He smiles one last time. The professional one. "Should've stayed retired, Silas."
My finger settles against the trigger. The man across from me taught me how to make this exact shot in 2015. "You should've left my family alone."
His pistol comes up.
Mine is already up.
I fire first.
Two rounds, center mass. Hartley's pistol arm drops. He looks down at his chest and then back up at me.
He breathes out once. His eyes lose focus.
I fire once more. A direct hit to the forehead.
Hartley drops.
The warehouse is quiet.
My ears ring. The smell of cordite is sharp under the column of afternoon sun. The pistol in my hand is heavier than it was a moment ago.
Bullseye comes out from the pallets, walks across the dock floor.
He looks at Hartley on the concrete. "Clean kill, brother."
Longhorn comes up from the other side. Hand on my shoulder. "You good, Rogue?"
"I'm good."
Bullseye holsters his sidearm and looks past me toward the roll-up door. "Get your boy. We'll clean this up. The firm and anyone else won't find anything when we're done."
I holster my pistol, walk out the roll-up door and head to my truck.
* * *
Nash is in the passenger seat.
Eyes still closed. Hands still over his ears.
I get in the driver's seat and close the door quietly. Don't start the engine yet.
I put my hand on his small shoulder. Squeeze once. "Partner. You can open your eyes."
His eyes open. His hands come down off his ears slowly.
He looks at me.
He looks at my face. Looks at the cut on my shoulders. Looks at the place on my belt where the pistol is.
His face is older than it was this morning.
The thing in his eyes that used to be six years old is sitting back in there somewhere and a different thing is in the front of them now.
He doesn't flinch when he looks at the pistol. "Are we goin' home?"
I keep my hand on his shoulder. "Yeah, partner. We're goin' home. To your mama."
He nods once. He puts his head against the window.
