Toney shoves you ahead of him and together you race toward the open doors of the church. Several sets of hands that reach out from either side of the aisle, trying to slow you down. They are loyal to the Reverend. His commanding tone has seemingly brought them to frenzy and rally to his defense. One of them manages to grab ahold of your jacket and pulls it free from your body. Even with the barrel of your revolver waving in their face, they refuse to stop. You pull the gun back and whip one of the larger men across the side of the face, knocking him out cold only a few steps from the door.

BANG!

“Arrgh!”

Toney falls into you from behind. You barely manage to catch his body and remain upright just before your body collides with the front doors of the church.

“No! Goddamnit, no!”

You hold Toney and watch as he forces his voice through the blood in his throat.

“Get... to my shop... I’ve got... something for you.”

Waves of bright, fresh blood spill over his lips and trap his words below. A moment later, his eyes roll back and you feel his entire body slouch toward the floor. You look back and see the Reverend standing at the top of the altar with a small snub nosed pistol in his hand. There’s a small, hidden drawer hanging open in the podium beside him. You lift your revolver and aim straight back at him.

“You fucking bastard!”

BANG!

Another shot strikes Toney in the back before you can pull the trigger. His body jerks forward from the blow and pushes you backwards all the way out of the church. His body crashes onto the concrete in front of you but you manage to retain your balance and catch yourself on the hood of a black car parked only a few feet away. The grip of the revolver in your hand clangs against the metal.

“Hey, take it easy on the paint!”

Your heart, already racing, suddenly skips a beat. The voice is vaguely familiar but you haven’t heard it in a long time. You quickly pull your body back and look at the car you crashed into. It’s a 1970 Ford Mustang Boss 429—Lance’s Mustang!

Swallowing back the revelation, you turn and find the driver standing beside the open driver’s side door. She’s dressed in tight jeans and a white tank top with a short, black, leather jacket hanging loose from one shoulder. In her hands is a Remington 870 sawed-off pump-action 12-gauge shotgun with a thin streak of smoke still rising from the chamber. She stares back at you through dark sunglasses and a head full of wild, blonde hair.

“Oh, my God,” you say, holding your breath.

It’s Lance’s daughter Jenny. She stands tall and looks angry. Her body is thin and strong with smooth curves and hard edges. She’s almost nothing like the girl you once knew. She slaps the roof of the car without wasting another moment and drops into the driver’s seat.

“Get in.”

Freedom Rewards the
Son of a Bitch

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