He hauled the pieces back to Grace, working in feverish silence. The gun was too heavy for the roof, so he bolted the tripod to the Cadillac’s rear passenger floor, angling the barrels out the window. Hannah had left a welding kit and spare wiring—she always knew he’d need something. By dawn, the 20 Gun was wired to Grace’s alternator, its trigger rigged to a steering wheel button.

The 20 Gun spoke.

She laughed—a raw, exhausted sound. “You’re an idiot.”

Hannah Dundee, the sharp-eyed engineer who kept Grace alive, had been taken. Her crime? Refusing to repair the Pirate Queen, Grusilda’s, armored land-train. In retaliation, Grusilda had chained Hannah to the front of that very train, a living hood ornament as it thundered through the badlands. The only way to stop that train was to kill its engine block—and the only portable thing that could punch through eight inches of alloy-steel plating was the 20 Gun.

Juvenile Raptors. Three of them. Their bioluminescent stripes flickered in the dark like broken neon signs.

Behind them, the sun set over a world of reptiles and ruins. Ahead, the Cadillac’s headlights cut two clean paths through the dark. And between the seats, the 20 Gun’s spent shell casings rolled gently with every bump, still warm to the touch.