Excerpt

One

Carlos sat in a dead man's chair. He rubbed his wispy mustache, realized it was a tell, and quickly dropped his hand. He peeked at his cards again, trying desperately to mask his disappointment beneath his black bolero hat.

The last man who'd sat in this chair had been shot dead, and Carlos had bought his way into the game with his spare ammo, taking the blood-spattered chair. As play proceeded around the table, he reflected it had been a poor choice for a young lawman to sit at a poker table surrounded by outlaws.

"Call," he said, then raised with his last .45 cartridge. He tossed it into the pot with a casual flick. No big deal. Even though it was his last bit of currency. It was a weak bluff, and he knew it.

"Fold," muttered Knockback Bill. "Need a damn drink anyhow." He tossed his cards down and stumbled in the general direction of the bar where rusted radioactive signs and license plates were nailed to every inch of wood.

That left only Sombrero Dave, a hired gun whose massive girth was testing the limits of a small wooden chair, and Slick Ace Jake, rumored to be a mean-ass skinwalker. Both called and stayed in the game. Their faces revealed nothing to Carlos.

Play circled back to a girl named Diablo. She was in her early twenties, he guessed, like him. Silky black hair, tinged red, spilled like ink onto her white blouse. The blouse had fallen off one shoulder, giving the gamblers something else to consider besides their cards. Her strategy seemed to be working, too, for she'd won a serious pile of ammo. And Carlos almost missed the two guns tucked into a sash—one silver, the other big and black.

His captain had sent him to make first contact with her. Warm her up to the idea of the Midnight Agency. If possible, he was to escort her to his superiors for recruitment. But Carlos doubted a girl named Diablo would agree to come with him anywhere, even if he wore an Agent's badge.

Especially if he wore a badge.

"Ladies," said Diablo, pushing her stockpile forward, her black eyes glinting. "I call you cowards and raise you all-in."

Carlos had used every bit of spare ammo on his gun belt, and with no currency to bluff with, he'd have to leave the table, thus losing any chance of befriending Diablo. This was his first solo mission, assigned to him because only he could infiltrate The Contaminated Saloon on account of his youth and anonymity. He'd spent an hour studying the card players, and all that work was going up in smoke. His imminent failure smothered him. His captain already treated him like a child. What would he think now? This had been Carlos's chance to show his team what he could do. His chest constricted, his lungs felt dried up. A shadow flitted on the edge of his vision, sliding along the adobe wall.

"What about you, gunslinger?" asked Diablo. "Do you have anything left besides those pretty little guns of yours?"

The saloon, which had been spinning around him, suddenly lurched to a stop. Her words knocked the breath from him like a gut-punch. His Colts were family heirlooms, passed down generations before and after the White Event. They were pieces of art, these old guns, with their checkered ivory grips and floral engraving. They were objects to envy and fear.

"My guns...are priceless," he managed, his throat tight, forcing his Spanish accent to choke the English words. The guns were his abuelo's, given to him by his father when he left the village to join the Agency. They are my birthright. Sacred.

"Just one should do, then. Unless you can offer up something else..." She let her words hang there while she raised a skeptical eyebrow.

To fold was to let this chance slip away, yet he couldn't gamble away his guns. Not on a bluff. What good is a gunslinger without his guns? What would his captain think of him if he returned without one of his Colts? In his mind, he heard Captain Driskill's reprimand. Old Silas would lecture him. And Mingan would shake his head in judgment.

"Kid ain't got shit," said Sombrero Dave.

The air grew warm, and sweat soaked his shirt and vest. Carlos drew his left Colt from its holster and placed it on the table. Its weight jostled the pile of bullets. Take care of these pistols and they will serve you well, his father had told him after he placed them in Carlos' hands.

"Well now," said Diablo, admiring the gun. "Must be one hell of a hand."

Carlos bobbed his eyebrows at her, forcing himself not to look at his Colt.

"You talk a mighty game, Diablo," said Sombrero Dave. He shoved his stockpile forward. "But you ain't gonna beat me. Not this time."

"Ain't a coward, but I ain't no idiot, neither. I fold," snarled Slick Ace Jake. He slapped his cards down and stepped away from the table. He lingered to watch the action, his hands resting on his gun belt.

Carlos glanced at his Colt in the pot. It was a piece of his soul. And I'm about to lose it.

Out of the corner of his eye, Carlos saw a shade, a living shadow, slither across the saloon floor. It slipped amongst the square tables and chairs. Seeing ghosts was nothing new to him, but this one was different. When it vanished, it disturbed the air, like scratches on a mirror. Inquieto, thought Carlos. Restless.

No one else noticed it. No one ever did.

"Let's see what you got," said Diablo.

Distracted by the shade, Carlos realized she was talking to him. He felt everyone around the table watching him, judging him. He was going to lose. His only chance of getting the Colt back was to gamble the other. His face grew hot. His hands trembled. With a thin-lipped smile, he fanned his cards and laid them down, face up. It was a hodgepodge, with a high Eight of Diamonds.

"You bet your Colt on an eight?" Diablo scoffed. "That was some bluff, gunslinger."

"Stupid's what it was," said Sombrero Dave, laughing. He revealed a pair of twos and a pair of sixes. He smiled triumphantly, leaning back in his chair. The wood groaned.

"Why Dave," she said, "I didn't believe you had a pair." She flipped her cards over, one by one. Aces and eights, the Dead Man's Hand.

The onlookers gasped. Sombrero Dave leaned forward, gripping the table's edge, red-faced and breathing heavy like a bull about to charge. The dealer found somewhere else to be.

Carlos joined the gawkers, positioning himself behind Bill and Jake. He tossed back the rest of his watery beer while dropping his free hand to unfasten the loop securing his other—now his only—Colt .45 at his leg. The other Agents were outside somewhere, too far away to intervene. Worse, there was no presence of law in The Contaminated Saloon, no semi-auto shotgun above the bar, no happenstance sheriff at the saloon doors. Just me, he thought.

Carlos noted the SIG-Sauer stuffed down the back of Dave's jeans, wedged between his giant butt cheeks. Nearby, Bill rested a hand on his gun, and Jake growled low in his throat, flexing his hands. All of them glared at Diablo.

The whole place had dropped dead quiet, waiting for violence to spring forth.

Diablo sat in the middle of it all, unconcerned. She paid the men absolutely no attention, as if they weren't there at all. She calmly stood her bullets and shell casings one-by-one, like they were toy soldiers instead of winnings. But they were precious things, those bullets. Commodity. Twenty-twos, forty-fours, specials, thirty-cals.

"You skinned me!" shouted Sombrero Dave, spittle flying from fat lips. He brandished the black SIG in his fat fist. "You haven't won big all night. Now you expect me to believe you just got lucky? I bet you supplied yourself with those aces. And just where do you hide them cards? Maybe I'll find out where you hide everything."

At that, Diablo settled back in the wooden chair, using a black fingernail to push up her hat brim. Her deep onyx eyes narrowed.

"Dave," she said, her voice honey-thick, "did you really think I wouldn't notice you switching cards when you feigned that sweaty, fat cough of yours?"

"Shit, Dave, you didn't!" snarled Jake.

"She's the cheat!" said Dave, jabbing the SIG in her direction.

"Get that gun any closer to my face, Dave," said the girl firmly, "and you'll lose your damn hand. I promise you that."

Carlos fingered the handle of his Colt. He was a faster draw than most, and he could shoot better than anybody. Some people were cardsharp. Carlos was gunsharp. He never missed.

Dave roared, red-faced, and overturned the table, tossing it aside like a saddle. Cartridges and drinks flew in all directions, men and women scattered. Carlos watched his Colt slide beneath a table. Only the girl defied the panic, rising from her chair with feline grace and drawing the biggest pistol Carlos had ever seen from a black waist sash. It was a Mexican flintlock, an antique long before the White Event. It hummed ominously, and orange runes flared on the black barrel and stock.

Diablo moved the barrel to Dave's sweaty forehead, pressing it into the skin. It sizzled on contact like a branding iron, but Dave was too afraid to move. Carlos saw nothing but fear in his crazed eyes.

"You should know me better than that, Dave," she said. "Drop that SIG or see what happens."

Dave stared cross-eyed at the big black barrel. Reluctantly, he dropped his SIG. It clattered to the floor. Good boy, thought Carlos.

As for the rest of The Contaminated Saloon, only the bartender remained, as well as a few spectators near the saloon doors, who were either too dumb, old, or drunk to hightail it. Carlos stood behind Bill and Jake, unnoticed. His Colt was beneath a table, but he didn't dare go for it now.

"On your knees, Dave," said Diablo.

The fat man awkwardly knelt with a heavy thud, keeping his hands up. "Don't go shootin' me!" he said, voice unsteady.

"Why not, Dave? You made all sorts of threats to my bodily person. Now be a gentleman for a change and pick up my winnings while you're down there."

He looked confused. "What's yours?"

"All of it, Dave."

"Yes, Diablo."

"Don't call me that. My name's Kory Shaw." She dropped a satchel beside him, nudged it with her boot. "Fill that for me."

His hands searched the floor like tarantulas, gathering red, copper, and black cartridges as fast as they could. "Yes, Miss Shaw."

"That's better," she said, smiling approval.

After he gathered all bullets within reach, he handed over the satchel. She snatched it away and stepped back, keeping the gun leveled at Dave's head. The glowing gun, black and fiery, purred like it was alive. Carlos smelled something burning, like spoiled eggs tossed into a fire. Is that the gun or Dave's forehead?

Carlos watched everything at once, the way Captain Driskill had taught him.

Dave flitted his eyes to his SIG on the floor out of reach. Bill and Jake stood stiff, still undecided, but Carlos knew if one of them went for Kory, the other would follow. Even with that devilish gun, three against one was unfair. Then Carlos saw Jake's hand unclench. His dirty fingernails grew into talons. He's shifting!

Carlos bashed him over the head with the butt of his gun, then sidestepped and backhanded Bill in the same manner. Both men crashed to the floor. He'd seen Captain Driskill do this several times but had never tried it. Can't argue with the efficiency, he thought. Didn't even have to waste a bullet.

Just then, the shade slithered up the wall behind Kory, coalesced into human form, and raised some sort of long spiked club. Turquoise eyes flared menacingly.

Carlos shot it right in the forehead. Its vanishing looked like rips in the wallpaper. Only the bullet hole remained, pockmarking the adobe. Pleased with himself, he spun the gun into his holster. When he looked up, Kory was aiming a silver six-gun right at his forehead. With a disappointed frown, she cocked back the hammer.

"Midnight Agency," Carlos announced. "Badge is in my vest pocket."

"Why are you shooting at me, Agent?" asked Kory.

"There was a shade behind you. But do not worry. I scared it away." He nudged Jake with his boot. "These two were going to bushwhack you. And now they're not."

"Look at you, saving lives," she muttered. "Dave, don't even twitch." She reemphasized this by aiming her demonic gun at the fat man, still kneeling, who snapped his attention away from the SIG and back to Kory.

Carlos swallowed. This was his moment. "Why don't we find somewhere else to be, Miss Shaw?"

"Yeah. This game's dead anyway. Dave, next time I see your ugly face, I'll blow it through the back of your head." She threw the satchel over one shoulder, then stepped over the debris and out the front door.

Carlos grabbed his Colt off the floor and kissed its silver barrel. He snatched up the SIG, too, then backed out carefully into the cool night air.

"Don't come back," said the barkeep.