Some people said cops had programmed reflexes, that they could spring like a steel trap at the slightest provocation, that they moved like machines. Dean had never seen a cop, and it was probably bullshit anyway.

But sweet mother of fuck, pray forgiveness, Eyepatch was just like that.

Even moments afterward, he couldn’t remember getting shot. The sequence of his memory was vague, dreamlike, and dominated by his present agony. He screamed, swore, staggered and fell, letting the shotgun clatter forgotten from his hands. His leather boot bore a blackened, smoking ring where the bullet had ripped through it, and blood oozed from the wound in regular spurts.

There were more gunshots after that, but he was too absorbed to take notice. He’d been shot. He stared at the wound for what seemed like hours, engrossed by the horror of it, confounded by disbelief. Next he was outraged—outraged at the injustice of it all. Instantly he hated this criminal more than he hated any other, because he had defied God’s will, had refused to die like he was intended.

Dean looked up at Eyepatch. Looked straight down the barrel of his pistol.

“What do you want?” Eyepatch asked him. Dean was almost slavering. Had he been able, he would have torn open Eyepatch’s throat with his bare hands.

But then a little voice spoke up in his head. It told him to calm down, made soothing noises. He listened to it. His rage subsided, and where it had once seethed and driven him almost to the brink of madness there was now nothing but tranquility. And a cold, insidious will that began ticking over, plotting how he could get the upper hand on this whoreson.

He forced his best smile, all white teeth and charm. “Buddy, it was a misunderstanding. You look like a dealer that ripped me off last week.”