There was a heaviness in Jarah’s chest as he stepped through the towering mahogany doors of the Prime City Police Department Headquarters: the cold, artificial chandeliers created long, sharp shadows across the cracked marble floor. The place was of mere order—the stench of stale coffee, gun powder, and the bureaucratic push of law enforcement clashing against a city that never quite let itself be tamed.

  He moved past a few uniformed officers who threw him wary glances. They knew who he was. Most cops in North Prime had a file on him, even if they didn’t admit it. Bounty hunters were tolerated, but not liked. Jarah didn’t care. He wasn’t here for camaraderie.

  Commissioner Nash Holiday’s office was near the top of the steel-and-concrete fortress that housed the department. Two guards flanked his door, their hands hovering near their sidearms as Jarah approached. He glared at them, giving them a show of empty palms before knocking twice and pushing inside.

  Holiday looked up from a stack of reports, his right eye locking on Jarah with the same mixture of annoyance and intrigue he always reserved for him. He had a triangular eye-patch of metallic-leather over his left eye, a gray mustache that often twitched, and he wore a black uniform with golden cufflinks in the shape of soaring eagles.

  Holiday leaned back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest. “Well, if it isn’t Prime City’s most reckless bounty hunter. What’s the body count this time?”

  Jarah didn’t bother to sit. “Scar’s dead.”

  Holiday’s brows lifted slightly, but he didn’t look surprised. “Scar?” He tapped a pen against his desk, his mind calculating the impact. “The Judge’s right hand?”

  Jarah nodded. “Took him out at Uncle Joe’s. He won’t be making any more collections for Jackson’s Army.”

  Holiday exhaled, reaching for a cigar on his desk. He took a slow puff before setting it down with a deliberate motion. “Scar was a rabid dog, but you know what happens when you kill a lieutenant, right?”

  Jarah cracked his neck. “I have a pretty good idea.”

  “So, you know he’ll start sharpening his knives,” Holiday expressed darkly. “Jackson’s been fucking us in the ass in the Northside Industrial District for months, and killing his guy means you just put a target on our back.”

  “You sound scared,” Jarah hinted as he leaned against the desk.

  “For the residents of North Prime? Yeah, I’m quite concerned.” Holiday snorted arrogantly. “We barely have the manpower to control those knuckleheads in Franchise.”

  “That’s why I’m going after Jackson,” Jarah addressed confidently.

  Holiday leaned forward, elbows on desk, measuring him. “Brave. Stupid, but brave. You know we’ve had a hell of a time keeping his militia in check. They hit supply convoys from Nakamura, staked industrial factories, executed cops who got in their way. And you want to take him and his army on alone?”

  Jarah shrugged. “I work better that way.”

  Holiday shook his head. “The bounty’s a thousand credits. Dead or alive.”

  Jarah scoffed. “For The Judge and his entire outfit? You should’ve made it more.”

  “If you cut off the head, the body dies,” Holiday said as his lips curled into something between amusement and contempt.

  “Maybe,” Jarah’s face remained illegible, “but a man like Jackson? He’s got plenty of heads to replace the ones that fall.”

  Holiday tapped his fingers against the desk. “You don’t have to do this, Slade. No amount of credits is worth a bullet in the head. Or worse, ending up like one of those poor bastards with their heads on a spike outside their hideouts.”

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  Jarah’s eyes darkened. “It’s personal this time.”

  Holiday studied him, reading between his words. “Then if you’re gonna do it, do it right. Make an example of him. Make sure every low-life in North Prime sees what happens when you try to raise a

  militia against the district.”

  Jarah turned to leave. He’d gotten what he needed. Confirmation. Permission, even if it was indirect.

  As he reached the door, Holiday spoke again, his voice edged with something that sounded almost like respect. “Slade—”

  Jarah glanced over his shoulder.

  “Good luck.”

  Jarah nodded and walked out the door—

  The Atomic Motors Factory loomed over the Northside Industrial District like a crumbling fortress, its once-primitive facade now weathered with decay. It was a fitting stronghold for Judge Jackson and his Army—a den of criminal outlaws who thrived in the lawless corners of Prime City.

  Jarah moved through the darkened corridors, his footsteps silent as death. The air smelled of machinery, gunpowder, and whatever aged liquor these maniacs drowned their sorrows in. He had infiltrated the lower levels of the factory, using the Huntsman as a navigator as it produced energy signatures throughout the manufacturing plant. Once he reached the stairwell, Jarah abandoned stealth and holstered the Asunder Pistol.

  An outlaw spotted Jarah near the stairwell.

  “Shit–!”

  Jarah squeezed the trigger. The fiery gold tracer round erupted from the pistol, tearing through the outlaw’s torso in a molten burst. The sheer force sent the man flying against the wall, a smoking crater where his armor used to be. The echo of gunfire triggered chaos. Doors burst open, armed men pouring out like hornets from a nest. Jarah dove for cover behind an overturned couch as bullets shredded the air around him. He calibrated the Huntsman, its high-tech display humming with energy, and retaliated.

  The factory lobby became a warzone. Jarah moved like a ghost through the carnage; each shot dismembering limbs and searing flesh. Blood painted the walls; bodies slumped in twisted heaps. A man charged him with a machete; Jarah fired once, and the red spark of the bullet severed his arm at the elbow, the limb hitting the ground before the man even registered the pain. A second shot turned his skull into a cindered ruin.

  More outlaws emerged from the second-floor balcony, raining down gunfire. Jarah ducked behind an old vending machine as sparks erupted around him. He spotted a propane tank near the stairwell and took his shot. The explosion rocked the building, sending flaming debris in all directions. Screams followed as some of Jackson’s men were caught in the blast.

  Jarah didn’t slow. He sprinted up the stairs two at a time, gunning down any bastard who got in his way. By the time he reached the top floor, a dozen bodies lay cooling in the corridors. He reloaded with quick hands, breathing steady despite the adrenaline pumping through his veins.

  The rooftop awaited—The Judge’s court.

  Jarah kicked open the rusted door and stepped into the moonlit expanse. The wind howled between the towering pillars and benches designed like a demolished courtroom.

  Jackson sat on a stage of scrap metal near the edge, flanked by four of his top lieutenants. The old gang leader was dressed in his signature long coat adorned with scrap armor, his shotgun resting on his thighs like an executioner’s blade, and his villainous helmet of a Graver’s skull.

  “I’m impressed!” Jackson mused, his voice gravelly from years of cigars. “You got some nerve stepping foot in my court without a proper trial. Maybe I can recruit you into my ranks. You’d make a dangerously impressionable soldier.”

  Jarah leveled the Asunder Pistol at him. “I have a warrant for your arrest, but I don’t mind killing another legendary outlaw.”

  Jackson smirked. “Yeah, I heard about what you did to one of my lieutenants. It was quite… intriguing, to say the least. Believe it or not, you did me a favor. He was getting too comfortable in my jury. Kept eye-ballin’ the stage like a starving bitch. And we all know what a wild dog will do to keep its mouth fed.”

  The lieutenants spread out, hands hovering over their weapons. A tense silence fell over the rooftop, broken only by the distant crack of thunder.

  Jarah didn’t wait. He drew first.

  The rooftop erupted in gunfire. Jarah rolled to his side as bullets whizzed past. He fired twice, and two lieutenants were blown apart by the Asunder Pistol’s devastating force, limbs flying in opposite directions. Another lunged at him with a combat knife; Jarah pivoted and fired point-blank, the tracer round severing the man at the waist in a molten flash.

  Jackson moved fast for an old dog, drawing and firing in one motion. Jarah ducked, feeling the heat of the shells graze past his cheek. He retaliated with a shot of his own, clipping Jackson’s armored shoulder. The old man grunted but didn’t falter. He fired again, forcing Jarah behind a ventilation unit.

  The last lieutenant charged with a submachine gun. Jarah yanked a flashbang from his belt and tossed it. The rooftop flashed white, and the gunfire ceased. When Jarah emerged, he put a round in the dazed gunman’s chest, sending his body tumbling over the edge.

  Jackson shot wildly at the ventilation unit, spending shells recklessly. The trigger clicked—empty. He tossed the shotgun aside. “Fight me like a man, bounty hunter!”

  Jarah obliged. He holstered the Asunder Pistol and stepped forward. Jackson threw the first punch, a heavy hook that Jarah barely dodged. They traded blows, knuckles cracking against flesh and bone. Jackson fought dirty–elbows, headbutts, anything to win. But Jarah was faster, younger, and fueled by vengeance.

  A hard right sent Jackson staggering, knocking his helmet clean off. Jarah followed up with an uppercut to the ribs, then grabbed the old man by his coat and slammed him onto the rooftop. Jackson gasped, blood dribbling from his lips. Jarah pulled out the Asunder Pistol and aimed at his head.

  “Well, what are you waiting for?” Jackson challenged, his voice raspy. “Do it…”

  Jarah’s eyes widened. He suddenly saw Stewart on the ground in front of him. His nightmare struck his psyche like total recall. Only this time, it was real.

  Jackson chuckled. “I knew it. I knew you didn’t have the balls to—”

  BANG!

  Jackson’s face obliterated into chunks of flesh and bone fragments. The Asunder Pistol hissed as a fiery steam swirled upward onto Jarah’s blood-stained face. He exhaled and stepped back, observing the mess he created. He then turned and saw the infamous Graver skull helmet resting on the bloody courtyard.

  The Judge was dead.