Under a full moon, a burly black man sat on a wicker chair on a trailer porch with his feet propped up. Head dipped back, he snored softly. At the sound of a horn, he pulled a Beretta from under the Lakers cap nestled on his lap. He knocked back the safety in less than a second and aimed it, alert as ever. His eyes peeled to the darkness as a sixteen wheeler pulled over to the side of the road.

Swiftly, the Beretta went to his side, and he stood. Half swagger, half limp from a firefight on the job, he ambled down the steps. Then he noticed a familiar figure getting out, saying something and closing the door of the semi-truck. The man he knew for over a decade as a good friend moved on lead legs into the lot.

“Hey,” Wulf gave half a greeting as he opened the driver’s door to Quincy’s rental.

His eyebrows furrowed. “Damn, Dylan, what the fuck happened to you?”

“This is your rental, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Get in. I don’t have time to explain,” Wulf ordered.

Quincy tossed the keys over the roof of the sedan. “Well, hello, Quincy. How are you? Yes, I’m fine. No, really, my wife didn’t get all up in my ass telling me I had to come see about you nor did she argue about you fucking up our vacation in order to check on you, which—mind you—had me confused,” Quincy muttered as he got in the car.

“You only have one piece?” Wulf asked as he drove off.

“Nah.” Quincy turned in his seat and added, “two nines were all LAX would allow. And that’s because my ex works there. Don’t tell your sis. Anyway, you sound like I should’ve come strapped with tactical defense. Dylan, what the hell is going on? You never mess with the crazy chicks. What’s up with the amnesia girl from your voicemail?”

The car climbed up a lone hill. “She’s not safe. We have to save her.”

Quincy scoffed. “You said the SCPD was corrupt. I assumed you messed with some chick, and she was family. Hell, in these small towns every-damn-body is some-damn-body’s cousin.”

Wulf swooped off the road at the edge of Beasley’s property. He turned off the engine and cut the lights. It instantly went pitch black.

As they sat parked in the car, Quincy asked, “How many people?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are they armed?” Quincy asked as he got out of the car.

Wulf quietly shut his door. “Most likely. If they have a gun, shoot them. Except for Mary Jane. You’ll know her when you see her.”

Adjusting to the darkness, Wulf’s eyes scaled the brick wall. After finding a groove in the blocks, he climbed over. Quincy was right behind him. They pulled out their guns, cocked back, and headed in the direction of a U-shaped carport.

Quincy gave a low ‘click’ sound with his tongue and pointed to the roof. Light sensors, possible cameras. They headed around the mansion toward the side that was dark, presumably with no one home. Finding an open window on the second floor above a trellis against the wall, Wulf began to climb. When his hands touched the windowsill, he hoisted himself up and into the room.

The bedroom had a frilly canopy and a bunch of pillows silhouetted by the moon. Teddy bears sat in a bookcase against the wall. For the lifestyle that Beasley led, the room was bizarre. Wulf did not recall the criminal having a family, and this appeared to be a little girl’s room. He turned around and gave Quincy the go-ahead. Seconds later, he heard a sneeze. Wulf froze as Quincy climbed in.

A night light flicked on, and he knew the sound from the first time he’d heard it in the field. Someone had cocked a pump-action shotgun.

Pow! Pellets sprayed the wall above their heads.

“Hello, boys!” A blonde got up from the bed, holding the shotgun in both hands. She was skinny—sickly skinny—in a silk camisole and shorts. “They call me Sugarland, but I ain’t hardly sweet. What are you doin’ in my room?”

“Ma’am, we’re looking for Mary Jane, that’s all.” Wulf spoke calmly from a hiding spot kneeling behind a treasure chest.

“Well, if Beasley’s got her then she’s his property now!”

Another shot went off, blasting through the stucco near Quincy’s head. Sugarland shook her head. “No one move. See, that first shot was for Hurricane. If he’s here, he’s hungry. Who wants to die and who wants to be eaten?”

Her hand lifted for another pump. Wulf lunged at her. They went sprawling onto the floor. Her thin body crunched beneath his girth. The gun clattered away from them. Her long fingernails dug into his face. No amount of restraining on his part slowed her down. Sugarland was clearly under the influence of some type of narcotic. He punched her in the eye, all in an attempt for self-preservation. But she continued to scratch.

“You don’t mess with Beasley! You don’t mess with Beasley!” Sugarland screamed on repeat as he caught her wrists above her head.

“Lady, just stop!” he screamed, fed up, as Quincy grabbed her shotgun. When she finally started to slow her struggling, he asked, “If I let you go, will you just sit there?”

She nodded.

As soon as he clambered off her, Sugarland began to claw again. In a swift precise movement, Quincy hit her on the head with the butt of the shotgun. It was just enough force to render her unconscious.

“This is the twilight zone,” Quincy hissed under his breath as they slowly made their way to the door. “Did you see the crazed look in her eye?”

“Expect the unexpected.” Wulf rubbed the bloody scratches along his jaw and peeked through the cracked door. No one had come. They hurried down the right side of the stairs, all the while hearing commotion toward the back of the house. The voices. One of them belonged to Mary Jane. Relief slammed through him.

They slowly crept down the hall, stopping and hiding behind Greek goddess statues. They passed a large living room and looked around past a piano and couches. No one was hidden in the shadows. Then they entered toward the dining room.

They moved through the house and into the kitchen. While their gaze quickly swept through the room on their quest to get closer to Mary Jane, Hurricane burrowed down the stairs.

“What the fuck!” Quincy shouted, attempting to aim his gun while Hurricane lunged off the last step.

Wulf shot between the eyes of his bumpy face, but the disfigured man moved too quickly. The shot pierced off the upper portion of Hurricane’s ear. His punch dislocated Wulf’s jaw before he slammed down to the floor.

Fists clenched as Hurricane was about to hammer down on Quincy, he stopped. Wulf fired off a shot that landed in his bicep, but it didn’t seem to faze the beast. He took off running in the direction that Mary Jane and her abductor had gone. Quincy fired off a few shots.

“Shit, I don’t think I got him,” Quincy said.

Wulf gripped the bottom of his chin and reset his jaw with a quick jerk of the hand. “Next time, shoot something!”

They exited the sliding glass door to see Hurricane had climbed up the side of a massive fencing structure. There were stairs along the side of the Rottweilers’ two-story high kennel where food could be dropped inside. Wulf could hear Mary Jane begging a man named Peter to stop. His eyes tracked her fearful voice, and then blood burned through his veins. Peter held Mary Jane by the neck, dangling her over the opening as the massive dogs growled and perched on their powerful hind legs, lunging as high as they could.

“G-get back!” Peter screeched as Hurricane pulled himself up on top of the kennel. “I swear! I’ll drop her. Get back, you disgusting freak!”

“Mine!” Hurricane bellowed.

“Stop!” Peter yelled at Mary Jane as she scratched at his fingers and kicked in the air. With her taking all his attention, Hurricane lunged at him. At that same instant, Wulf rushed in a full sprint toward the stairs. Hurricane bumped into Mary Jane as he went for Peter’s throat.

“Ahhh!” Down Mary Jane went, falling inside of the cage.

She clung to the wire roofing and pulled her lower body up. The tips of her boots locked onto the roofing fence as the barking dogs scrabbled for a bite, growling and snapping.

Peter shot at Hurricane and was clawed in the chest. He dropped to his knees. Hurricane lunged for the kill, falling over the side. The spikes of the wrought iron fence pierced Hurricane’s spine.

“Stop!” Wulf shouted from the top of the stairs. He pointed at Peter as he lifted a foot to stomp down and crunch Mary Jane’s fingers.

“Don’t shoot him!” Mary Jane screamed.

Peter’s lips curved into a sinister grin as he started to slam his foot down. Only he miscalculated, and his foot soared into the cage instead.

Wulf put the gun down and quickly grabbed her forearm and pulled up. She watched in horror as Peter fell past her. His fingertips barely grazed her boots as he tried to pull her down into the dog cage.

“I’m here.” Wulf yanked her out. His back slammed into the roof, wrapping Mary Jane into his arms. She was positioned on top of him. Finally, safe, but she screamed for Peter.

“We have to save him!” she shouted.

“Mary Jane, it’s okay. You’re safe.”

His abdomen hurt where Hurricane had hit him less than a few minutes ago. Gritting in pain, Wulf focused all of his energy on Mary Jane. The sound of gnawing, biting, and shrill screaming met their ears as he helped her to her feet, and they went down the stairs.

“No.” Mary Jane pulled away from him at the last step. She looked back.

Peter’s crying faded to nothing. His arms, face, and skin were ripped to shreds. The dogs continued to bite and gnaw at him.

Quincy put a bullet in each of the dogs’ heads, silencing the night.