Gene ‘Beau’ Finley

Gene always knew this day would come—it lingered in the back of his mind like a dark cloud, but he never imagined it would arrive so cruelly, so abruptly. Freed from the gilded prison of his upbringing, he reveled in the daring thrill of outlaw life, finally unshackled from the no-good father who never loved him as fiercely as Gene loved the wild, untamed frontier he now called his own. To prepare for the inevitable, he devoured every article, every tale of the Wild West in newspapers and books, arming himself with knowledge to outwit the dreaded bounty hunter lurking on the horizon.

He had summoned thirty-seven of the fiercest mercenaries—bounty hunters, outlaws, and hardened criminals—to stand as his guardians, guarding his rugged, handsome glory while he lounged in a crisp, white suit worth two hundred dollars. With a smug grin, he counted stacks of cash from their recent bank heist, sprawled comfortably on a newly skinned bear rug—an opulent trophy that doubled as a reminder of his dominance and a distraction from the gnawing dread that haunted him—the fear of that relentless pursuer crashing through his hideout’s doors.

His trembling hands betrayed his composed facade as paranoia took hold, until a firm yet reassuring voice broke the tension—one of his men attempting to assure their leader that he was as safe as he could be. But deep inside, Gene knew better: the storm was coming, and only the outlaws’ fierce protection could hold back the inevitable.

“Boss, ease up a bit,” came a calm voice from the guard stationed by the window, eyes never leaving the horizon. “You got a whole crew ready to keep you safe. Ain’t no two-bit bounty hunter gonna slip you into a cage—”

“Think I don’t see that?” Gene snapped, his eyes flickering wide with frustration, then easing into a shaky, slow exhale. A tight, sardonic smile curled his lips as he raised his hands in a gesture of surrender—an act he’d unwittingly set in motion himself. “Yeah, you’re right. Damn it. You’re right. I’m Gene ‘Beau’ Finley!” He rose abruptly, harboring that signature cocky grin, placing his hands on his hips like a king of the concrete jungle.

“My crew? The best money can buy in this whole damn town.” Gene’s voice rolled on, dripping with pride, as he faced away, enjoying the illusion of invincibility. “I’m untouchable—no one’s getting their fingers on what’s mine. Not even some broke-ass bounty hunter who’s just lookin’ for a payday—”

But just as the bravado swelled, a sickening groan punctuated by a heavy thud shattered the air. The commanding bravado drained from his face as a body hit the ground, with the sound of a gurgle that belonged to the same man that was reassuring ol’ Beau, now choking on his own blood—a grim reminder that every fortress has its weak spot.

Gene had regressed to that frightened little boy who once beckoned his mother to peek beneath his opulent bed, searching for monsters lurking in the shadows. Now, standing frozen in the dimly lit ruins of the mansion, he hesitated to turn around, dread gnawing at his nerves. The stench of blood hung heavy in the air, assaulting his senses, while an unseen presence hovered behind him—like a devil himself come to claim his soul. Outside, silence reigned; not a single movement from his crew, no sound save for the pounding of his own heart. Was everyone else dead? Had the bogeyman finally returned from the grave to punch his ticket?

“Shit, shit, shit...” Gene croaked, a bead of sweat tracing a cold trail down his temple from under his white cowboy hat. His chest heaved wildly, the realization sinking in that he had underestimated the relentless foes hunting for the bounty dangling above his head—their hunger for it unquenchable. His trembling hands rose instinctively, the once-pretty coward now confronted with the harsh, unforgiving truth of what it meant to live on the fringes, to cast aside safety for the perilous thrill of outlaw life—an understanding he had sorely overlooked in his reckless books.

Gene was on the verge of unleashing a torrent of pee in his all-white suit, trembling from sheer terror. But right now, he wasn't about to gamble his bladder’s dignity. Instead, he clenched his jaw and refused to turn around—confront the silent savage lurking behind him—the one who wipe out the $1,200 worth of mercenaries that was supposed to keep Gene safe. These were the keepers of his Wild West legend, the guardians of his fading dream, and the fear was about to send him packing.