I woke up in my bed covered in sweat.

  I looked around in a panic as the unfamiliar surroundings of the ship took me by surprise; I had been expecting to wake up in my bed back home, but after a few seconds had passed the realisation of where I was sunk in. I saw my crumpled clothes spread out across the floor and then I remembered there should have been someone else in the bed with me.

  I felt the cold side of the bed where Poppy had been and frowned. The only evidence we had slept together were a few strands of dark hair left on the pillow. Lying back down, I let out the heavy sigh trapped in my chest and stared at the ceiling.

  What the hell was I doing?

  I was still married… well, not in spirit, thought or feeling, but on paper, I was married. Married to a woman who couldn’t give two shits about me but still married. Who informed my boss of my location so he could kill me.

  What did I know about the woman who I had just slept with? I knew her name was Poppy Palmer and she was a smuggler-come-pirate- come-outlaw, who was handy with a knife and who moved like a dancer. Not necessary the type of woman you would take home to your mother or the qualities you would look for in a wife, but who was I to judge what was good partner or wife material? I didn’t have the best track record in that department.

  But apart from the murder and the kidnapping, she was a kind person—well, to me anyway—and had never shown me anything but care and tenderness.

  But maybe that was a trap itself; hadn’t José warned me about getting too close?

  I throw my hands over my face and groaned as the hopelessness of the situation finally dawned on me.

  Didn’t I have enough problems without adding to my list of troubles romances with women who could kill me without breaking a sweat?

  I got up to my feet and groaned, as my limbs had grown stiff; I stretched my arms over my hand and sighed as my joints popped. Looking back at my bed I knew I wouldn’t go back to sleep no matter what I did, so grabbing some fresh clothes out of my bag I threw them on and made my way out of my room.

  I looked left to right and walked right, as I hadn’t been down that part of the ship yet; I ran my hands over scorch marks that appeared to be made by weapons fire, and bullets holes that had peppered the metal of the walls and left them full of holes.

  Water dripped from overhead pipes and buckets collected what had become too big a problem to ignore.

  I continued on, allowing my feet to take me where they would, and took another right and left, till the corridors became darker and less well lit and maintained and the damage to the walls more intense. I stopped as I came across an immense door marked with more bullet holes than I could count, and a large bull’s-eye target painted in the middle of it.

  I looked behind me before looking back at the door, uncertain what it would yield. Biting the inside of my cheek I shrugged and walked forward as it slid open.

  The thunderous roar of gunfire pounded my ears, forcing me to cover them up as I took in the scene around me. The room I was in was as large as a football field and had been converted into a gun range; sandbanks dotted the far end with different targets at varying distances spread out across the shooting range.

  Willis stood with his back towards me and fired at different-sized targets that flew across the field; the targets moved and dipped like insects, never staying still for too long and making a clean shot that much harder. Willis fired off his pistols rapidly, hitting nine out of every ten targets he aimed for before reloading another magazine and firing again.

  He moved like a well-oiled machine. No movement was wasted, no effort was exaggerated. He pointed, shot, reloaded.

  I don’t know how long I watched him for but I wanted to leave before he caught sight of me. Slowly backing away I got within a couple of feet of the door before the sounds of the pistols stopped and I heard his voice like an angry terrier calling out to me.

  “Oi, fuckface! What are you doing staring at my ass?”

  “I wasn’t staring at your ass, I was just watching you work.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard that line before. Just don’t get no ideas,” he said, pointing his pistols towards me, “or I’ll blow your dick off.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, slowly backing away.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I just thought you would like some alone time. It looked like you didn’t want to be disturbed.”

  “Ahh, bollocks to that, come over here,” he said, waving his hand towards me, gun still in hand.

  I suppressed the urge to sigh and did as he said, hoping this would be over quicker than I expected it would be. The closer I got the more overpowering the smell of gunpowder was, till it was the only thing I could smell. He looked me up and down and tapped his finger against his lip.

  “I take it you’ve never fired a gun?”

  I shook my head.

  He didn’t hide his disappointment. “Figures. Seeing as you’re a newbie I think its best if you start with the Springfield XDM 9mm. It’s an easy-to-use gun with triple safety guards and little recoil, so even kids can practice with them and not get hurt,” he said, walking off and unlocking a metal cabinet fixed to the wall. Racks upon racks of guns greeted my sight as he ran his fingers along the shelves and picked a handgun from the rack.

  “Originally made in Karlovac, Croatia, it’s an old gun, which means spare parts are cheap as shit, and it’s so easy to use and fire that even a dickhead like you can use it,” he said, handing it my way.

  The matte black pistol felt awkward in my hands.

  “You know, you should really get into motivational speaking, maybe at schools, unemployment centres,” I said, pointing the gun away from me and at the floor.

  “It’s no use pointing it down there, cockface! Aim up and fire at the targets; all of them are stationary so it should be easier for you.”

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  I did as I was told and fired off as many rounds as quickly as I could. I expected a bigger recoil from the gun than the one I got; the firing of it was smooth but also nerve-racking. But despite all that I couldn’t help but smile. This was exhilarating.

  It was over before I knew it. Gun shaking in my hands I looked at the targets to see if I had hit any.

  “Did I hit any?”

  “No.”

  “You sure?” I asked.

  “Not unless you count the sandbanks, the ceiling and the walls as threats,” Willis said, taking the gun from my hand and reloading it again. Once done he handed it back to me and got in close.

  “Look, all the movie bullshit you see where the hero is pointing his gun sideways and firing from the hip and doing forward rolls and backflips is all bullshit. All it takes to be a good shooter is a few simple things.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, if you shut up, I’ll tell you, cupcake.”

  I looked at him with a side-eye and waited for him to continue.

  “How you hold a gun has everything to do with your ability to manage the recoil; the better you manage it the more well-aimed shots you can fire. Know the targets, identify if they’re a threat, and fire. Hesitation kills. Better to be sorry than dead. Which takes us onto trigger management. Don’t finger-bang the trigger like it’s the end of prom, apply steady pressure. And lastly, remember to breathe. Breathing eases tension, which makes any task more simple.”

  I looked at him dumbfounded.

  He rolled his eyes with a sigh. “Grip, breathe, aim, press. Just remember that.”

  I looked at the targets and the face of Mr X appeared again in my mind’s eye. Shaking my head I handed the gun back to Willis. “I don’t think I can—”

  “It is better to be a warrior in a garden than a gardener in a war. If you don’t want what happened to you to happen again this is the best way to ensure that.

  “Forty-five percent of these rat-fuckers you meet are just wannabe hard men with a drug addiction who can barely keep their gun straight; the other forty-five are just as scared as you and would rather not be there.”

  “What about the ten percent?” I asked, looking at him worried.

  “Run.”

  He pointed to the targets once more and I tried, again and again, to do as he had told me. I don’t know how much time passed but it was enough for me to know I wasn’t getting any better. As the last bullet was fired and the silence stretched on until I began to fidget, I finally turned to him and said, “What?”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose and let out an aggravated sigh.

  “In all my God-given years, I have never seen anyone who can’t shoot worth a shit less than you. I mean you are offensively bad, to the point where I think it’s better if you don’t even carry a gun because your crew may be in more danger than the enemy. But that isn’t really an option, so I have one more idea.”

  He went back to the racks of guns and knelt down till he was on his hands and knees and crawled forward, moving boxes and tools about till he found what he was looking for and wiggled back out. In his hands was a rusty metal case about thirty-five inches in length. Writing was engraved on the top of the box, which Willis slowly ran a hand over.

  “‘For the one in authority is God’s servant for your good. But if you do wrong, be afraid, for rulers do not bear the sword for no reason. They are God’s servants, agents of wrath to bring punishment on the wrongdoer.’”

  He unlocked the case and held it open before me.

  Velvet coated the inside of the case and inside rested a custom-built sawn-off shotgun. The barrel had a copper-gold finish to it, which blended into the light wood handle. The head of a snarling dog was engraved in a small emblem.

  It was the most beautiful piece of destruction I had ever seen.

  I went to pick it up but hesitated, looking up at Willis, who gave me a slight nod.

  My hands trembled slightly as I picked it up and clutched it in both hands. The weight felt right.

  “This baby was something I designed myself, but… it never felt right in my hands; it was too messy, not precise enough, not fast enough, but I loved it too much to get rid of it. It takes normal shotgun shells and explosive shells I made for that extra kick. There is a loading mechanism in the handle where the shells are kept and this loads a greater number of shells than your standard shotgun.

  “I named it The Peacemaker.”

  I ran my hand along the barrel and smiled.

  “How do I fire it?”

  “Point and shoot. It ain’t rocket science.”

  I did as he said and aimed for one of the targets. My finger about to press the trigger, he yelled at me causing me to jump.

  “Not like that. Not unless you want to blow your thumb off. Remember, the barrel is shorter than a normal shotgun, so your grip has to be further back.”

  “Just a word of warning, it may not be the best idea to cause the person holding a gun to jump.”

  He ignored my comment and nodded to the targets in front of us. I walked slightly forward doing as he had instructed me to do. I focused on the target in front of me, but his voice cut through my thoughts.

  “Just point and fire! This fucker ain’t about precision.”

  I pointed and pulled and was thrown off my feet as an explosive roar escaped the end of the barrel.

  White dots appeared in front of my eyes as I sat up and rubbed the back of my head. Laughter was coming from the side of me as Willis slapped his thigh and stomped his feet in merriment while he held his sides. Tears streaked down his cheeks and collected in his ginger beard as he mimicked me shooting the shotgun.

  I got to my feet with a groan and made my way towards him.

  “What the fuck was that?” I demanded, anger filling my cheeks.

  “God almighty, that shit was beyond funny.”

  “How is this gun meant to be any good for me if it will always dump me on my ass when I use it?”

  Willis took a few deep breaths while he collected himself. “I completely forgot I had left explosive shells in it. That’s why the kickback was so strong. You may need to hit the gym and practise firing with the explosive shells more but the normal shells shouldn’t be anywhere as strong.”

  “Explosive shells….” I said, turning towards the targets on the firing range and feeling my mouth hang open.

  In front of me lay nothing but destruction.

  The targets closest to me now lay unrecognisable on the floor; the pellets in the shell had sprayed out and destroyed everything in front of me. Further afield I could see other damage where the shrapnel of the damaged targets had penetrated other targets. I looked down at the shotgun still clutched in my hands and marvelled at the destructive power it held.

  “Loaded with explosive shells this thing can blow a hole in a two-to-three-inch thick metal door no problem; use it against vehicles, armoured combatives, or any motherfucker you want to make sure the authorities can never identify. Like I said, you will need to put on some muscle if you ever want to use it properly, but we have a gym out back so I would start hitting the weights if I were you.

  “Now pass it over,” he said, hand open.

  I gave him the gun and he emptied the fiery red shells carefully and replaced them with white ones.

  “Red is for explosive, white is standard. Now do as I showed you before,” he said, handing me back the gun and programming a new set of targets to appear on the firing range.

  I positioned myself as before and this time planted my feet as I steadied myself for the recoil to come. I squeezed the trigger and watched as the target before me blew apart. The recoil wasn’t as strong. The damage wasn’t as total. But damn, it felt good.

  I squeezed and squeezed the trigger, blowing apart anything that appeared in front of me; the target started to move but it mattered little. All I had to do was point in its relative direction and the shotgun did the rest.

  I kept on shooting until spent shells littered the floor around me and sweat coated my back.

  “Think that’s enough for one day,” Willis said, checking the time on his watch. “Come back here and practise as much as you want, because the more you do, the more that thing in your hands will save your life.”

  I replaced the shotgun back in its case and smiled.

  The Peacemaker.

  The name had sounded corny to my ears at first but I had grown to like it.

  “Do you think I have what it takes to become the ten percent you were talking about?” I asked him jokingly,

  Willis said nothing as he tidied up; his eyes didn’t meet mine as he checked and rechecked his pistols.

  “I mean—”

  He looked up at me then and I tried not to take a step back as I saw in his eyes the insanity he was trying to control. It was terrifying to behold. It spoke of a man who had done things that would always haunt him no matter what he did; it spoke of a man who had lost his mind, found it and wasn’t too sure if he wanted it back.

  It spoke of demons.

  “The ten percent are my people.”

  It was all he said before he walked away from me, but it conveyed enough that I prayed I never came across one of his own.