windows. No, Bastian's mind was sharp. He was reading the room—every conversation, every glance. There was a trap waiting for them.

He could feel it.

And then it came.

A group of mercenaries emerged from the shadows of an alley, their guns drawn and their faces hard. They weren't local. These men had the air of hired guns, trained to kill for the right price.

Their leader, a man with a scar running down his cheek, stepped forward with a smirk.

"Thought you could just waltz into Crimson Pass, did you?" the scarred man sneered, his hand twitching near his holster. "Black Dust. We've heard the rumors."

Barok immediately assessed the situation, his hand on the hilt of his revolver. Seraphina's fingers were wrapped around her own weapons, ready to strike at a moment's notice. But it was Bastian who remained still. His expression unreadable, he stood silently, his eyes locked onto the scarred man's.

"You heard wrong," Bastian said with a smirk, but there was no humor in his voice. It was the calm before the storm. "We're not here to cause trouble. But if you're looking for a fight, we can give you one."

The mercenaries tightened their grips on their guns, but Bastian didn't move. He wasn't rushing into this. He wasn't going to pull a gun until he had calculated the perfect moment.

He wasn't like Barok, who thrived on tactics and strategy. Bastian thrived on reading people. The way their eyes darted, the slight quiver in their stance—it told him everything he needed to know.

The scarred man nodded, as if sensing the tension in the air. "The government's put a bounty on your heads. You're not just running from outlaws anymore. You're up against real firepower." He sneered. "We're just doing what's necessary."

And just like that, Bastian knew. This wasn't a random ambush. The mercenaries had been tipped off. They knew exactly who they were facing. But that wasn't the most important detail. The real problem was that this wasn't just a matter of money or power for these men—they were government-backed.

In an instant, everything clicked for Bastian. His eyes flicked to Barok, who had already begun to move, calculating angles and escape routes. But Bastian had already seen the bigger picture.

The mercenaries were waiting for something. They weren't just there to fight—they were there to capture them. And if they didn't make a move now, they'd be cornered.

"I don't think you understand," Bastian said, his voice calm and deliberate.

"You're not the ones calling the shots. We are."

Before the mercenaries could react, Bastian's hand was already at his side, pulling out his twin single-action pistols—the Jokesters.

The gambler's smile returned, but now it was sharp, calculated.

In the blink of an eye, he fired two shots. One hit the scarred man in the shoulder, sending him stumbling back.

The second grazed another mercenary's arm, forcing him to recoil. The speed and precision were impeccable, but it wasn't just the physical dexterity—it was the read. Bastian knew where they would move before they did.

The mercenaries hesitated, their eyes wide.

But the second they paused, Barok's revolver roared, and Seraphina's gunfire cracked through the air like the biting cold of winter. It was over in a matter of seconds—three mercenaries down, the rest scrambling for cover.

Bastian walked forward slowly, his eyes scanning the fallen men. He wasn't breathing heavily, wasn't sweating. It was as if he had simply shuffled a deck of cards and laid them out in front of him. This was his game.

"You see," he said, wiping his hands on his pants, "it's all about timing. And knowing when to call your hand."

Barok and Seraphina approached, both glancing at him with respect and surprise.

Bastian's usual carefree demeanor was gone. He wasn't just the jokester. He wasn't just the gambler. He was a man who could read the stakes, and tonight, he had shown them why he was just as dangerous as any of them.

—-~

As they made their way deeper into the heart of Crimson Pass, the weight of the situation began to sink in. Bastian had taken care of the immediate threat, but there were bigger players in the game. The government had taken notice.

So had the cartel. And more than just bounty hunters—there were entire factions now watching Black Dust.

From the government's perspective, Black Dust wasn't just an outlaw gang anymore—they were a revolution in the making, a threat to the established order. Every bounty placed on their heads was a recognition of their growing influence.

And for the first time, the government's strategies were beginning to shift. They had underestimated the strength of the Black Dust crew, thinking they were just a ragtag group of outlaws.

But now, Bastian, Barok, and Seraphina were becoming something more. And with every move, every battle, they were taking steps toward rewriting the rules of the Wild West.

As Bastian and his companions rode on, he couldn't help but feel a strange sense of exhilaration. They were in the middle of the storm now. And no one—not even the government—could stop them.

Black Dust was more than a name. It was becoming a legend