Finn managed a shot to the Mexican’s shoulder, but that hardly slowed the man down. He was trying to keep his eyes on Cora, but he could only hope she’d keep her fucking head down until he and Lars had dealt with the danger. If he or Lars could get a critical hit on one of West’s henchmen, it would be game over. But they moved like well-trained mercenaries, sidling to the sparse cover the hangar provided while laying down covering fire for each other.

He caught sight of the ginger from the corner of his eye. Pistol raised, pointed at Lars. But Lars only had eyes for the Mexican.

Finn opened his mouth to yell, to warn Lars, his own pistol swinging wide to take aim at the red-head’s determined face.

A single shot went off.

The ginger reeled back and slammed into the hangar’s corrugated iron wall. The metal pinged and warbled for a minute with the force with which his body had struck it, and then quietened down as he slid to the floor.

“No!” came a furious shout.

Finn spun. The Mexican’s face was contorted in a grimace as he barreled across the hangar. Not heading for Finn or Lars…but for Cora. Who was staring shell-shocked at the red-haired man like she couldn’t believe her bullet had struck home.

At that range, in these conditions? It was a fucking miracle.

Finn surged forward. He tackled the Mexican with a deep-throated roar, taking them both down. Finn managed a pistol whip to the man’s sombrero, but all that seemed to accomplish was knocking the hat from his head. He heard a gunshot go off, but if it had been Lars aiming for his attacker, he’d probably missed.

He tried throwing the man from him, but he must have set some kind of animal free in him, because the Mexican fought like a cornered tiger.

So Finn unleashed the foaming beast he kept cornered day in, day out.

His forehead slammed into his opponent’s face, where he felt the nose break. The man fell away with a yell, and Finn went with him, shoving him onto his back so hard that his head slammed into the concrete.

The yell cut off, but then he was grappling Finn. The Mexican got hold of his shirt and tried dragging him closer, perhaps so he could head butt him in return.

Finn drove his fist into the man’s jaw. His head snapped to the side, but he straightened it instantly and grabbed Finn’s jaw. His fingers scraped skin from his face as he tried to claw his fingers up to Finn’s eyes.

With a twist of his head, Finn caught the man’s fingers in his mouth. Bit down. And spat out the blood and bone and flesh he’d lopped off.

The Mexican didn’t seem to notice at first. And then, with a scream that echoed in every corner of the hangar, he pulled away his ruined hand and stared at it in morbid fascination as it pumped blood into the air.

Once, twice. Finn punched him again. The man went slack under him, perhaps admitting defeat.

Inside his mind, Finn’s beast roared in triumph. And then set about tearing his foe limb from limb.

Another punch.

He grabbed the man’s hair, and slammed the back of his head into the concrete.

Again.

Again.

There was a puddle under the dark head now. The snap-crackle of disintegrating bone whenever his skull made contact with it.

Again.

A voice; someone saying his name.

Again. He felt the man’s skull weakening.

“…Milo.”

Again.

Hair stayed behind in his fingers, and he tried to grip more, but everything was too wet with blood. Too slippery. The man wore a rictus grin, face distorted now that his skull was no longer the same shape.

“Milo, stop!”

He lifted that ruined head, his beast panting and slathering for more blood, and then heard someone retching.

When he blinked, all he saw was red. It took him a few seconds to realize that was from the blood that had sprayed into his eyes. Hands closed around his shoulders. More untangled his fingers from the hair he still clung to.

He was guided to his feet. And then turned away into the eerie gloom of twilight.

“Fuck my life,” came the trembling voice at his side. “Fuck my fucking life.”

His beast slunk back into its corner. Then, purring smugly, it curled up and began licking its paws, as if cleaning them of blood.

The pistol felt cold and heavy in her hand. She almost dropped it, but then the Mexican charged for her. She squeezed the trigger, but nothing happened. No bullets? How many rounds had Angel shot? She dropped the gun and kicked back.

Then Finn collided with the man, both men sprawling to the concrete.

Papá.

But when she turned her head to look for him, her eyes found the Santa Muerte pendant instead. It had been thrown from the laptop, perhaps jarred free on impact, and lay a few feet away between her and Zachary. A ray of light made it gleam like some long-lost treasure, freshly unearthed. A ray of sun beaming down from the bullet Angel had sent ricocheting through the roof.

She scrambled up, gritted her teeth through the pain that brought, and dove for it. Her fingers closed around the pendant a split second before a silver-tooled cowboy boot thumped down on her hand.

Screaming, she tried to drag her hand free. But that just brought more pain. Zachary twisted his heel, and she threw her head back, begging him to release her with her eyes as she drew breath for another desperate yell.

“What’s the password?” he asked calmly, as if there wasn’t a gunfight raging around them. Then he crouched, putting even more of his weight on her hand. The edges of her vision blackened before sparkling with coruscating light.

“I. Don’t. Know,” she whispered urgently. “Papá. Didn’t. Say.” Every word was a tribulation, every breath after just fuel for another wail.

“You know it,” Zachary said, tapping a temple that felt bruised from all the muzzles it had been contact with today. “Somewhere in there, you know.”

“Please!” came her breathless plea. “Please, I can’t—”

The pain was too much. Her body had run out of its own painkillers, or couldn’t supply enough to all the areas of her that stung, ached, throbbed, or burned. That darkness crept closer, oozing from El Lobo again. It wrapped around her arm and began crawling over her neck, up to her face.

She turned her head, feeling a pull as insubstantial as mist, but as fervent as a hurricane.

Her father watched her from a few feet away. One arm lay outstretched toward her, fingers curled toward the hangar’s ceiling. A finger twitched, and her eyes shot to her father’s face. His eyes were open, but they looked lifeless.

Until he blinked.

His mouth moved. And some inane understanding came over her. Perhaps it was just that she’d seen him say that same phrase so many times, or perhaps there was a spirit in the room. Maybe Santa Muerte had finally come to her aide.

“Mi corazon,” she whispered.

Zachary bent down, finally taking his boot from her bruised and torn hand. He grabbed her chin, tipping her face up until her neck strained at the angle. “Again,” he commanded.

His brown eyes were the color of mud. Something malicious gleamed in their depths, and she knew in that moment that she would never, ever survive finding out what it was.

“Mi. Corazon.” She enunciated each word as perfectly as she could. She tried to swallow, couldn’t and began, “M—I—C—”

Zachary cut her off with a murmured, “My heart. Muchos gracias.” He ran the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip.

She spat at him then, and wished she’d done it sooner. He watched her for a moment, and used that same thumb to rub that gob of spit off his face.

Then he sucked it off with such a look of pleasure that her stomach turned and threatened to empty itself again.

“We shall meet again, my heart,” Zachary murmured. “In the place where Santa Muerte sends her sheep.” He hoisted the Santa Muerte pendant, twiddling it from side to side.

“You serve the devil!” she yelled. “La Flaca would never allow you to worship her.”

Zachary laughed, giving his thumb another suck as he rose to his feet. “I am the devil, mi corazon.” Then his expression became that vapid mask again. “Santa Muerte serves me.”

Zachary towered over her. Pendant in hand, he turned at the sound of three successive gunshots. That marble-like mask of his crumbled the same instant someone yelled, “No!”

A snarl contorted his face.

He looked back at her, red spots on his cheeks and his lips white.

“You’ve just started a war, mi corazon,” Zachary whispered furiously. “Tell El Guapo he’s no longer safe in his little nest.”

And then a gleaming cowboy boot came swinging for her face. She turned her head, tried lifting her arm, but her body was slow and weak. The boot brushed aside her arm and its sharp tip crashed into the side of her face.

El Lobo’s darkness swarmed over her, consuming everything that she was.

And, in the distance, a robed figure watched. Unmoving. Offering no aide.

So he was the devil. Why else would Santa Muerte just stand aside?