The desert sun beat down like a sledgehammer by midmorning, waves of heat rising off the blackened asphalt. The gas station was a rickety thing—more a patched-up shack with rusting signage than any modern facility. A warped tin awning stretched out over a single fuel pump, and two busted vending machines leaned against the outside wall like dead sentinels.
The women's boots hit the gravel with confidence, but her hand rested on the butt of one of her pistols the whole time. She didn't bother to look back as Wang stumbled behind her, his hands still bound in front of him with a short length of rope. The dusty scarf hid the branding on his neck, but it didn't hide his tension.
"Walk normal," she muttered low. "This place is crawling with bottom-feeders. One twitch and you're gettin' both of us killed."
"Yeah," Wang muttered, eyes scanning the perimeter. "Nothing like window shopping for my own execution."
She didn't smile.
The two stepped inside. The cool air hit them like a slap—must've been the only place in a hundred klicks with working A/C. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. A wall of cheap liquor glinted behind the counter. Cigarettes, off-brand protein bars, ammo, and dusty knick-knacks littered the shelves. Three men and two women lounged around—greasy, half-drunk, armed, and mean-looking.
One of them, a wiry bastard with missing teeth and a spider tattoo crawling up his throat, squinted when he saw Wang. His eyes narrowed. Then widened.
"Well... fuck me sideways," the man drawled. "Ain't that the Chinaman with the price on his head?"
Wang stiffened.
She didn't stop walking. Her voice dropped to a mutter.
"Keep moving."
But it was too late.
The guy stood up fast, knocking over his chair. His hand went straight to his belt.
"Hey, boys!" he shouted. "We got ourselves a jackpot right here!"
All at once, the room turned hostile. Four more guns were drawn. A pump-action shotgun racked. The other woman behind the aisle knocked over a can of beans lunging for her pistol.
She spun on her heel and shoved Wang behind her, twin revolvers already in her hands like lightning.
"Don't," she growled.
The man with the spider tattoo didn't flinch. He grinned instead, exposing his yellowed teeth.
"That bounty's ten thousand creds, lady. You really wanna die for a meatbag like him?"
"Try me," she said, both guns pointed center mass. Her voice was steel. "You think you can draw faster than me with that janky-ass Hi-Point, be my guest."
Wang, hands bound, whispered, "Might be a good time to tell 'em I'm not worth it."
She didn't budge.
"No one's moving," she snapped. "Next dumb motherfucker who blinks gets ventilated."
One of the women—short, stocky, with a lip ring and a camo tank top—took a half-step forward, gun still trained on Wang.
"You're not even wearin' a badge. You're freelancing this prick?"
"None of your business," She spat. "Last warning. Stand. The fuck. Down."
The five criminals had their weapons out, tense, but not firing. The air buzzed with static energy—like a goddamn lightning storm waiting to break.
A bead of sweat rolled down Wang's temple. His eyes darted to each of the gang's hands. "Well, this is cozy," he muttered. "Any chance we can all talk this out like sane degenerates?"
The spider-tat guy snorted. "Only talkin' we're doin' is about how to divvy up that bounty. Maybe split his arms and send proof to the guards."
Her fingers twitched against the trigger.
"Do it," she said coldly. "And I'll make sure your intestines decorate the Slurpee machine."
Nobody moved.
Just five guns on two bodies. Dust in the air. Sweat trickling. The dull hum of the broken fridge.
It was a goddamn standstill.
"Duck."
That's all she said, barely a whisper through clenched teeth, eyes locked on the man with the spider tattoo.
Wang didn't hesitate. He dropped like a sack of bricks, hitting the floor behind the snack shelf just as—
BLAM! BLAM!
Her twin pistols roared like thunder. The first two rounds caught Spider-Tat square in the chest, blowing him off his feet and into the magazine rack behind him. Blood sprayed across the energy drink cooler like paint from a hose.
"FUCK!" someone shouted.
The gas station exploded into chaos.
Wang crawled like hell on all fours, shards of broken tiles digging into his palms. Bullets zipped overhead, shattering glass and punching holes into the faded "Cold Beer" sign behind the counter.
Cass moved like a demon, twin revolvers barking in alternating rhythm—right, left, right, left. She ducked behind a stand of cigarette cartons, then popped up and took another shot, nailing the lip-ringed girl in the throat. Blood sprayed out in a dark arc as she dropped to her knees, clawing at her neck before collapsing against a pile of motor oil cans.
"Fuckin' bitch!" screamed one of the thugs, firing wild.
A slug tore through a shelf near Wang's head. Chips exploded everywhere. He cursed under his breath and kept crawling. That's when he saw one of the bastards—the beefy one in the plaid vest—lying dead nearby. His pistol had slid across the floor.
Wang dove for it, grabbed the grip, then rolled behind an empty beer fridge.
The gun was warm. Loaded. Safety off.
"Alright, you fucks—let's dance!" he shouted, popping up and squeezing off a round.
BLAM! The shot clipped a dude in a denim vest across the cheek, blowing off a chunk of his jaw. He screamed like a dying pig and dropped his shotgun as he spun sideways into the gum rack.
Wang ducked again as bullets ripped through the fridge door behind him.
Across the room, the woman grunted—she stumbled behind the cashier's counter, clutching her side. Blood seeped between her fingers, staining her tank top.
"Fucking grazed," she hissed. "You motherfucking cocksuckers..."
BANG! Her revolver cracked again, and the last woman standing went down with a round to the eye, crumpling backwards like a kicked mannequin.
There was one left.
Wang could hear him breathing hard—around the corner, creeping toward her position.
Wang signaled her with a whistle, then jumped from behind the fridge and opened fire. Three shots. Two missed. The third slammed into the bastard's ribcage.
"Ughh—AGH!" the man gasped and staggered.
That's when she stood up again, blood dripping down her side, and calmly emptied her last round straight into his forehead.
Silence.
The smell of gunpowder, blood, and burnt chips filled the room. The air was thick with dust and broken glass.
Wang stood there, chest heaving, gun still raised. His ears rang.
Cassandra limped out from behind the counter, holding her side, her jaw clenched so tight it looked like she was grinding gravel in her teeth.
"You good?" Wang asked, lowering the pistol.
"I'll live," she muttered. "Fucking amateurs..."
He moved toward her and offered his shoulder. "C'mon. Let's get the fuck outta here before more rats crawl outta whatever shithole these ones came from."
She didn't argue.
He helped her limp out of the building. Her blood stained his shirt, but neither of them gave a damn.
Outside, the sun was still merciless. The bike and sidecar waited, engine still cooling.
She collapsed into the driver's seat with a grunt. Wang quickly tied a rag around her side to stem the bleeding, then climbed into the sidecar.
As the engine roared to life and they sped off down the desert highway, the gas station burned in the distance—nothing left behind but smoke, shell casings, and five corpses.
"Fuck," Wang muttered, wiping sweat off his brow.
The woman glanced sideways at him, half-conscious. "Next time," she grunted, "I'm not stopping for gas."
And they disappeared into the dust.
Q: Have you been to a diner before?