The next morning, Old Jack's daughter Millie showed up at the meet-up spot like a hurricane.
As the temp manager for the Foucault Gym's upcoming boxing tournament, she was dressed sharp—tailored suit, chestnut hair in a tight ponytail, notebook in hand, barking out the schedule. Her amber eyes practically glowed like liquid gold.
"Everybody here? Good."
Millie scanned Victor and the crew. Her gaze lingered on Michael's mountain of luggage, then flicked to the sad, flat backpack at Ethan's feet. She raised an eyebrow. "Y'all going camping or training for a fight?"
Victor glanced at the luggage showdown and cracked a grin.
Michael's gear was a full-on mobile ER—bandages, ointments, sprays, all neatly packed in special cases, even a mini electrotherapy unit.
Ethan? A couple changes of clothes, a brick-sized cell phone, and a dog-eared copy of On the Road. His job: strategy and fixing messes.
"Better safe than sorry."
Michael adjusted his massive duffel, double-checking his med list.
The four crammed into Ethan's beat-up Ford F-150 pickup.
The cab reeked of motor oil and stale cigarettes. Michael's med boxes took up the whole back seat, forcing Victor to fold his long legs like a pretzel.
Millie wrinkled her nose, wiped the passenger seat with a tissue, then reluctantly sat down.
"What the hell—why aren't we flying?"
The second they hit the highway, Millie started griping. "Thirteen hours in this tin can? My schedule didn't budget for torture."
Ethan chewed an unlit cigarette, lazily spinning the wheel. "Relax, sweetheart. Road trips are the soul of America."
"Because Michael's 'miracle meds' wouldn't make it through security."
Victor jerked a thumb at the back seat full of bottles labeled . "Plus, driving's lower profile. We're not here to sightsee."
To smooth the ride, Victor had "donated" three grand to the Chicago PD through back channels for a special plate.
Sure enough, at every state-line checkpoint, cops saw the plate and just waved them through.
"Who says American cops don't run like the mob?"
Ethan smirked, pushing the speed right to the limit.
On the long haul, Millie kept tweaking the itinerary. Michael mixed some foul-smelling ointment in the back.
Victor stared out the window at the blur of scenery, mind already in the ring.
Ethan flipped on the radio. Bruce Springsteen's raspy voice crackled through the old speakers.
Millie, clearly fed up with the ride, kicked her long legs up onto the dash, jeans stretched tight.
Ethan's eyes definitely noticed.
Michael poked Victor from behind, jolting him awake. "Check it out."
Victor glanced—damn, track-star Millie had legs for days.
But she shut that fantasy down cold:
"Eyes up here. I'm not into little boys."
Ethan protested, "I ain't little."
"Yeah, right."
---
Noon sun blazed like a red-hot coin in the clear blue sky. Victor stirred the melting ice in his Coke with a straw.
The A/C in the "Highway Star" diner next to the gas station hummed loud but couldn't fight the heat rolling in through the windows.
"I swear this burger patty's made of rubber."
Ethan stabbed the brown hockey puck on his plate with a fork. The plastic chair groaned under his bulk.
Victor was about to reply when a big-haired guy in a white T-shirt got up to hit the bathroom.
Then—BANG BANG.
Every head snapped toward the sound.
A skinny dude in a loud outfit stood by a booth, right hand gripping an old revolver, left hand swinging open a black trash bag.
"Ladies and gents, good afternoon."
His voice came muffled through a pumpkin mask, weirdly cheerful. "Robbery time. Wallets in the cute little bag."
Bonnie leaped onto the center table like a cat, high heels clacking on the plastic. Her silver revolver glinted under the fluorescents.
"Nobody move!"
Her voice cut like nails on a chalkboard. "Hands on the table—where we can see 'em!"
Victor caught his crew in the corner of his eye—Ethan's muscles coiled, Michael's hand already at his waist.
Millie, the rookie, went ghost-white, clutching a napkin like a lifeline.
Victor gave the tiniest head shake, mouthing: Don't.
Gasps rippled through the diner.
A suit tried to stand. Bonnie swung the barrel. "I said don't move!"
BOOM. A ceiling light exploded, glass raining onto the salad bar.
"There we go."
Pumpkin nodded, satisfied, and started down the aisle collecting wallets.
His moves were slick—too slick. The trash bag bulged fast.
When he hit Victor's table, Victor didn't hesitate. He handed over his wallet. "We're just passing through. Need gas money."
Pumpkin waved the gun. "I'm robbing you—think I care about your road trip? In the bag!"
The four complied.
Victor felt Ethan's rage boiling—that wallet had serious cash.
The bag swallowed four wallets—six hundred bucks easy.
Pumpkin patted the fat sack and moved to the next table.
One guy sat alone:
Black dude in red basketball shorts and a green tee, broad shoulders inked with a cross, curly hair looking like some police chief from TV. In front of him: an untouched BBQ sandwich and an open Bible.
"Your wallet, friend."
Pumpkin tapped the table with the gun.
The guy—Jules—looked up slow. Deep, unreadable eyes under thick brows.
He pulled out his wallet.
Pumpkin wasn't satisfied. He eyed the silver briefcase beside Jules. "That thing's worth something."
"You sure you wanna do this, Esau?"
His voice rumbled like it came from a basement.
Pumpkin froze. "What?"
"Esau sold his birthright for a bowl of stew."
Jules' fingers brushed the Bible page. "You're selling your soul for a few wallets. Worth it?"
The diner went dead silent.
Bonnie's gun dipped slightly—couldn't see her face under the mask.
Victor felt a jolt up his spine. Something's about to pop.
"Shut the fuck up!"
Pumpkin snapped. "Open it!"
Jules smiled, popped the silver case. Gold light spilled out.
Pumpkin reached like he was possessed. In that split second—Jules moved.
Faster than human.
Left hand twisted Pumpkin's gun wrist. Right elbow smashed the throat.
Pumpkin gagged, revolver hammer clicking in the struggle.
Jules yanked—he crashed face-first into the greasy table. Victor and Ethan pulled their pieces from under their ribs.
"Don't move!"
Bonnie screamed from the table, revolver aimed at Jules' back.
"Let him go or I blow your—"
"Or what?"
A cold voice cut from the bathroom hallway.
Vincent—back from the john—had his 9mm Beretta locked on Bonnie's temple. "Drop it, bunny."
Time stretched like taffy.
Victor's pulse pounded in his ears.
Standoff: Jules choking Pumpkin, Bonnie aiming at Jules, Vincent aiming at Bonnie.
"Fun."
Bonnie's voice cracked with twisted glee. "What now, pretty boy? You shoot, I shoot—your Bible buddy goes to heaven."
Vincent didn't blink. "You'll be right behind him."
"I should've been dead already."
Bonnie whispered, finger tightening on the trigger.
Victor and Ethan locked eyes.
No words—just years of sync.
Victor flashed three fingers under the table. Then two. One—
BOOM BOOM.
Victor's revolver ripped into Bonnie's right shoulder, punching two holes sideways—she didn't drop.
Ethan's .45 blew through Pumpkin's skull and clipped Jules.
Bonnie shrieked, her revolver wild-fired into the cashier screen. Vincent sidestepped the glass storm and put one clean round through her head.
Jules whipped around, face painted with Pumpkin's blood and brains, two holes in his own torso from Ethan.
"What the hell did you do?!"
His roar rattled the silverware. "I was letting them walk!"
Victor calmly reloaded, gun on Jules. "We just wanted our money back. Law's on our side."
"Ezekiel 25:17!"
Jules charged, Bible hitting the floor. "I will carry out great vengeance on them—when I take vengeance, they'll know I am the Lord! Judgment ain't yours!"
Victor didn't shoot—just a liver shot. Jules, already bleeding, folded like a chair. Vincent raised his gun at Victor.
Ethan swung his barrel to Vincent.
Then—applause.
Diners stood. An old cowboy-hatted guy whistled.
"Hell yeah!"
"Damn robbers!"
Cheers everywhere.
Sirens wailed in the distance.
Vincent's face changed. He holstered. "Jules, we gotta go. Now."
Jules ignored him, eyes burning into Victor. "You stole God's chance to let them repent."
"You outta your damn mind! I don't believe in God!"
Victor coolly pried Jules' fingers open, scooped their four wallets from the mess.
Sirens closed in.
Vincent yanked Jules' arm. "Move!"
Cops rolled up. After statements, the redneck sheriff pieced it together:
"This wasn't random—organized crew!"
"But there were only two!"
"Nah, kid—you're green. There was a third guy, shot Black dude! He's the boss. They ran a con on everybody! Go get 'em!"