The cheap motel smelled like mildew, cigarettes, and bad decisions—so naturally, it was the perfect place to lay low. Viv stood at the bathroom sink, running a wet rag over her blood-smeared face, scrubbing hard like she could erase the last twelve hours from existence.
Behind her, Colt was on the bed, flipping through channels on the busted TV, his boots still on, one hand tucked behind his head. "You know, you could at least say 'thank you' for saving your ass back there," he said, not looking up.
Viv snorted. "Oh, yeah. Thanks for shooting a guy I already had handled."
"Handled?" Colt laughed, throwing the remote onto the nightstand. "You were two seconds away from getting your throat slit."
Viv tossed the rag into the sink and turned to him, arms crossed. "And yet, here I am. Very much not dead. What's that tell you?"
"That you got lucky."
"That I don't need a goddamn babysitter."
Colt smirked, but didn't push it. He'd learned early on that Viv wasn't the kind of woman you argued with unless you had a death wish. Instead, he reached over to the nightstand, grabbed the half-empty bottle of whiskey, and took a swig before offering it to her. "Truce?"
Viv hesitated before snatching it from his hand and taking a long drink. The burn felt good. Something solid to hold onto in all the chaos.
"So," Colt said, stretching out, "what's the plan? Because I assume you have one."
Viv wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Yeah. Step one: don't die. Step two: kill every son of a bitch who's got a problem with step one."
Colt grinned. "Now that's a plan I can get behind."
The room went quiet for a beat, the only sound the distant hum of traffic outside. Then Viv spoke again, softer this time. "They're not gonna stop coming, are they?"
Colt sighed. "Nope."
Viv nodded, like she'd already known the answer. "Then I guess we make the first move."
Colt sat up, suddenly very interested. "You got someone in mind?"
Viv's lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Oh yeah."
The night was far from over.