CLANK.
"OW—son of a bitch!" Micah shouted as he hit the back gate of the Ridgeline, landing hard in the open truck bed with a thud.
"Quit yer bitchin', Micah," Arthur muttered as he slid into the passenger seat.
"There ain't no goddamn room in there!" Micah barked, dusting his coat. "I ain't no fuckin' luggage!"
John grinned, squishing next to Dutch in the backseat. "First time you've been useful in years—keep the supplies company."
"I'll put a bullet in your ass, Marston!"
Arthur smirked. "He's already got one, remember?"
"FUCK ALL OF YOU," Micah snarled from the back, gripping the rails like he was on a runaway stagecoach.
Jake just grinned, sunglasses on now—cowboy hat tilted back. "Buckle up, assholes. This ain't Saint Denis."
With a roar, the Honda Ridgeline launched into traffic.
The city raced by. Steel towers stabbed the sky like giant spires. People on sidewalks stopped and stared. Cars honked. Bikes zipped past. The gang was silent for a moment—trying to process the sensory overload.
John squinted up. "...Are these buildings tryin' to reach heaven?"
Dutch leaned toward the glass. "There are so many people… but it's all so quiet. No markets. No wagons. No horses. Just machines and noise."
Arthur's brow furrowed. "Ain't nobody ridin' nothin'... everyone's locked inside these metal things."
Jake, one hand on the wheel, the other flipping radio stations, snorted. "Yeah, well, horses don't do 70 on the freeway. And cops? They don't like people like you guys walkin' around with rifles and murder records."
Micah growled from the truck bed. "You think I give two shits about city law?"
Jake turned serious. "You will when their 'sheriffs' show up in tanks and drones."
SIRENS.
Flashing lights bloomed behind them. A black and white cruiser tore through a red light.
WEE-OOO WEE-OOO.
Jake peeked into the rearview mirror.
"Shit."
Arthur noticed his expression. "Jake? What is it?"
Jake swallowed. "...Cops."
"Like the Pinkertons?" Dutch asked calmly.
Jake's voice flattened. "Worse."
The sirens blared louder. A megaphone barked:
"PULL THE VEHICLE OVER. NOW."
Micah reached into the bed and cocked his repeater. "Let's see if they like a lil' western hello."
Arthur was already loading his shotgun. "This ain't good."
Dutch, still calm, nodded. "They want trouble? Then let's give 'em a goddamn revolution."
John sighed. "Guess some things never change."
Jake glanced around. They were boxed in on one side, but the freeway entrance was ahead.
He gunned it.
VROOOOOOOM.
Tires screeched as the Ridgeline rocketed forward. The cops gave chase.
"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOIN'?!" Arthur yelled over the engine's roar.
Jake's face was serious now. "You wanna get arrested? Put in a cage? Fingerprinted? DNA swabbed?! That phone call to Davis already put us on their radar!"
Micah laughed from the truck bed, wind whipping his hair. "Now this is more like it, baby!!"
Bullets weren't flying yet, but the radio chatter from the police car hinted they were calling for backup. Helicopters. Drones. Roadblocks.
Dutch leaned forward. "Jake. What's the plan?"
Jake gritted his teeth. "Plan is simple."
He slammed the wheel, the truck fishtailing around a corner.
"DON'T DIE."