The framed commendations on the wall: a row of headstones marking my rise in this rotting city. I leaned back in the leather chair, the corridor beyond my door lined with the faces of the dead and the damned—a gallery of ghosts watching my every move.

  I rolled the cigar across my teeth, the smoke thick as a secret. They call me The Shepherd. I guide the flock down the narrow path between righteousness and the gutter.

  The papers say I’m in the Devil’s pocket, but they’ve got the math backwards. I own the suit, the pocket, and the man inside it.

  I took a bite of a stale donut, the grease coating my tongue like a lie. My other hand was busy with the 'Peacebringer'—the Glock that had kept me breathing when the city tried to choke.

  But lately, a Shadow has been moving through the alleys, a wolf among my sheep. And then there’s the Mayor—a man who couldn’t keep his own trophy under lock and key, leaving me to mop up the blood.

  "Elmroot," I spat the name like a piece of gristle. The man has a talent for finding truth where it’s best left buried. Good thing I had Jane dancing to my tune; her life was tucked safely in my vest pocket.

  But the dog still barked to his master. I greased the Mayor’s palms to keep him quiet, but he’s gone running to that Righteous Old Fox. It’s a good thing the Devil has a way of silencing the choir.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  But Elmroot... he won't take the hint. He wants to be the one man in this town who doesn't bend. Maybe it's time we gave him the same treatment we gave her. A dry, jagged laugh escaped me, sounding like gravel in a tin can.

  The heavy oak door of my office swung open with a bang, slamming against the plaster. There he was: Jack Beerling, my sister’s husband—a nice boy, and a noose around my neck. I stayed seated, the cigar smoke curling around my face.

  “How’s my favorite deputy doing?” I asked, keeping my voice smooth as cheap whiskey.

  Jack wasn't biting. “The Rat is dead. It was a clean execution, but the ring he was wearing told me everything I needed to know.”

  The Rat. An old name for a stool pigeon, dangerously important.

  “So what’s the play now?” I said, my tone turning to cold steel.

  He leaned across my desk, his eyes hard. “We find the shooter or we bury Elmroot for good. Or he’s going to uncover the truth about what we did three years ago.”

  I just nodded. Elmroot was a walking time bomb with the mayor paying him any attention. It would be a death sentence for all of us.

  Rest up in that hospital bed while you can, Elmroot. Sooner or later, you'll breathe your last breath. Balance is key in this town—the balance between the sheep and the hunting dog. After all, I'm the only Shepherd this city needs.