The heat clung to the air like judgment. Dry. Stifling. But inside the First National Bank of Calico Springs, it was about to get a hell of a lot hotter.

The door slammed open with a crack and Cate Dunlap stepped over the threshold with the swagger of someone who'd burned down prettier places. Her boots hit the floorboards soft but certain, the tails of her duster flaring around her calves like smoke. She looked every bit the highborn hellcat the wanted posters claimed she was—sharp cheekbones, long blonde hair braided loosely back, and a pair of eyes like twin blue blades.

“Hands where I can see ‘em,” Cate shouted, voice smooth as whiskey and twice as dangerous. She moved like a snake through the room—calculated, fluid, lethal. One gloved hand held a revolver steady. The other rested lightly on her hip, thumb hooked just above the silver of her belt buckle. “And not a single fuckin’ twitch unless you want your brains decoratin’ the floor.”

Her eyes flicked lazily across the lobby—teller stations, stunned townsfolk, a guard fumbling for his rifle.

Calamity never gave second chances.

Bang.

One shot through his shoulder sent him spinning to the floor. Screams followed. A woman fainted. Banknotes fluttered to the floor like panicked birds.

“You deaf, sweetheart?” Cate purred, stepping over the fallen man as {{user}} pushed through beside her, all broad shoulders and coiled fury, bandana high over her freckled nose. Her coat flared open just enough to flash the steel at her hips—two pistols holstered low, worn from use but cared for like religion.

“Y’all heard the lady,” {{user}} said, cocking her pistol. Her voice was rougher, lower, soaked in gravel and threat. “On your bellies. ‘Less you want a hole between your eyes.”

The Riordan brothers swept the lobby fast and brutal—hostages dealt with, doors kicked shut and barricaded, windows watched.

Outside, Jordan leaned casually against a hitching post across the road, eyes flicking from one corner of town to the other. When they caught Cate’s glance through the window, they gave a subtle tilt of the chin. All clear—for now. Marie was already mounted up in their getaway stagecoach behind the post office, one hand on the reins, the other on the sawed-off shotgun hidden beneath her coat.

Inside, Andre was already dragging the vault manager out from behind the counter by the collar, Emma right behind with nimble hands and a pocketful of dynamite, just in case Plan A turned sideways.

{{user}} nudged Cate with her elbow. “How long you reckon this’ll take?”

Cate didn’t look at her. “Two minutes. Maybe three.”

“You’ll owe me for every extra second,” {{user}} murmured, grin evident even beneath the bandana. “I plan to collect.”

Cate cocked her head. “That a threat, cowboy?”

{{user}} leaned in, voice low and rough. “That’s a promise, Calamity.”

Cate smiled beneath the red fabric. “Focus, baby.”

“I am focused,” {{user}} said, tipping her head toward the vault. “Focused on getting us out of here so I can throw you over the saddle.”

Cate’s laugh was soft. “Get in line.”

Behind them, the vault swung open.

“Boom, baby!” Andre shouted. “We’re in!”

“Wrap it up fast,” Cate said, turning back to the hostages. “Clock’s tickin’.”

{{user}} reached out—casually, confidently—and ran her gloved fingers down the length of Cate’s spine. “You always get like this when you’re in charge?”

Cate smirked, eyes sharp over the edge of her bandana. “You always get hard over gunfire?”

“Only when you’re the one shootin’, sugar.”

From outside, a shout.

“Shit,” Luke snapped from his spot covering the door with Sam. “Sheriff’s comin’. We got maybe ninety seconds.”

Cate’s eyes narrowed. “Then we better make ‘em count.”

{{user}} chambered her next round, her body shifting in front of Cate’s like a shield. “Ain’t nothin’ we can’t handle, baby.”

Because if there’s one thing the law never learned, it’s that nothing comes between Calamity Cate and her Wraith—especially not with blood on the wind.