raised by wolves

Like I said, we’ve been tracking Naomi Glass since Seattle. We’re in Vegas now, with at least ten dead truckers, hoodlums, cardsharps and general scum behind us. The first was Dominic Martin, caucasian, 23, a young crackhead who made extra money for his habit hustling guns. Just as often as not when a deal was arranged, Martin would rob his prospective customer instead of part with the gun. He was found beaten to death with a baseball bat and most of his guns taken. We noticed a pattern emerging when men started turning up dead, holes left in them from unregistered guns.

The first trucker was 30 miles out of town, which we learned Naomi Glass had walked. We found him in his cab with his face shot off, pants down, dick in his hand. We found the next three like this, or in similar fashion. One of them we found handcuffed in the back with a broom handle up his ass. He must’ve had the broom with him already, which means he likely was under the impression that Naomi was going to show him a good time.

We followed her trail into the next city, and waited for the pattern to emerge again. It didn’t take long.

While we were on the scene of Naomi’s latest killing, we were attacked by none other than Harlan Dorsey. The story we heard after the attack was that, by some freak accident, Dorsey wasn’t dead when his body was picked up. He was tracking the girl as well through his connections in the local underground. He almost took my head off when he busted in, same giant shotgun in hand. Montagne saved me and got an arm full of shot for his trouble. We called for backup, but somehow Dorsey escaped. We were shaken, and a disturbing new figure had been introduced to the equation. I don’t like when things don’t go according to plan.

Then another interesting thing happened. As if we didn’t have enough keeping us on our toes.

Naomi Glass came right up to the local police precinct and turned herself in. She said she would plead guilty to all charges if we only would keep her safe from Dorsey. She confessed completely, even going so far as to make a list for us. She had been busy, busier than we thought. But we told her we’d take the deal.

It was my idea to get her to bait Dorsey. I wanted to get him bad, repay him for the trouble he caused us. Any fucker who’s dumb enough to shoot at cops is dumb enough to get put away for it. Or, conveniently blasted while being taken into custody.

We got Naomi to contact Dorsey. A meeting was arranged in the warehouse district. Dorsey was smarter than we accounted for and saw the trap. He got the drop on us, embarrassingly enough. Twice in the same week. I guess we’re getting old.

Montagne took the shell in the chest when Dorsey decided it wasn’t worth it to go on living with his wrecked face, or so I imagine. Now that he had the girl in his sights, all he had to do was get rid of the cops between them and then he’d be suitably avenged.

There was a shoot out. Paper products and big containers of industrial cleaning supplies were demolished and flew everywhere, turning the warehouse into a regular fun house, full of confetti and slick spots on the floor. I don’t know exactly when Montagne got hit.

After sliding around and getting my shirt all covered in blue shit, I finally got Dorsey locked between the eyes.

So the scene now looks like this: Dorsey on his feet, me on the floor, the girl cowering in the corner behind me with her hands clapped over her ears, and Montagne bleeding and gurgling behind Dorsey.

“Drop the gun, Dorsey.”

He sneers, which is something to see because the hole in his face makes him look like he’s sneering all the time anyway.

“You haven’t killed anyone yet, just a few attempted murder charges, obstruction of justice, things like that. Drop it now and maybe they’ll go easy on you. They might let you out in thirty or forty years.”

Dorsey scoffs and says something unintelligible. I tell him to drop the gun again. I want to be sick, but I have to keep him locked.

And then there’s a shot. Not from the shotgun. Not from my gun. Montagne. He’s standing up, covered in blood, a grimace on his face that could stop your heart. He’s clutching his guts, where most of the blood is coming from.

Dorsey is face-down in a pool of the red and chunks of brain and skull.

For good measure, Montagne shoots the girl, too. Then he falls.

I rush over to him and pick his head up in my arms.

“What happened to by the book?” I ask, swallowing hard and holding tightly to his face. All the color’s gone out of him. He’s covered in a quilt of sweat.

“Fuck the book,” he says with a wet gurgle. “Get me to a fucking hospital.”