GUN SALAD

Marka’s heart pounded. Pure emotion had flooded him in an instant, drowning out cognition and suppressing any hope of gaining the upper hand. He knew that Diallo wasn’t the same way. It had been like that since they were children: Marka had always been the passionate, demonstrative one, while Diallo was cold and calculating. Those tendencies, taken together, had made them a force to be reckoned with… Back when they were still on the same side, anyway.

Those days were over. All that remained was Marka’s terror over what the man was capable of.

As expected, Diallo reacted quickly. His sharp eyes swept over the assemblage of enemies before him in a trice, then he moved immediately to reenact the same strategy he’d employed back at the villa: he grabbed hold of Beretta and pulled her tight to his chest, the blade of his knife hovering an inch from her neck.

“What is this?” he hissed, backing away toward the water’s edge. “What have you done, Marka? Is this some kind of trick?”

“Let her go, Diallo!” Roulette shouted from behind. “You’ve lost! Give it up or we’ll shoot!”

He shook his head, laughing softly. “You will not. Not while I have my leverage.” His eyes focused on Marka, then, contributing further to the big man’s paralysis. “What is the matter, cousin? You are usually so quick to blow away your problems. Is something wrong?”

His laughter built to a harsh, taunting crescendo as seawater rose to lap at his heel. He glanced swiftly behind himself, leaving little doubt as to his intentions.

“Time to go!” he crowed, withdrawing the knife from his niece’s neck. “May the hands of our fallen brothers rise up to claim you, Marka Moukahla!”

Marka heard Roulette fire the moment Diallo hefted his knife. Her aim was true–every bullet of the burst collided with the steel of Diallo’s blade, causing it to tremble in his hand…

…But, evidently, the man had learned to keep his grip tight in the presence of Lady Luck.

Undeterred, he whipped back his hand and threw the knife forward with all his might, ducking behind Beretta to avoid any form of retaliation. The knife sliced through the air before anyone could react, spinning end over end as it streaked toward its intended target.

Before he could so much as blink, the weapon’s razor-sharp point had lodged itself in Marka’s chest. He gazed down at its protruding hilt in disbelief, overwhelmed by the deadly efficiency of Diallo’s reversal. The big man teetered in place before falling backward to the sand. His head swam. He could feel his vitality leaving him. Blurry shapes–the faces of friends, he knew–closed in around him, uttering things he couldn’t quite hear.

“Beretta…?” he felt himself say. But his own words were just as muffled as the rest.

“Be strong…”

That would have to do. The lure of the void was calling him, now, and time was running short.

Marka let his body go slack. 

And, with a heavy heart, he readied himself for death’s embrace.

—

Diallo swam as far beneath the surface as he dared, delighting in the sound of bullets spending themselves harmlessly against the waves. He’d done it; he had won. He had always prided himself on his adaptability and his analytical mind, but this? Turning a completely strange and unfavorable situation to his advantage? There was no sweeter victory.

Marka, that fool, had been caught totally unawares. In that, at least, they were alike. The last thing Diallo had expected was to end up on the shoreline of Sebastopol of all places. His mind still strained to find some reason–some explanation, no matter how improbable–as to how that could possibly be. In the villa’s dining room one moment, standing on the beach the next… It defied logic. 

His lungs were beginning to empty, so he angled himself toward the sky. Fortunately, the sound of gunfire had ceased, leading him to conclude that Marka’s allies had become preoccupied with his little parting gift. He broke the surface with confidence, knowing that visibility would be poor at this time of night. Indeed, upon looking back in the direction he’d come, he noted that his attackers were completely obscured by shadow. 

In all of Truvelo, there were few places darker than Sebastopol’s waterfront after sundown. Diallo relished in that fact as he crossed the channel, drawing upon all the years he’d spent paddling around Pistola Bay as a child. He had always been a strong swimmer, and tonight his life would depend on it; after all, one or more of Marka’s little band of misfits would surely break off from the group to pursue him. Every second was precious.

Drawing near to the opposite shore, Diallo clung to the hull of a fishing boat and peered over the edge. This portion of the boardwalk abutted a sandstone staircase leading to the next-highest tier. The area was deserted for the moment, but lanterns dangled from the wall every ten feet or so. Crossing the boardwalk would require him to walk in the light of the lanterns, and that was a risk he wasn’t willing to take just yet.

His caution was soon rewarded, for one of Marka’s crew came barrelling down the boardwalk less than a minute later. Diallo recognized him immediately; it was the brute who’d stolen his pants and struck him with one of his cousin’s worthless artifacts back at the villa. He carried the revolver that Beretta had worked so hard to procure, holding it in a manner that spoke to years of shooting experience. I must avoid him, Diallo resolved. Without a weapon of my own, I have no chance of overpowering him.

The man proved surprisingly skilled in the art of man-tracking. Upon reaching the stretch of boardwalk nearest the stairs, he began checking the ground for signs of water. Finding none, he turned his attention to the darkened docks where Diallo’s hiding place was moored.

“I know you’re out there!” he called, tapping his gun against the palm of his free hand. “This is the only way up on this side.”

He was right. Even the scaffolding that led up to the highest tier was within his zone of visibility, leaving Diallo no choice but to find a way through him.

“Bet you think you’re pretty smart,” he continued. “But I’ve got all night. I’m not budgin’ ‘til you try somethin’... And, unlike you, I won’t have to tread water ‘til then.”

Diallo gritted his teeth. How dare that snowy-headed ape try to foil his escape? His mind kicked into overdrive, sifting through the field of options available to him… Until, finally, he came up with a serviceable plan.

He let go of the boat and drifted alongside it as silently as he could. Upon reaching the dock he slipped into its shadow, following along until he reached the underside of the boardwalk. He could hear the white-haired man pacing above him, but his true goal lay behind him:

The lanterns.

They swung at around waist-height, their flames flickering tenuously. Naturally, each flame was protected by the glass-walled chamber of its lantern, but Diallo doubted that the seal they formed was complete. He bobbed down to take in a mouthful of seawater and braced his lips against a gap between the slats of the boardwalk–the gap that lay right beneath the lantern nearest the stairs.

Pbbbbt!

A jet of seawater erupted from his lips, slapping against the base of the lantern… However, it failed to splash up inside the way he’d hoped.

“Wuzzat?” he heard from above. Diallo huffed in frustration; if he failed again, he might not get another chance.

He drew in another mouthful of seawater and tried again.

 Pbbbbt!

This time it struck the bottom of the lantern with enough force to throw some water up inside of it, immediately snuffing the flame.

“Hey!” the man shouted, stomping on the boardwalk. “You stop that! Think that’s goin’ to get you anywhere?”

Pbbbbt!

He doused the next lantern over on the very first try, shrouding a full twenty feet of the boardwalk in darkness. Then he kicked off the wall and swam back to the fishing boat, suspecting that he could find something of use inside the vessel.

“You damned eel,” the man grumbled, making his way over to the nearest functional lantern. “I can just light ‘em again, y’know!”

Diallo pulled himself into the boat as quietly as possible, feeling around at his feet for some kind of weapon.

He didn’t find one, though–not exactly.

The white-haired man crossed back to the drenched lanterns with the lit candle of another in-hand. “There, you had your fun,” he said. “Once I get these lit up again, they’re goin’ up on the steps out of spittin’ distan–”

Diallo rushed across the boardwalk and tackled him from behind, snaring him in the tangled mass of fishing net as thoroughly as he could.

“HEY–”

“Quiet!” Diallo commanded, punching the man once in the head for good measure. The idiot’s bellowing had been loud–more than loud enough to attract attention. It wouldn’t be long before they had company. 

“Be glad I have no time to finish you as I did Marka.” he snarled.

Then he ran for the long, scaffolded stairway that would lead him to the city gates. As he ran, he considered his next move. How would he get revenge on those who had wronged him? How could he make Marka’s companions suffer as they had made him suffer?

The answer was obvious:

Find a departing caravan. Get back to Port Pistola…

…And return with the full might of the Moukahla crime syndicate at his back.