The McMiller Gang rode hard through the night, their horses kicking up dust along the worn trail leading out of Black Hollow. The wind whipped against Charlie St. Peter's face, but it couldn't blow away the knot in his chest. He was alive—barely. That blind FBE agent, Cassidy, should've killed him. Should've killed all of them. But he didn't.
Why?
Charlie glanced back at his crew as they rode behind him. Lynx had her revolver holstered, her hand resting gingerly on her wrist where she'd been disarmed by Cassidy's uncanny shot. Sparks, hunched over his saddle, muttered something under his breath, still bitter about his misfired gadget. Boone, the quietest of the group, rode with a grim look on his face, his magic having failed him when he needed it most. Big Tom, ever the anchor of the group, was bringing up the rear, his massive form barely fitting on his horse.
The camp came into view at the base of the hill, tucked away in a small valley surrounded by thick pines. A modest fire flickered in the middle, casting long shadows across their gear and tents. They always kept the fire low—just enough for warmth, but not enough to give them away from miles around.
Charlie slowed his horse and swung down from the saddle, landing with a grunt. His muscles ached from the adrenaline crash, but more than that, his mind was racing. He was replaying the bar fight over and over, trying to make sense of what had happened. FBE agents were supposed to kill on sight. No mercy, no hesitation. Cassidy had them dead to rights—and yet, they were still here.
"What the hell was that?" Lynx was the first to speak after they dismounted. She flexed her wrist, wincing slightly. "You saw him, Charlie. He had us pinned down like we were rabbits in a trap. Could've taken us out without even tryin'."
Sparks was already rummaging through his saddlebag, pulling out bits of metal and wire to fix his damaged gadget. "Never seen nothin' like it. I mean, he's blind. How does he even—?"
"Don't matter how," Big Tom grunted, shaking out his massive arms. "What matters is why he let us go. FBE ain't in the business of mercy."
Charlie tossed a handful of kindling onto the fire, stirring the flames higher. "I know," he muttered. "That's what's bothering me."
The group fell into a familiar routine—horses tied up, gear checked, boots kicked off by the fire. It wasn't much, but their camp was home, and in moments like this, it was a place to catch their breath and piece things together. Boone sat cross-legged near the fire, his hands outstretched as he muttered an incantation under his breath. The flickering flames grew calmer, steadier, casting a warm, even light over the group.
Sparks was already tinkering with his broken gadget, his fingers moving with practiced precision. "I've seen agents before," he said, not looking up from his work. "Cold, efficient killers. They don't hesitate. But that guy... Cassidy... it's like he was playin' with us."
Lynx threw down her jacket and dropped beside the fire. "Playin' or not, I don't like it. I don't care if he's blind or got luck runnin' through his veins. Somethin' ain't right about him."
Charlie took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his dusty hair. "You're right. He's different. We all know the stories about FBE agents—trained to kill, no exceptions. They don't care about names or faces, just bounties. But Cassidy... it's like he was choosin' not to kill us."
"Why?" Big Tom rumbled, leaning his massive bulk against a tree. "What's he playin' at?"
Charlie shook his head. "I don't know. Could be he's after somethin' bigger than us. Maybe he's got orders to bring us in alive, but I doubt that. He had us dead to rights, and somethin' in him pulled back."
Boone, who had been quiet up until now, spoke in his usual low, measured tone. "There's power in restraint. Especially for a man like that. He doesn't need to kill because he knows fate will do it for him."
The group turned to Boone, who stared into the fire, his dark eyes reflecting the flickering light. Boone's magic had always been tied to the natural forces of the world—the unseen energies that flowed through everything. If anyone could understand Cassidy's strange ability, it was him.
"What do you mean?" Charlie asked, frowning.
Boone's gaze didn't waver from the fire. "He's lucky. It's not skill, not magic—not in the way we think of it. It's like the universe bends around him. That's why his shots hit their mark, why bullets seem to miss him by inches. But luck like that isn't just chance. It's like a force of nature, and nature doesn't waste energy. He let us go because he knew he'd see us again."
The fire popped and crackled as the gang mulled over Boone's words.
"You're sayin' he knew we'd get away?" Lynx asked, a hint of disbelief in her voice.
Boone nodded. "And when we cross paths again, he'll be ready. He doesn't have to rush. Fate's on his side."
Charlie stood up and paced around the fire, his boots kicking up small clouds of dust. Boone's words made sense, in a twisted way. Cassidy didn't need to kill them tonight because, in his mind, it was already decided. Their paths would cross again, and when they did, Cassidy would be just as calm, just as precise.
That unnerved Charlie more than anything. Cassidy didn't fight with desperation or rage. He fought with certainty.
"Fine," Charlie said finally, stopping to face the group. "We ain't goin' to sit here and wait for him to come find us. Tomorrow, we're packin' up camp and headin' for the north ridge. We'll lie low, hit some supply lines, and make a plan. I'm not lettin' some blind agent dictate when and where we fight."
Big Tom grunted his approval, while Sparks nodded absently, still focused on his gadget. Lynx pulled her knife from her belt and began idly sharpening it, her eyes distant but sharp.
Charlie looked around at the gang—his gang—and a sense of unease settled over him. They were a tight-knit crew, each with their own strengths, their own reasons for running with him. Big Tom was the brute force, loyal to a fault. Lynx was sharp as a blade, both in mind and with her pistols. Sparks was their tech genius, always ready with some device or trap. Boone, with his quiet magic, kept them safe from things that couldn't be fought with guns alone.
But Cassidy had shaken them. None of them would say it out loud, but Charlie could see it in their eyes. They were rattled. And so was he.
"Look," Charlie said, his voice dropping a notch. "We've been through worse. Hell, we've outrun bounty hunters, Pinkertons, and worse lawmen than Cassidy. We'll find a way outta this, same as always."
"Yeah," Sparks muttered, snapping a wire back into place. "Just gotta be smarter, is all."
Lynx sheathed her knife and stood. "Whatever it is, we'll figure it out. But Cassidy's different. And we can't pretend he ain't."
Charlie nodded. "I know. But for now, we focus on tomorrow. Keep movin', keep one step ahead. We stick together."
The fire crackled, and the wind shifted, bringing with it the cool scent of pine and earth. The gang settled into their usual rhythm, but something had changed. A shadow had fallen over them, a shadow shaped like a man who didn't need to see to know exactly where they'd be.
And for the first time in a long time, Charlie St. Peter wasn't sure how to outrun it.
As the fire burned low and the camp quieted down, Charlie lay back against his saddle, staring up at the stars. Cassidy wasn't like any FBE agent he'd ever heard of. He was something else.
Something merciful.
And that, more than anything, made him dangerous.
