Sighing, the lawman rubbed at his temples. He'd have to send a request for more men. There was no way around it. Standing, the lawman strode to the door, grabbed his coat and hat, and left.
The short walk to the post office gave Lucas little time to speculate or plan. The door chimed as Lucas entered, removing his hat as a courtesy. The man at the counter looked up and smiled.
"Officer Solomon, welcome, what can I do for you?" the man asked.
Lucas nodded his head as a hello. "I need to send an urgent letter to HQ. When's your next runner in?"
In quick order, the post office manager looked at the schedule and informed Lucas the next run was in an hour. Lucas nodded and quickly scrawled his letter, sealed it, and handed it to the manager.
"Let's see..." the man murmured under his breath as he inspected the envelope. "You should get a reply in a few days. I'll have my people get this out to you as soon as possible."
A sigh of relief spread through Lucas. "Thank you."
The man chuckled and smiled. "Givin' you that much trouble, eh?"
Lucas looked at the man, suddenly wary if he should trust him. It hadn't occurred to Lucas that this man might report to Malachite. "The threat was larger than I anticipated." With that simply said, the lawman turned on his heel and strode out, quickly putting his hat on to cover his foolishness.
Don't trust these people, Lucas berated himself. Glancing up from the ground, Lucas nearly jumped in shock. There, leaning casually against the side of the tavern, was Malachite. He smirked at Lucas, that horrid smirk he always seemed to have on him.
"You killed my men, blondie," Malachite said as he pushed off the side of the building.
"You killed mine first," Lucas countered, narrowing his eyes. Malachite drew first blood. There was no question of that.
"So, what? You a child trying to get even?" Malachite prodded, striding closer.
"Don't come near me," Lucas growled, reaching for his gun.
"Aw, don't be like that, blondie," Malachite purred, though he stopped in his steps. "I just came to talk. You came to my town, you disrupted our way of life. I'd like to ask you one more time to leave—pack up your men and send 'em home. They're just gonna die if you don't."
Lucas took a step back and snatched his gun from the holster. "I'm not leaving until I bring you in."
Malachite chuckled. "That's fine—but send the rest of 'em home. A lot of the people you killed yesterday were men from this town. Their women are mourning now—but the rest? The rest want your people's heads."
A sudden chill went down Lucas's spine, his eyes widening in realization.
"I told 'em you're off-limits, though, blondie. You're mine. But pack the rest of your men and send 'em home before you get 'em all killed."
Gritting his teeth, Lucas pointed his weapon at Malachite. "You're under arrest, Malachite."
"Cute, but no dice. See ya, blondie." Malachite laughed as he blew the other a kiss, winking. Before Lucas could fire, several horses—most with riders—barreled down the road toward them. With a shout, Lucas had time only to dodge out of the way, to the other side of the road, crashing into the dirt. When he looked up again, Malachite was riding away with the gang, hooting and hollering.
"Shit!" Lucas cursed.
It took a while to get everyone together. Even when most had gathered, one patrol remained missing. The six lawmen in the humble house where once there were 20 made the place seem far too large. An air of melancholy coiled around them, oppressing.
"We've lost a lot of good men," Lucas began, choosing his words very carefully. "And we've upset a lot of people in town."
"What? Upset them?! We're here to protect them!" one of the men shouted, shooting up from his seat. The others around the table muttered in agreement.
Lucas held up his hands, sighing. "Peace. I know, really, but apparently a few of the ones we took out yesterday... they were from the town."
"So now it's our fault their people were messing around with bandits and outlaws?" the same man growled, starting to pace. "Fuck them! It's their own damn fault! They got mixed up with the wrong crowd!"
Lucas frowned and turned away from the commotion, starting to get irritated. This is why he worked alone. He let the man shout and rant for several more minutes before he finally stood.
"Pack your things. You're leaving on the first train tomorrow. Go home."
That stopped the man's tirade—and started more. They argued and shouted, saying Lucas couldn't handle the rest on his own. But Lucas didn't budge. He told them to pack, to get out of town, to leave on the first train.
Then he left them and went next door to the sheriff's office. He pushed open the door and stopped in the threshold, his eyes on the man sitting in his chair.
"'bout time you got back," Malachite purred, grinning. The man's boots clunked on the wood as he swung them off the desk. Malachite slowly rose. Lucas took a step back—only to run into resistance. Glancing over his shoulder, his eyes found two rather large men blocking the door. They pushed him in and shut the door, blocking the way out. Lucas growled and was about to shout for help when one of the men grabbed him from behind. They shoved some kind of cloth against his nose and mouth; a sweet smell wafted up into his nose, dulling his senses, and though he struggled, his limbs had no strength.
"Don't worry, blondie. I told you. I'm gonna take care of you." Malachite's purred words were the last thing he heard.
—
Limbs heavy, mind groggy, Lucas pushed his consciousness to waking, fighting with his body to wake up. He shouldn't sleep this heavily, Lucas told himself. He wasn't alert. He wouldn't be ready at a moment's notice.
Then he heard the clink of metal on metal.
His eyes snapped open, and it took him several minutes to process what he saw. He wasn't in his bed, though he was in a bed. Shackled to the metal bed frame with a short chain, his aching arms stretched above his head, and his wrists itched with the bite of iron. The skin of his chest prickled with gooseflesh, exposed to the air with his coat, shirt, and vest gone. His feet curled with the absence of his socks and boots. Thankfully, his pants were still on, and his ankles weren't shackled. Pulling at the shackles, Lucas twisted and pulled, sitting up and getting his arms down to a more comfortable position.
What... Then he remembered. He'd been ambushed in his own office. Shit. He was in a building, but he couldn't tell where. The blank walls gave no clues and not even a window to tell him the time of day. Then the door opened, and Malachite strode in with a covered tray.
"Good, you're awake," the outlaw grinned, setting the tray on the bedside table. As he sat on the bed, Lucas did his best to scoot away from him.
"What the hell do you think you're doing? Kidnapping a federal lawman-"
"Is a crime punishable by hanging, I know," Malachite drawled, cutting him off with a chuckle. "Believe me, blondie, I've done far worse to warrant a hanging." Malachite reached for the tray and removed the cover, revealing a bowl of soup and bread.
"Why did you take me?" Lucas asked, his voice far calmer than he felt.
Malachite smiled and picked up the soup and the spoon. "Why? I told you why, blondie. Your men's lives are forfeit. They didn't leave."
"...what are you talking about? I told them to pack up and leave."
"They didn't listen to you, obviously," Malachite shrugged, then spooned up some soup. "Eat. You've been asleep all day, so I'd bet you're pretty hungry."
The smell of soup made his stomach growl—but he wasn't about to accept food from this bastard. Lucas glared and turned his head away.
That asinine smirk returned to Malachite's lips. "Gonna refuse me now, blondie? Man, what's a guy gotta do? I saved your life by bringing you here. The least you could do is eat my cooking."
"Why would I ever do that?" Lucas growled between clenched teeth.
"Well, you wanna starve?" When no response came from Lucas, Malachite shrugged and put the soup back on the tray. "Fine, fine. You'll be hungry, then. I'll be back later with water. If you need to piss or crap, you should call for someone." Malachite stood and removed the tray of food, striding out the door. He left Lucas there, sitting on the bed, his back to the door.
Clenching his jaw, Lucas turned his attention to the shackles. The low-grade lock stared mockingly up at him, mocking how he'd never lowered his standards to learn lock picking. He could at least tell it was a low grade. His eyes traveled from the shackles to the chain between them. The iron was good, strong, and the links well-formed. He didn't see any weakness—and he doubted he was strong enough to tug the links free.
"Doesn't hurt to try."
READ THE FULL VERSION ON GUMROAD. Link in the Author's Note.
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