Night had fallen upon the forest. It was a silent witness to struggle and strife, as two men clad in black jackets lugged along a squirming figure. His body writhed and twisted, testing the grip of his captors. Yet, it was to no avail.

There was a dark shape, in the form of an old boxy pickup truck. Weak light provided by a thin crescent moon could barely reveal small rust stains and chipped paint along its aged body. It was in the back of this pickup truck that the captured man was thrown. His hands and leg were bound with twine rope, tight enough to hinder blood, and agitate nerves. He still continued to squirm, even as his captivity was all but ensured.

The roar of the old engine drowned out his silent pleas, gagged by crude cloth. Yet, as the truck prepared to chug along, a voice raced through the forest.

“Peter! Peter!”

It was that of a woman. Desperation and despair clung to it. As the truck raced away, fumbling through dead branches and moist dirt, the voice faded.

The men in the driver’s cabin paid no heed. Their expressions were concealed by black ski masks, only allowing stoic eyes and silent mouths to show through. They remained quiet for the duration of the journey, never taking time to congratulate one another, to watch out for any sign of pursuit nor to taunt their unwilling captive.

Dull light from the truck’s headlights illuminated the vast shape of a square structure. An abandoned warehouse, rusted, and teaming with growth upon the sides of its off-white walls was the destination. Various crates lay in the area around it, scattered haphazardly as an afterthought.

The truck steadied as dirt was replaced with crude asphalt and concrete. As the vehicle turned into the entrance to the structure, two additional men rushed to greet it. They wore heavy gray jackets, upon which a jet-black rifle was slung across. Black gloved hands moved towards the rifle, as the windows on the truck were pulled down.

A familiar look was exchanged between the criminals in the truck, and the armed men outside. With a nod and a gesture, the truck was allowed to lumber forward.

The inside of the warehouse was cloaked in shadow. Few lights relieved the blindness imparted by night. Large blocky silhouettes could be perceived, but only a wild guess would suffice as to what was their contents. It was once inside did the truck come to a stop, and its engine was silenced.

There was only one room that had the benefit of light, provided by a single hanging incandescent bulb. A man resided within, wearing a heavy dark leather jacket, with black denim jeans. He had thin, brown hair that was combed over near the top. His eyes appeared eternally squinted, beady and ruthless, while his lips formed a thin scowl. He was clearly a man of middle age, with wrinkles around his mouth and eyes. Yet, a youthful bloodlust still shone through.

The rusty metal chair in which he was seated was rotated with an unpleasant screech once the others arrived with their captive. The unlucky man was clearly far younger, with a full head of curly, matted dirty blonde hair. Wide dark eyes darted about with fright and uncertainty. His manner of dress, a collared shirt and tan pants, suggested a man who worked a white-collar job. Yet, in their current state, caked with dirt and a bit of blood, he would not be presentable in any office setting.

With a long list of allegations, from petty to serious, Sinclair was in no hurry to stop his own personal reign of murder and mayhem. In the secrecy and isolation of the forest, he had made for himself, and his other depraved hired hands, a sort of haven where the thrill of their criminal acts could go undisturbed. To the rest of the men, except those closest to him, he was but a petty drug dealer and a quick paycheck. To those who knew him best, money was the least of pleasures he indulged himself with.

Both of the unfortunate man’s original captor’s had already discarded their ski masks. One was a man of dark complexion that gave way to an excitable expression. His clean-shaved head reflected what little light hung above. The other sported far more hair, brown and ragged, hanging down his head, almost over his eyes, leading to a rather bushy beard that nearly obscured his mouth. His own expression was that of stark contrast to his companion, cold and stoic, failing to derive any joy that Sinclair felt from this particular event.

There was an empty chair that lay opposite of the one Sinclair was seated at. The young man’s forceful escorts practically threw him in, causing the chair to lean back from the impact. With his hands and legs still bound, he found it difficult to adjust to attain a comfortable posture. Yet, comfort was the least of his worries as of now.

Sinclair unsheathed a pistol from his waist, a simple Glock. A high pitched whistle escaped his lips as he carelessly waved the pistol about. With his free hand, he struck the young man across the face, leaving a red mark, and bringing his eyes to bear on his tormentor.

“Wakey wakey.,” Sinclair sneered in a sniveling tone, the kind that could wear sharp nails on a chalkboard, “I’ve got a favor to ask of you little runt.”

The young man let not a word escape his mouth. He could only glare back at the man.

Sinclair’s pistol hand struck next, leaving a gruesome black and blue mark on the young man’s face. What little bravado he attempted to present had been violently banished. He could only look away, as to not bring shame to himself.

“I don’t appreciate back talk,” sneered the serial antagonizer, “Handsey, let’s see what he’s got.”

From behind, the dark-skinned man emerged. In one deft motion, he had swiped from the pockets of the young captive, his wallet. Handsey began rifling through, flipping through several cards, credit, business, insurance. A driver’s license, with the name “Peter” was observed with some interest, before being promptly ignored. Upon finishing his search, he let out a dissatisfied huff.

“Man’s bone dry!” he exclaimed.

The butt of the Glock was brought against Peter’s face once more. His cheek had begun to swell, and he could feel just the faintest trickling of blood dribbling down from his nose.

“Son of a bitch!” Sinclair exclaimed, “You went cashless! What, didn’t want psychos like me to get your hands on your money?”

The man clicked his tongue while wagging a finger in front of Peter’s face, in a manner evocative of a disappointed parent or teacher.

“White-collar cunt alright.” he commented, “I kill white collar cunts you know? Hey!”

Another slap across the face, and Peter was beginning to perceive lights that were of his own imagination. His head began to rock deliriously, as the depths of unconsciousness threatened to creep in.

Peter was kept awake courtesy of the cold barrel of Sinclair’s pistol pressed into his chin.

“Kinda fun introducing some excitement outside of your desk job, eh?” he inquired, a question that could not have been less sincere with the amount of venom it was laced with.

The psychopath pulled away his weapon, allowing Peter’s chin to drop. Matted hair hung down, obscuring his eyes that had begun to flutter.

A steady, raspy voice escaped from the bearded man, “Hey boss, the cards are locked, we’d have to make a phone call to use em.”

“All these layers of security.” lamented Sinclair with a degree of sarcasm, “Can’t they let an honest criminal do his work in peace?”

A chuckle escaped him, infecting his companions as well. One could suspect, however, that their jovial gesture was done under duress.

“Of course,” he continued, “I believe from what I’ve heard from Oddie here, you’ve got a lady friend back at the ranch.”

On cue, Handsy produced another article that he had raided from Peter’s pockets. The dim incandescent light revealed a golden sheen, a ring the criminal held proudly between two fingers. He gave a cheeky smile, before pocketing the object. It appeared he did not pay much attention to it, for the ring’s circumference would have rendered it a loose fit upon even his grubby fingers.

Such a gesture was enough to rouse Peter’s attention. While the night was certainly chilly, upon viewing the ring, he felt his insides freeze. His breath threatened to cease, and cold sweat began to tease his fresh wounds.

“Ooh, you had something special planned I see!” mocked Sinclair. A poisonous smile began to form upon his lips. “Got a little bitch back at the ranch eh? I guess we’re going to have to keep her company.”

Laughter erupted again, this time far more rowdy and jovial. A touch of raunchy anticipation did not lighten the load on Peters conscience.

It was Sinclair, however, who sealed any speculation, upon what he had planned, “And of course, I don’t want you to feel left out. In fact, I’ll give you a front row seat to the fucking show!”

…

The tracks the truck left were still fresh. Night was still upon the forest, but for once, there was illumination, provided by a flashlight.

The woman holding the flashlight was crouched over. A hand, pale, lacking any sort of glamor, aside from callouses and dirt, traced the marks left in the ground. There was a cool breeze brushing through the trees, yet her red-black flannel jacket, and loose, navy denin jeans kept her warm enough. A black beanie hugged her investigating head, allowing a few streaks of messy red hair to fall over her face.

Stark blue eyes remained transfixed upon the tracks, before they followed them to the horizon. Both night, and the thickness of the forest obscured further vision. She was hesitant to investigate, for the creatures of the night could impede her way, as well as those who had made an enemy out of her. Yet, she could sense time was of the essence.

Her contemplation was interrupted by a buzz. Clipped to a rough leather belt was her cellphone, a blocky older model. She reached down to retrieve it. Despite the clumsiness of such outdated designs, the phone managed to fit within her hand comfortably.

As she brought it to her ear, the sniveling voice of Sinclair snuck through.

“This Peter’s little lady?” the serial criminal asked with the curiosity of a snake.

“Where is he?” she growled, making no effort to hide her contempt.

“Oooh, we’ve got ourselves a fighter! You see, your boyfriend here left his wallet at our facility. It’s how I got your contact, Samantha.”

Samantha tightened her grip on the phone upon hearing her name. The material threatened to break from the pressure she was applying.

“If you want me to deliver the goods, I’ll tell you where to find me. And only bring yourself sweetheart, otherwise, I’m afraid I might lose poor Peter in all the commotion.”

…

Sinclair’s pace was rhythmic as he walked back and forth. A gloved hand was twitching in clear anticipation. It was as a drug addict searching for his next high. Yet, such men as Sinclair could be as clean as a whistle, for murder was their aphrodisiac.

Peter remained prone. His stature had relaxed, for his energy would be needed. No new wounds marked him, but the young man would not count on that. Sinclair gazed disappointingly at his relatively intact form. It was something he would have to remedy.

“Gee, 300 years and not a single fuckin knock or doorbell.” he growled, “Guess your bitch doesn’t care about you.”

The accusation stirred Peter, and he gave his antagonize his most contemptuous glare yet. All his hatred, however, only resulted in a snide smile from Sinclair.

Sinclair broke his pacing, making way towards Peter. His left hand produced his pistol, which pointed lackadaisically around the room. A gloved finger teased the trigger, threatening calamity every second.

“I don’t know about you,” he began, crouching besides the young man, while his gun hand steadied, “but I’ve got a feeling that you don’t like me.”

“It’s more than a feeling,” Peter responded, his voice quiet and cautious. Dark eyes anxiously followed where the barrel of Sinclair’s Glock was directed.

“Oh! “ exclaimed Sinclair dangerously, “He can speak! Well tell you what, you desk types don’t tend to like me very much.”

The gun was brought to Peter’s head. Immediately did his eyes squeeze shut, awaiting his fatal destiny. Yet, Sinclair held his fire, and began slowly, methodically, lowering his weapon. The barrel, however, remained trained upon Peter’s body, tracing down his neck, his shoulder, his chest and onwards.

“And as a matter of fact, because of that,” the criminal continued, keeping steady his aim, “I don’t like you.”

By the time he finished, the Glock was directed at Peter’s knee. It was then that Sinclair pulled the trigger. A snappy pop, and a brief flare sent the nine millimeter projectile through skin, muscle, then bone.

Peter howled in pain, witnessing sickening amounts of blood flow out from the small hole in his pants. Both his hands and legs remained bound to the chair. All he could do was shake and rattle as fresh pain flowed freely through his body.

“Woah, hey hey! Let me lend you a hand.” quipped his tormentor, as he produced a knife in his opposite hand.

The knife cut with ease through the bindings ensnaring Peter’s arms. Such was the ease Sinclair commanded the weapon, it was quite clear it was something he was most familiar with, even more so than the gun, which was currently aimed at Peter’s now freed arm.

Before there was a chance to act upon this newfound freedom, Sinclair’s weapon fired off another round. The bullet tore its way through his shoulder, only serving to amplify his yells of torment. Now free of their restrictions, his arms flailed wildly, driven by painful stimuli that failed to fade.

“Hey shuttup!” instructed Sinclair, making his way to Peter’s front “Who don’t you sit back and …”

He kicked out, his foot making contact with Peter’s chair.

“Relax!”

The chair fell back, carrying Peter along with it. He could only gasp in surprise as the world tilted back. His bones rattled as he made contact with the hard floor, compressing his lungs, and adding agitation to his still fresh bullet wounds. Peter had begun to lose orientation, feeling the world shifting ever so much. He caught Sinclair, making his way towards him, but could barely focus on the man.

With barbaric ferocity, Peter’s tormentor stomped down, finally breaking his nose. Pain blasted Peter’s face, pain that he simply did not have the ability to become numb too. Again did Sinclair bring his foot down, nearly crushing Peter’s trachea forcing him to cough up blood.

Again and again, Sinclair continued his beatdown, his face growing red with unexplained fury. Perhaps to a deranged mind such as his, it was easy to concoct a good reason for having such a vendetta. Or perhaps, his fury was also part of the joy he took upon tormenting hopeless souls.

By the time Sinclair stopped, Peter’s face had transformed. Certain areas were swollen, particularly his mouth. One eye could barely open. His skin, far from his usual pale complexion, was now darkened, either red from the stains of blood, or a deep blue from bruising.

“Ugh, bet you’re too ugly for your little lady now. Don’t worry, we’ll take good care of her.”

Peter’s mouth could barely move, thanks to swollen flesh. Within him there was a scream, desperate to escape.

Night had begun to brighten. The sky had taken on a lighter shade. Beyond the canopy of trees, the fain glow of sunlight peaked over the horizon.

As nocturnal creatures had begun to retreat, one stalked the forest. Samantha’s gaze was as heavy as her gait. Rugged leather boots sunk into fresh dirt, following alongside the trail of tire tracks.

There was slight hesitation each instance she trod upon a dead branch, or happened across a patch of noisy foliage. Her breathing would hasten, and her eyes would dart to and fro, in search of a hidden ambush. When it would become clear her anxieties were unfounded, the hunt for Peter’s captors would resume.

While she was the sole pursuer of these criminals, she was not alone. One piece of assistance was currently swinging slightly across her chest, held to her body by a shoulder strap. The double barreled shotgun was not as heavy as the weight of worry upon Samantha’s shoulders, yet it’s stopping power, judging from its sheer mass, was significant. There was not a light yet that would reflect off the blued steel barrels, nor catch some of the simple engravings etched upon them. Its stock was of pure polished wood, that would have been a deep cherry color. Yet now, in the early morning, the wood was as dark as all the other trees from which it was made of.

A belt of slugs hung across Samantha’s opposite shoulder. Each was meant to fragment upon launch, scattering into a refined, yet brutal spray of blunderbuss. In all, they did not weigh as heavily as the shotgun, yet still, their mass contributed significantly.

The last bit of assistance she had called upon was strapped upon her side, attached to her waist. In a dark leather holster lay a colt-style pistol, operating with a single action hammer.

It was with these tools that she ventured into enemy territory. Samantha had come across a clearing. Across the dull dawn sky, she could perceive a monolithic structure, the silhouette of the warehouse. Her breathing hastened, yet her pace became slow and deliberate. Her eyes strained, searching for any sign of movement.

From her pocket, she produced a scope, the kind that would fit atop most hunting rifles. Within it she peered, making use of what little natural light there was now available. It was apparent that the clearing within this forest was man-made, for the terrain had been paved over with concrete. Several crates lay outside, as well as an old pickup truck, the one that matched the vehicle Peter’s captors escaped with.

Samantha continued to survey the area. She spotted an entrance to the structure, a lift door that was currently open. That was when her precautions became justified. Within the mouth of the entrance were three guards, their pale faces the easiest to spot in the dark. Two were conversing, while the third was surveying the area with a pair of binoculars.

Spotting a massive bush, she took cover behind. Her stomach twisted as she heard the rustling of leaves and the breaking of twigs. She determined her hiding spot should at least provide adequate cover, though she had to bend her head forward, for even in her crouched posture, she was barely taller than the bush.

Near the entrance of the warehouse, Samantha’s maneuver did not go unnoticed. The guard manning the binoculars had caught the slight movement in the bushes. He focused intently upon it, yet, due to the dim illumination of dawn, could not perceive anything, or anyone else.

Putting down his binoculars, he elbowed his nearby peers, who ceased their conversation.

“Hey, movement near the southeast,” he grunted.

“Probably an animal.” the other dismissed, “There’s a lot of deer around here.”

“Pretty burly for an animal,” he argued, “It also could be a cop scoping out the place.”

A small smile appeared on his hood-covered face, as his fellow drew his pistol. His bald, pale face was twisted into annoyed resignation. Following the directions of his paranoid peer, he ventured out, tediously confident of a false alarm.

His approach slowed as he drew close to the bush. He could definitely make out an unusual shape crouched behind. The bush itself was massive, easily overtaking him in height. The silhouette within, though barely visible, appeared humanoid. Grunting, he veered off to the side, as if he had seen nothing.

However, the guard did not make his way back to his peers. If he alerted them, surely, there would be a chance their unknown adversary would escape, and perhaps bring back company. If he attacked then, a clear shot, and clean victory would not be guaranteed. The elements of deception and surprise would have to suffice.

Once he was sure to be out of the sneak’s line of sight, he made an about face, venturing into the forest. Black leather boots barely made any noise, as the treads expertly rolled over soft dirt. As he made his approach from the other side, he could confirm that indeed, someone was scoping out the place. Samantha’s crouched form was clear as day.

A small smile formed on his lips, for he realized he was dealing with a young woman. Indeed, a far more appealing catch than what he was expecting. As far as he could tell, her eyes were still oriented in the direction of the warehouse.

His pistol was trained on her. It was brought against her back. Samantha did not move, and the guard wondered if she felt the barrel’s deadly touch. Her flannel jacket was thick and burly, and far larger than expected, even if it fit her rather nicely.

Still, introductions were in order. Her attention and a complete understanding of her current predicament was necessary. “Hey gorgeous,” he began, “bit late for you to be snea-”

The man’s tounge was caught in his throat, for he realized that something was incredibly wrong. Despite her crouched posture, she still appeared to be at least equal to, if not even greater than his own height. As she slowly drew back, squatting instead of crouching, it became clear just what he was dealing with. His head only came up to her chest. If she were to stand to her full potential, he couldn’t imagine even making it past her waist.

The shock of such a revelation stole his breath, and froze him in place.

“Oh dear God…”

Samantha acted decisively. Her arm shot out, quicker than he expected. Her reach also exceeded his expectations as well, as he had been slowly backing away out of pure fright. A mammoth hand engulfed his pistol hand, much like how an adult’s hand could completely entrap a child’s. With no hesitation, Samantha applied pressure, even as the guard began to apply pressure to the trigger of his pistol.

Yet, her grip was overwhelming, not allowing for much movement. She continued to squeeze, feeling the resistance of metal, and the contracting of the guard’s hand as it attempted to compensate the great force applied to it. Soon enough, there was not much resistance his hand could provide.

A sickly crackle emerged from her ensnaring hand, as limbs popped out of their joint sockets, bones snapped, and metal bent. The man opened his mouth to scream, yet was silenced by Samantha’s other massive paw. And so, the guard was left with the torture of silent pain, as his hand, and pistol were rendered to broken bent forms in the giant girl’s fist, useless to all.

Samantha let out a curse, lost in the cool early morning air, as she thrust the guard’s head down wards. Her knee rose to meet him, bashing against his temple. She could discern a small crack upon impact, as all tension in his muscles dissipated.

Out cold, the guard lay prone. Yet, all activity from him did not cease. Samantha heard the crack of static emanating from the man’s waist. At the most opportune time, his fellows were attempting to reach him. A voice, covered with electric cackles spoke from the device.

“Hey, hey, you found anything? Over?”

As gruff as her voice could get, Samantha didn’t bother try imitating the guy. Surely, they would know the difference.

All she could do was exclaim in a hushed tone, “Shit, they’ll know I’m here.”

The voice out of the walkie talkie repeated, “Report back, over!”

All presumption of subtly and stealth were thrown out the window. It was time to go to war. Samantha had taken off into a sprint, her legs, twice the length of an average man carrying her amazonian frame towards the warehouse quickly. Her eyes darted across her field of vision, before settling upon some crates nearest to her position

…

Sinclair paced about rapidly, aware that his own little hideout was in high alert. He knew not the threat that had caused this. Handsy and Oddball had both rushed in, presumably to provide him with update.

“The fuck’s going on?” he demanded, his harsh tone falling upon relatively calm expressions, “the cops are storming the place?”

“They got one of our guys.” Handsy reported, “I don’t see any sirens though. Should we waste the hostage?”

The psychopath looked back towards Peter. His bruises and cuts were still fresh, while his faced remained puffed and distorted. The young man’s head hung down, listless and motionless. Were it not for the slight puff and contraction of his chest, he could have easily been mistaken for dead. Perhaps in a few hours, he would be.

This had crossed Sinclair’s mind. His pacing had stopped, for contemplation weighed upon his mind. Yet, it did not take him long to come to a decision.

“Sounds like one troublemaker,” he dismissed, “Give ‘em a piece of our mind, but keep him alive. I think our guest here needs some company.”

As both his accomplices rushed out of the room, Sinclair paced about again, much like a predator in wait.

…

The crates Samantha had elected to hide behind were of sufficient height as to not make crouching a requirement. She stood a head taller than a single crate, yet there were two stacked. Her cover was racked by gun fire, some semi-automatic, and other automatic. Samantha was sure that should she try finding a different spot, her fate would be sealed.

Her head pressed against the crate. It was cold to the touch. Its coat of paint had begun to flake. It vibrated, as if caught in an earthquake, each tremor the result of bullet. While the cracks of gunfire filled the morning air, Samantha could discern another set of sounds. She heard the flurry of hurried footsteps. They were drawing close, providing her with a hunch.

In her hands, she gripped her double-barrel shotgun. A thumb pulled back the hammer of the left barrel. Her finger stood ready at the trigger. The patter of footsteps hastened, heading to her left. Meanwhile, the rate of gunfire had slowed, perhaps as to not hit the man that was to ambush her.

Her breath steadied, as she readied her gun. She could here the paces of the one to her left, about to turn the corner.

On cue, a man, clad in a black jacket, and wielding a semi-automatic rifle had popped into her view. Samantha could read the shock on his face, as his neck craned to make eye contact with her. This hesitation was a fatal mistake. She pulled the trigger to her shotgun, the resulting gunfire evocative of a cannon going off, rather than small arms.

The massed blunderbuss tore through the man, sending shards of flesh, and streams of blood out his back. The sheer force of Samantha’s shotgun was too much for the man, and upon impact, he was lifted off his feet, before tumbling down, meters away from where he stood. When the guard came to rest, he was but a corpse, tattered and motionless.

Her attacker dispatched, Samantha took the time to glance around the corner. She could spot around three guards at the entrance. They appeared motionless at the moment. Wasting no time, she advanced, keeping her shotgun at the ready. A prone pickup truck, in even worse shape than the one that carried off Peter, stood in parallel with the entrance. The cover it provided would be less substantial than the cargo crates, yet, Samantha had determined it would make an excellent staging position for her to plan her next move.

She could hear cracks of gunfire as she made her advance. Her posture was hunched over, for her immense size gave her a rather large profile. Yet, her legs were able to carry her at a swift velocity, certainly far quicker than the average man could manage. In a few seconds, she was seated, back against the truck, shielded from the hail of bullets that assaulted the truck. So far, the vehicles steady metal frame proved sufficient in absorbing ammunition, yet Samantha doubted she would be allowed to remain there for long.

Footsteps were heard once more, yet the gunfire persisted. Samantha could discern a plurality of paces. Without even taking a peek, she could tell the men at the entrance had begun to encroach upon her position. Unlike her previous victim, their steps were more measured, slower.

Soon enough, the crack of firearms had begun to slow. The three guards were against the truck, no doubt readying a pincer attack. Two would head one way, and one the other. Samantha would have to anticipate where the one would go, so she could break the entrapment easiest.

However, a stupidly simple idea had popped into her head. Were she not clutching her mighty shotgun she would have brought a palm to her forehead for not thinking of it earlier.

In one movement, she stood at her full height, while also facing the truck she had braced her back against. She briefly caught the rather surprised faces of the men awaiting her on the other side. Before they could bring their weapons to bear, Samantha kicked at the truck. Her boot collided with the cabin, shattering the window in the process, as well as bending the frame. The truck was sent sliding a short distance, carrying the three guards along with it. Desperate shouts of surprise could be heard from the men as they were unwilling and unexpected passengers of the pickup.

Yet, the pickup did not remain prone, it tipped back, looming over the men. Their screams became blood-curdling, before the pickup fell, its metallic bulk falling upon the three. A sickening crunch was heard, silencing them for good.

With a full view of the entrance, Samantha spotted a newcomer. Unlike his now crushed peers, he did not possess a simple rifle. He was armed with something that possessed a larger barrel. The barrel was fed with a massive wheel, each round appeared as large as a fist.

A grenade launcher.

Samantha could not help but shout out, “Son of a bitch!” as she began scurrying away. Though she still was a good distance away from the door, she could tell the heavily-armed man was sporting a most gleeful smile.

The weapon was fired, its payload delivered with a soft thump instead of an explosive crack as all other arms. A second later, the round landed just behind the truck, sending orange flames and black smoke spewing from the impact point. Samantha had managed to land a good distance away, but was still hit by a concussive blast that knocked her down.

Still, she managed to roll over. As she did so, she pulled back the hammer to her second barrel. Once landing on her stomach, she took aim at the entrance. The man had been tracing her movement with the barrel of the launcher. Another round had just popped into place.

Samantha managed to squeeze off a shot just in time. Her buckshot exploded forwards. Nearly thirty feet was she from the entrance, and yet, her aim was true. The man was lifted off his feet, almost performing a back flip, before landing in a lifeless heap within his own base.

On her knees, Samantha pulled two more rounds from her shoulder sling. The thick cylinders were loaded in the breech of her shotgun. The blued steel was no longer cold to the touch as it had been earlier than night. In fact, it was comfortably warm. As she snapped the breech back, Samantha soldiered forth, her massive frame more akin to an approaching storm.

The entrance she now solicited had a ten foot clearance, requiring her to bend down as to not hit her head. She breathed easier, having survived the first engagement. Yet doing so, her guard was lowered.

Waiting behind were two men, one to her right and one to her left. As she passed through, the one to her right leapt up, brandishing a knife. The other ducked down, heading for her legs.

Caught by surprise, Samantha could only jerk back. Her shotgun could not be brought to bear on her assailants, for they were far too close. She stuck out a leg, bashing the man going from them in the head. He fell back, still conscious, but clearly dazed.

Still, with the other man on her shoulder, she had to keep moving. He kept on her, yet could not steady himself so as to plunge his knife down her neck. Samantha then swung to the side, sending his body jerking and swaying. It was as if the man were riding a raging bull. Despite gripping nothing but fabric, he could feel the muscles that lay beneath, and the overwhelming strength that they could bring.

As she continued moving, Samantha’s hands managed to get a grip on the man’s legs. With a massive grunt, she bent over, throwing him to the ground. The impact forced a burst of air out of his lungs, while the trauma left him temporarily immobilized.

He gazed listlessly upwards, before Samantha came into his view again. She appeared to stretch forever, into the ceiling, although he suffered a mere trick of perspective. The Amazon betrayed no words, as she lifted her boot. He caught a brief glimpse of dirt-caked treads, and smashed leaves. It was the last sight he ever beheld of his life, as she stomped down. The sheer force and weight of her foot and leg smashed the man’s face in, and caved his skull. What was left was a bloody mess of mushy flesh, splattered blood, and bits of bone.

She turned back, observing the other man coming to. In two quick strides, she made it to where he was. The man had been crouched down, trying to shake off the last remnants of dizzyness. He was not given the chance to as a massive hand took him by the collar. He was lifted up, before being smashed into one of the walls.

His eyes met those of his furious assailant. Her mouth was formed into a gritted scowl. Her brow was furrowed along the ridges. Her eyes, blue and clear, burned with explosive fury.

For a second, he was held there. His feet hung a clear six feet off the ground. The man flailed his arms against Samantha’s grip, to no avail. Not a single ounce of her strength relented against him. As his movements slowed, Samantha closed in. Her hot breath washed against his face.

“Alright you little scumbag, where are you holding him?” Her question was spoken as if making a statement, not a query.

There was a second of silence. The man allowed himself to smile, as he asked most sheepishly, “Who?”

He was pulled from the wall. There was no sign of strain from Samantha, supporting the weight of a full grown man on her own with one arm. The man was brought back violently against the wall, causing his head to jerk forward far to quickly. Bright spots had begun filling his vision. It did not take much for him to recall the sheer trauma this woman could cause.

Samantha had done away with any form of subtly. Her voice bellowed against the wall, throughout the building, from the heights of the ceiling, to the depths of the ground as she shouted, “Don’t waste my time! You’ve got my boyfriend, where is he?”

The man didn’t lose his smile. It was the sort of smile one had, heading into a tornado. It was the sort of smile possessed by a lone warrior, surrounded by ten thousand of the enemy. It was a smile that dared death itself. It was due to this smile, that Samantha knew her question was fruitless.

“Boyfriend?” he began, attempting to sound as mocking as possible, “Just what kind of freak is he-”

The woman’s grip tightened around his neck. Her hand was almost too big for the job. Only two fingers and a thumb could wrap around it, her other fingers hand to be splayed across his shoulder.

Her actions were instinctual, a pure reaction out of sheer rage. It was not, by any means, accidental. Samantha was in no hurry to calm herself down. As the man’s face became swollen, his mouth agape, his eyes listless, and his body still, a sense of catharsis swept through her. She suppressed a small grin of satisfaction, as she felt his trachea crumble under immense pressure. This satisfaction only increased in measure, as small cracks of vertebrae could be heard.

Soon enough, the poor man could bear no more. His neck gave in, the bones crumbled with a mighty crack. His head tilted listlessly to the side, as if attached by string to the rest of his body. All movement ceased, save for a few last jerks of neural activity.

A critical eye inspected her latest victim, before she tossed his corpse to the side. Her ears, now sharp from adrenaline, detected additional movement. Readying her shotgun, she proved prepared as another appeared around the corner of a massive crate, further in the building. He was only in view for the blink of an eye, before he too fell to a round of buckshot.

She did not face a lone challenger, however. Three more scurried behind him. Their weapons were at the ready. The red head knew she would not get enough time to challenge them in a gunfight, and thus, sprinted towards the crate, obscuring them from view. Unlike those outside, the crate’s here were easily the size of a small condo. Samantha even wondered if the object she hid behind was cargo, or simply an entrance to another room.

Nevertheless, at such proximity, she would quickly get overwhelmed easily if she wasn’t careful. The worst case scenario would be to get surrounded. Judging from the tactics her enemies had employed earlier, they appeared to be aiming for such an advantage, and would no doubt move to do so the next time she came into view.

With a sigh, she looked upwards. A hand fell to her waist, and she released the holster to her sidearm.

The other three remained still, their weapons at the ready. Two carried pistols, and were right up against the crate, while one hung further back, armed with a rifle. The man back motioned for the other two to move, and they began to slink around the crate.

A series of metallic poundings stopped them in their tracks. The crate was vibrating, and for sure, their oversized adversary was on the move. Yet, the stomps echoed around the warehouse, making it difficult to pinpoint which direction she had taken. The man back swung his head towards each direction.

Yet, neither direction would do him any good, for Samantha had climbed atop the crate, and raced across it. Each step left a dent in the material. In a few seconds, she had made it across, in full view of her enemy. With no hesitation, she took a leap.

The man with the rifle had spotted her out of the corner of his eye. However, by the time he had realized what he saw, Samantha was already in flight. Her twelve foot frame flew far, propelled by her mighty legs. By the time he brought his rifle to bear, she was already on top of him.

Gravity did the rest of the work. As she came down, the man was thrown down on his back, subject to her full weight. One of her boots came to rest on his wrist, completely annihilating it. He would have screamed, were it not for the fact that Samantha’s other foot came down upon his chest, absolutely shattering his ribcage. All that would exit his mouth would be a gush of blood and bile.

By the time she had landed, and incapacitated the first man, did the other two turn around. One raised his pistol, while the other began scurrying to the side. Samantha too, raised her weapon. There was a shot, a single small crack. The projectile met its mark. Etching a deep dent into blue steel. Samantha felt her shotgun flail. Throwing off her aim. The shock from the impact had managed to make her lose her grip on her weapon.

The man smiled, his gun still trained on the amazon. He raised his eyebrows, while shaking his gun. Samantha saw his grip relax upon the handle of his weapon.

Her action was instantaneous. In one quick motion, she brought her Colt up, and fired off a single shot. Such was the speed of her counter, her arm was nearly rendered invisible. Her aim was true, she had hit the man, directly in the face. The powerful round, fired from perhaps the most powerful handgun in the world, blew his head clean off.

From her side, she heard a curse. Samantha instinctively rolled out of the way, as two quick shots were unloaded from the last remaining man. Reorienting herself, she readied her pistol, yet, was pointing at empty space, where earlier, a man had stood. Her eyes darted about, yet she could not find where the man had run off to.

There was a roar of an engine. Samantha felt her breathing stop. She heard the rolling of tires, and the lumbering of metal. The illumination of the warehouse was adequate, considering the dark sky outside, allowing Samantha to pinpoint exactly where the mechanical noise had come from.

The last runaway had found himself a heavy forklift. It lumbered into view, as its driver lay safely behind a blocky canopy. The engine of this mighty beast lay in a metallic square container. Its tires were tall, with massive treads that could accommodate boot tracks.

With a roar, the forklift charged forward, at a velocity almost impossible for its size. Samantha realized too late, within the cluttered warehouse, that she had little room to maneuver. She raised her colt, and fired two times. Her first bullet was caught by glass. The second one managed to break through, but missed her intended target.

She would not be able to fire a third. The forklift’s driver let out a psychotic yell, as he crashed into the immense woman. Samantha’s strength would not save her this time, as she was carried back, back towards the crate she had hid behind.

In short order, her back made contact with the crate. Samantha felt the wind fly out of her from the force of impact. A searing pain shot through her chest, as the vehicle’s weight was brought against her massive frame. The forklift stood slightly taller than her, yet has she braced her arms against it, her struggles proved a net loss as the vehicle continued to advance.

Samantha felt her biceps strain, and her knees buckle. She looked her enemy in the eyes, watching him wildly stick out his tongue, and holler like a hooligan in presumed victory, as he vigorously pressed on the accelerator. Strain that took her muscles, leaked into her bones. It appeared for the first time that night, it would be her’s that would be broken.

“I’m dining on giant bitch soup tonight!” she heard, hollered within the shattered windshield.

With a glare, Samantha release one of her arms, as she continued to brace her knees against the vehicles advance. She was currently straddled between the fork, and the crate. Only sheer constitution kept her from becoming a bloody pancake.

Yet, her next movements were swift. Her free arm reached through the canopy. Her grip found the man’s chest, and before her could react, he was pulled out.

He flew, bashing his head against the crate he intended to smash his enemy against. The blow sent him crumpling to the ground in a dazed heap.

With the man’s efforts off of the accelerator, the advance of the forklift slowed, allowing Samantha to pry herself free. With a mighty kick, she forced the heavy machine back, before it rolled to a stop.

A loud exhale relaxed the towering woman’s posture. Her boots heavily thudded against the floor as she approached the prone form of the man who had nearly been the death of her. He lay face down. Aside from an oscillating movement of his back, he lay completely still.

He was brought to life once more as Samantha grabbed him from the collar, lifting him up so that his eyes were even to hers. Again, he was slammed into the crate. Feeling the strength of her grip, he made no effort to resist. His eyes nervously twitched, relenting under her hostile glare.

“I hope you’re not as smart as the other guy.” Samantha began, “Where are you holding your hostage?”

The man shook his head, “None of your business.”

“If you don’t squeal,” she threatened, tightening her grip, “I’ll break you so you will!”

A steely resolve, absent moments earlier, manifested within the man’s eyes, “Try me!”

Samantha’s bulky arm retracted, but her grip upon him did not relent. Her other arm, once hanging down the side, was brought against the man’s back. He was entrapped against her, his face in her chest, but there was no trace of tenderness with her gesture. Both arms wrapped around his torso, and beneath the heavy fabric of her flannel jacket, he could feel heavy muscle that lurked within.

She wasted no time increasing the pressure. The man’s spine began to bend back. He grit his teeth, for the strain upon his back began to become apparent. The woman’s chest, despite it being obscured by her articles of clothing, was rather large, it took him the utmost strain to peer up into her eyes. As always, her glare was unrelenting, full of disgust and hatred. If she could kill with a look, he would already be dead.

Finally, his head was brought away from her immense body, but not of his own will. Such was the strain on his spine, that his back had begun to bend back all the way. He let out a scream, but moved to stifle it. It was necessary to bite down on his tongue, sending a trickle of salty blood down his throat. He could not stifle the pain, not as it reached its apex.

There was a mighty crack, deeper and more substantial than any gunshot. The man’s view was turned upon its head, as he had now bent all the way back, his spine snapped in two. A blood-curdling scream escaped his throat, and there was nothing he could do to stifle it. Samantha’s arms release him, allowing him to collapse in a broken heap upon the concrete floor.

The amazon brought a heavy boot upon his chest, the weight restricting his breathing. As she leaned down, with the same tone, she repeated her demand, “Mind telling me now? Or do you want to start lookin’ for amputee insurance, because I’m ready to start pullin limbs!”

Pain had broken what resolve, if any, he possessed. Words could not escape his mouth, yet his arms could still move. A finger directed Samantha’s eyes to the far side of the warehouse, to a lift that led to a balcony.

She took her foot off of the man’s chest. “That’s more like it!” she exclaimed.

Bringing her shotgun to her chest, Samantha noted the dented barrel, and cursed her carelessness. She couldn’t trust the weapon’s operation,.Yet her colt, despite it being loaded with only five rounds instead of six, was still operational, and still possessed ammunition.

The lift was a small metal slab. A good coating of rust lined many of the gears and chains that allowed for it to operate. From what Samantha could observe, there were no guard rails, either they were absent in the original design, or they had weathered away.

A dusty control panel lay against the wall. There was a sign right above, labeling clearly, a warning about a weight limit. Samantha’s nose scrunched as her eyes rested upon the bold words.

Moment’s later, Samantha was scaling the wall, finding that the rough, dilapidated surface provided many convenient handholds and places to rest her foot.

Unlike the lift, the balcony above possessed a guard rail. In better days, it would have been painted a dark green. In the present, however, most of that paint had been chipped away, and gave way to scraggly rust. Samantha winced as she took hold of the guard rail, feeling the metal bend under her unrelenting grip.

There was a massive pang of pain that shot through her hand. She was forced to release her grip, now hanging precariously to the guard rail with her other hand. A heavy wrench had been brought down , courtesy of Oddball. His bearded face portrayed satisfaction, as he brought his makeshift weapon back for another swing.

As the wrench was brought down once more, Samantha managed to shift to the side, finding another area to grip the guard rail, as her targeted hand was released. The wrench hit nothing but metal, denting and cracking it. The entire structure had become unstable, thanks to the amazon’s formidable weight. Oddball’s strikes did not have to hit true for him to force her off.

Yet, Oddball was not one for waiting. He had discarded the wrench, and had brought his hands to his waist, reaching for his sidearm. With no time to waist, Samantha hoisted herself over the guardrail, causing an entire section to bend back. Her body rolled over the frail metal, threatening structural integrity.

By the time she had breached the balcony, Oddball had brought his pistol to bear. His finger was upon the trigger, and the barrel was oriented towards Samantha’s massive frame.

The red-haired girl wasted no time, using her long legs to sprint towards her attacker. He was but one pace away. Not once did she break stride, even as it appeared inevitable that she would be taking a shot. One her her knees crashed into the man, sending his gun flying out of his hand. A shot was squeezed off, sending the bullet careening off towards the ceiling.

Meanwhile, Oddball himself was careening through the air, taking the full brunt of the girl’s momentum. He was stopped by a wall, the impact sending traumatic shocks throughout every fiber of his body. Briefly was he paralyzed, and made no effort to raise his hands to break his inevitable collapse upon the floor.

As he came to, Samantha stood above him. She grabbed the collar of his jacket, lifting the entirety of his body from the floor. With a grunt she threw him. He was carried over the railing, down to the floor below. He impacted head first, snapping his neck as the rest of his body followed him.

The air lay still. For once, the amazon could not hear the shuffle of feet, or the shouting of voices. None other approached to challenge her.

A moment passed, a moment which Samantha spent looking all around, attempting to spot snipers or other concealed ambushes. Her blue eyes could not spot anything concerning, but that in of itself was a concern.

Her sight came to rest upon a closed door. There was a small window that allowed limited visibility within, but all that could be perceived was the warm glow of incandescent light. Samantha carefully approached it, pulling out her Colt. Taking a hold of the handle, something which was completely swallowed by her hand, she pulled down carefully, finding the door to be unlocked.

Samantha had to crouch down to mind her head, while the width of the doorway left little room for maneuver. She felt her grip tighten upon the handle of her Colt, for her position was incredibly vulnerable. There would be sparse maneuvering should another adversary rush her, even her gun’s aim would be compromised.

Thankfully no such attack transpired, and Samantha managed to make it through. The room she had entered possessed a notably low ceiling, nothing troublesome for an average man of six foot. Samantha’s twelve foot frame, however, made it necessary for her to hunch over as to not smack her head against the ceiling.

Her pace remained slow and methodical. From left to right, her eyes veered. At her hip, her gun rested, the barrel already directed to her front, ready to smoke any assailant that dared cross her. It would not be long before she would encounter someone else.

He was seated in the center of a clearing. Two long tables flanked him, filled with all manner of objects, including guns, knives, wallets and a rather sizable golden ring.

The man was slumped over, his curly matted hair falling over his swollen face. Darkened, dried blood stuck to his skin like a sickly motley body suit.

As she peered down her beloved’s broken body, a metallic sheen caught her eye. To her surprise, it was held by a hand, a hand that did not belong to Peter. She followed the arm to its owner, who stood behind Peter. The face of Handsy was pulled into a sickening smile, as he felt the eyes of the amazon fall upon him.

Throughout her campaign in the warehouse, Samantha dealt with those who opposed her with nothing more than sheer loathing and contempt. But now, she could not hide her trembling lips, her widened eyes, and skin which had grown paler than the moon itself.

“Oh man, a genuine supersized broad!” commented the man most jovially, “The things you find in the forest these days!”

Samantha felt her foot lurch forward. At this, Handsey’s free hand rose, stopping her in her tracks.

“Ah ah ah,” he warned, clicking his tongue, “I’m assuming the man’s something special to you. Come any closer and my hand just might slip. Don’t blame me, it’s a condition.”

“What’s the condition?” Samantha inquired, her voice now meek, and quiet.

Handsey’s outburst was immediate. The amazon could only wince, for she feared the worst.

“Hey! That’s a sensitive subject!” he bellowed. Yet, he did not allow the knife to move, neither to slit his captive’s throat, nor to relieve him.

“For him!” Samantha clarified, as desperation clung to her, “What’s your condition to release him?”

Handsey tilted his head, “What are you talking about?”

Samantha’s eyes darted about in a frenzy. She felt her breathing quicken to an almost dizzying pace. “You captured him for a reason right? You want money, weapons, a thank you note? I’ll do anything, just give him back to me!”

An eyebrow rose upon the dark-skinned man, “Anything you say?”

Samantha felt movement behind her, yet she did not turn to satisfy her curiosity.

“Watch your words, ‘cause we’ll hold you to them.”

She immediately felt weight on her back. Another had leapt upon her, wrapping one arm around her neck. Such an action didn’t choke her, but it allowed him to maintain his grip. Samantha’s nose was immediately assaulted with a pungent smell, something she had never experienced. It emanated from a cloth her assailant forced over her nose.

Immediately did conciousness leave her. Her legs lost their tension, and her arms fell to the side, allowing her Colt to slip through her fingers. Samantha fell forward, landing with a heavy thud upon the cold floor, motionless.

As she landed, did the slimy form of Sinclair roll off. He stood immediately, throwing his hands out, as if he had performed a magic trick.

“Tada!” he shouted gleefully, much to the laughing delight of his last remaining peer.

Handsey removed the knife from Peter’s neck, rushing over to his boss’s side. It was difficult for him to hide his gleeful smile. Dark eyes, however, lay host to ill-intent, as he gazed upon the massive, unconscious form of Samantha’s body.

“You want the honors?” Sinclair offered, raising a thin eyebrow.

“Oh yeah,” exclaimed his underling, rubbing his hands together, “I’ve been waiting for some meat. Mmnh!”

Both men assigned themselves the task of moving Samantha, a monstrous undertaking. Sinclair had gripped her from her arms, while Handsey was at her feet. The combined strength of both men could not lift her off the floor, but they managed to drag her body closer to Peter, providing him a full, unobstructed view of what was to transpire next.

Sinclair flashed a sadistic smile towards the young man, who could not take this eyes off of Samantha. Her eyes were shut, and betrayed no signs of stirring. The only movement she made was in her chest, involuntary breathing that indicated life, as well as the will to live.

“Want to make sure you’ve got the best seat in the house!” the psychopath exclaimed, “I promised you a show didn’t I?”

A pained moan escaped Peter’s lips. His eyes, gazing through swollen flesh were beginning to water, while his blood stained mouth had begun to tighten.

“Haha! The bastard’s excited!” Sinclair continued, before turning to Hansey, who was currently fiddling with Samantha’s belt, “We don’t have all day!”

Already, Handsey had discarded her boots. They weighed almost as much as boulders, and were caked with dirt and blood. Pulling off the belt was akin to starting a massive generator. The leather material was rough and worn. In many ways, it was a patchwork of materials designed to be bigger than it was originally designed.

After he thew aside the belt, Handsey allowed his tongue to slip between his lips as he undid the button to Samantha’s jeans. Eager fingers gripped the waistline, both to her pants, and upon the band of underwear he felt beneath. His breath grew heavy as he pulled, revealing bare skin, and a heavy forest of hair that matched the drapes.

Sinclair meanwhile had undone Samantha’s jacket, tossing away such an article that could have been used as a small tarp. Underneath, the girl only wore a tank top, showing off arms and shoulders made toned and substantial through significant work. He could even trace sparse bulges of vein from arm, to wrist, then to hand.

The psychopath worked with less visible enjoyment than Handsey who had taken his sweet time at shimmying off the denim material from equally tested legs.

Sinclair’s hand took hold of the bottom of the tank top. As he pulled up her body, he revealed chiseled abdominal that could have evoked envy from classical statues. Material was pulled past Samantha’s significant bosoms, full, taut and bare for all to see.

Such violation of his lover only brought more torture to Peter. It was painful than any gunshot, or strike that had been inflicted. Peter tried to fix his gaze upon Samantha’s face, hoping this would be the only thing left unravaged. It was then that he caught the slightest movement of her eyelash, a flutter in a windless night.

“Damn, I could make a tent out of these!” squealed Handsey, as he finally managed to pull the last thread of denim off Samantha’s feet.

Sinclair had made it to behind Peter. Both hands clutched his head, ruffling matted hair, two fingers each held the young man’s eyes open. “You’re pitching a tent!” Sinclair goaded, “C’mon, we want some action!”

Handsey could only roll his eyes. “Relax, I’ll let you have your turn. I’m ready to plow me some virgin soil!”

There was slight movement at Samantha’s neck. Her head was absolutely clouded, and each limb of her’s felt weighed down with the force of 1000 tonnes. She could only gaze towards Peter, his head trapped in Clockwork Orange hands. Her legs felt slightly elevated, and she felt the shoulders of the one who made his way towards her.

Handsey was visible struggling to further lift Samantha’s legs, yet the weight proved too much. He let the massive logs of flesh fall to his side, allowing them to straddle his waist. His own pants were dropped, and left nothing to the imagination as to what he intended next. A much smaller, yet rather stiff, rod of flesh made way to the opening ahead.

The muscles in Samantha’s legs flexed. Handsey was stopped in his tracks. His hands clasped upon her legs, attempting to jar himself free. His efforts were punctuated by desperate grunts, and his face twisted from the strain, yet they were to no avail.

Sinclair’s jovial expression had ceased, and was replaced by one of confusion. He glared hard at Handsey, who had redoubled his efforts, futily flailing against his victim’s grip. Grunts of effort became strained, and then were laced with pain, as the lock around Handsey’s waist tightened.

“Help me!” Handsey cried, in clear agony, “Help!”

“What’s wrong?” Sinclair asked.

“She’s ...” his underling’s voice was breathless. His efforts to free himself had devolved into instinctual flails, “She’s got…”

Sinclair’s eyes veered to the girl’s face. He could perceive the blue past heavy eyelids. It did not take long for him to grasp the implications. His hand’s released Peter as he reached for his gun.

“Son of a bitc…”

He was cut off, for Peter had suddenly pushed back, slamming his injured body, as well as his chair, into Sinclair. The criminal’s gun was knocked from his grip, sliding out of reach.

With a quick move, Peter’s good hand fell upon Sinclair’s ankle, preventing him from getting up. The man kicked at Peter with his free leg, bashing his swollen face, reopening old wounds. Despite this, Peter’s grip did not relent.

Upon seeing her boyfriend struck, Samantha felt her rage rekindle.

She pressed her thighs together, feeling Handsey’s bones strain and buckle. The man’s grunts had turned into screams. The amazon had mustered enough strength to where she could lift her legs off the ground, carrying her assailant along. The crunch of pelvic bones began making its way to her ears, causing her to push even harder.

“Oh God!” Handsey yelled, as bones began to crumble, “Oh God! Help me! Ahhhh!”

With a mighty crunch, Handsey’s waist had been crushed. A stream of blood was ejected from his mouth, spilling upon Samantha’s chest. With a final push, the man-sized gap between her thighs closed. His head, and torso fell forward, leaving a crushed pelvis and still lets behind. The bisection was red and messy, no organ, nor muscle nor bone could be discerned from the dark shredded mess.

Upon the death of his peer, Sinclair finally managed to wrest Peter off of him. From his pocket, he produced a knife.

“I should have just wasted you from the beginning!” he growled, his eyes red with rage.

He stood to his full height, knife in hand, readying to spill blood from the whelps neck. It was there he would remain, knife in the air, paralyzed in realization. In his fury, he had neglected a crucial detail.

Samantha was on her feet. Blood stained her chest, forming a morbid veil of modesty that obscured her breasts. She did not bother retrieving her pants, nor her jacket. Heavy breath was heaved from her mouth. Her eyes, once sent to rest with the power of chloroform, were now open, and brimming with unrelenting fury. Strings of red hair hung in a haunting curtain in front of her face. She was as beautiful and terrible as the dawn sun, that had peaked over the horizon.

Sinclair did not see this. He did not need to. His scowl had vanished, and had been replaced with a smile. It was the smile of a lone outlaw, charging into a doomed crusade. It was with the twisted bravado of a serial killer that he turned around and charged.

His knife rose, readying to strike. It’s blade would not even meet a millimeter of flesh.

Samantha had grabbed the charging man by the head. Her hand absolutely engulfed him, obscuring his eyes and nose, leaving his mouth to gasp desperate breaths.

Sinclair was lifted up, his weight insignificant to the amazon. Her muscles didn’t even need to bulge. The criminal’s legs flailed, while his body twisted and turned. Nothing would free him.

Samantha’s finger’s dug into flesh, as she tightened her grip. Her teeth gritted and her brow furrowed. All her contempt, all her disgust flowed into her veins, coursing through the arm, the hand that held Sinclair. From the moment she heard his voice upon her cell phone, revealing him the culprit of her worst nightmare, her goal was this moment.

The pressure increased, until it was too much. Like a piece of fruit in a press, Sinclair’s head exploded, spraying blood and brain matter in an expansive radius. His skull had been absolutely annihilated, soaked in the liquefied material of the organ it had been evolved to protect. Samantha did not care to linger upon her latest kill, and unceremoniously dropped what remained of Sinclair.

Slowly, her gaze rose, veering to Peter, lying prone, soaking in what he had witnessed. Samantha moved towards him like a blood stained specter, her footfalls soft, yet heavy. It was such a frightful sight that he instinctively began moving away from her.

A small gasp escaped her lips. In a moment, Samantha’s rage cleared, and her eyes focused, drawn to Peter’s broken, cowering form.

“Peter… “ she begged, her voice now soft and wavering, “Peter please, I’m not gonna hurt you.”

Peter could only witness her form towering over him. From her feet to her sinewy legs, her sculpted abdominal and shapely bosom’s, Samantha appeared taller than she was, if that were even possible. She appeared to stretch forever into the ceiling. It was only until he gaze upon her face, that he was brought to his senses.

Samantha knelt down. Her hand was extended, making it’s way to Peter’s cheek. Her massive palm caressed his cheek, running over various wounds that Sinclair had inflicted. Her other hand found it’s way around his waist.

Before he knew it, he was pulled into a hug. The sensation consumed him, of his wife’s flesh against his dirty, bloody clothes. His face buried into her shoulder, sinking into soft flesh and taut muscle.

Samantha’s eyes peered about the room once more. Her eyes settled upon the ring she had seen earlier, the ring far too large for any ordinary finger. As one of her hands tenderly moved across Peter’s back, she bend her head down, her lips breathing against his ear.

“That ring, when were you going to ask?”

Peter strained his neck, bringing his face away from her flesh. Gazing into her eyes, he answered, “I was gonna ask you … today.”

A warm smile spread across her lips. They were then brought to Peter’s forhead, tracing over matted hair, cracked blood, and swollen flesh. There they remained, as Samantha cooed, “I think you know the answer.”

It was then, and only then, that Peter found within him, the reason to cry.

….

“We’ve spotted several shells and id a couple of the bullets that impacted. Massive slugs were used, and the bullets were 50 cal, likely fired from a pistol. We only know of one person in the area packing that kind of firepower.”

The uniformed man held a casing high above. The sun had clearly shown through the windows of the ware house, and reflected off the metallic material.

An older, uniformed man, clearly distinguished, shook his head. He gazed upon the corpses left, tattered and torn.

“What a damn mess.” he exclaimed.

“This is a clear case if vigilantism.” his fellow proposed, his voice laced with caution, “Shall we proceed?”

The older man gave him an incredulous look, as if he suggested that he was wearing a bikini.

“Proceed? Son, the only thing we can take from here is a lesson.”

“A lesson?” the officer questioned, “In what?”

Echoes of a rougher, nobler age flowed forth, on behalf of the officer of greater experience.

“If you take what isn’t yours, you get what you fuckin’ deserve.”

Without another word, the agents of the law departed, their purpose satisfied.