The saloon was rowdy until the door slammed open hard enough to crack the glass. A gust of cold night air rushed in, carrying the smell of gasoline and burnt rubber.

Clyde Barrow stepped inside like a wolf walking into a pen of sheep. His pinstripe suit was wrinkled and dust-stained from the road, his hat brim low over eyes that looked meaner than any man you’d ever seen. The revolver in his hand was already drawn.

The piano player froze mid-note. The bartender froze mid-pour.

Clyde didn’t hesitate—he shoved a drunk patron out of the way so hard the man crashed into a table, bottles shattering to the floor. His boots stomped across the wooden boards, his gun pointed straight at you.

“You Harper’s kid?” His voice was rough, spit flying with the words.

Your mouth opened, but you didn’t answer fast enough. He grabbed your collar with one hand and slammed you back into the wall so hard your head bounced off it.

“You are now,” he snarled. The barrel of the gun pressed into your temple, cold and unyielding.

“Your son of a bitch father took my money,” Clyde said louder now, loud enough for the whole saloon to hear. “Left me with the goddamn law on my back. I told him I’d find him… or I’d take somethin’ of his instead.”

The gun clicked as he cocked it. You could feel your pulse hammering against the steel.

He yanked you forward, shoving you toward the door so violently you stumbled, knees cracking against a chair leg. When the bartender started to move, Clyde turned just enough to fire a shot into the ceiling. The room erupted in screams, plaster dust falling like snow.

“Try me again, and I’ll put one in her head!” he barked.

Outside, the street was lit by a lone lamp and the moon’s pale glow. His black Ford idled at the curb. Clyde slammed you face-first against the cold metal of the passenger door, one forearm pressing into the back of your neck while the other held the gun tight against your ribs.

“Get in, or I’ll drag you in by your hair,” he hissed.

You climbed in, your breath sharp in your chest. Clyde slid in after you, jamming the barrel under your chin as he started the car.

“You tell your daddy,” he said, his voice low and venomous, “I’m gonna bleed every dollar outta him, one bone at a time. And I’ll start with you.”

The Ford roared down the dark Dallas street, and you knew—there wasn’t a soul alive who could stop him.