The Man Who Hated Ned O'Leary (Dig Two Graves 2)

“Surprise, roaches. I’m here to deliver some poison!”

Cole’s head became empty when he met Ned’s gaze, and they likely had the same question: how in the world had the bastard found them?

They might’ve been Zeb’s target, but every person in this street was at risk. A stray bullet could find its way through the bars of the fence and hit a child, or one of the nuns. Most people had the good sense to run for cover, but a fancy-looking horse had gotten spooked close by and reared, tossing the rider off its back.

Shutters closed. A woman ran into the yard, where the three girls had been playing, and chased them back indoors. The scene deserted within the blink of an eye.

“I let you live!” Ned yelled, stiffening at Cole’s side as if he were an animal chased into a corner. “You should have taken that opportunity!”

Zeb laughed, but he wouldn’t have been fooled, and surely kept his finger tight on the trigger. He stood in the open, but had always been a good shot, and if Cole leaned out to take his aim, he might end up with his hand in pieces.

Sweat beaded on his back, and he pressed Tommy lower to the ground as his skull hummed with the echo of the blood pulsing in his veins. Risks had been so much easier to take without Ned and Tommy to care for. He had too much to lose to recklessly face danger.

“Whatever happens, don’t show yourself,” he whispered to the boy, but it wasn’t him Cole should have said that to.

A bell rang somewhere down the street, and Ned bolted. Cole inhaled the floating dust in silent horror as Ned rolled away from him, shooting with his unsteady hands. Zeb answered in kind, and the fact that none of his bullets put Ned down before he reached the abandoned fruit cart was sheer luck. But there was no way of telling whether he’d been hit or not, which pushed all kinds of insults to Cole’s lips.

You reckless fucking idiot.

Do you have soup for brains?

Haven’t you just said you wanted to take care of Tommy?

Don’t die!

Breathless with fury, Cole sprinted from behind the statue, his gaze already hitting the bullseye that was Zeb’s forehead. Aiming was second nature, and if Zeb as much as twitched in Cole’s direction, lead poisoning would take him to the afterlife.

The old outlaw still looked like the man who’d taught Cole how to catch fish, how to hunt animals without making them suffer or damaging the pelts. He’d been a mean bastard at the beginning, and on Cole’s second night with the Gotham Boys, he’d even offered to give him money for disappearing while Butcher Tom slept, but he’d come around and learned to care for Cole in his own way.

Now the eyes that used to express fondness only had hate for him.

“Zebediah, drop your weapon!” Cole shouted at the top of his lungs.

“Why?” The crazed bastard laughed, his skin duller and more scarred than Cole remembered. “So you can save your murdering lovebird? No chance!” Perhaps he had a death wish, because instead of going against Cole, he aimed his repeater at the produce stand and released bullet after bullet, spraying the dirt with lush juices as Ned cowered behind the flimsy wooden crates behind the vehicle.

Was this a test? Did Zeb want to end this painful quest for revenge as much as Cole used to?

It did not matter, because the result would be the same.

Cole shot once. Twice. Thrice. He emptied both six-shooters into Zeb by the time the heavy-set lump of blood and bone hit the ground.

“Ned!” he cried, wanting to run behind the cart and prove to himself that Zeb had lost his skill and missed every single time, but his feet had grown into the dirt. His head felt hollow as he breathed in and out, aiming the empty guns at the fresh corpse, almost certain the man who’d just fallen would get back on his feet and spit the bullets out as if he’d caught them all in the gap between his teeth.

A part of Cole believed Zeb to be indestructible, but he no longer moved, and the dirt in the middle of the road changed color as his blood soaked into it.

“I’m fine!” Ned yelled back and was smart enough to stay hidden. “Just a few scratches. Tommy?”

The clamoring bell was joined by several whistles, and that was what pushed Cole back into action. There was no time to linger, but his mind suggested Zeb was only acting dead, so he threw a knife at him. The blade sank into Zeb’s thigh and the man didn’t twitch.

It was done.

He’d never come after them again, yet Cole sensed a profound sense of emptiness, almost as if he’d lost his gang once more. This time, it was he who’d cut that last thread.