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So, chapter 2, hopefully the last chapter set the tone right and this one will give a bit of intro into another character, Jesse McCree. Enjoy the new chapter!

McCree had been on both sides of the law in his time, and in his time he'd been in dozens of less-than-perfect situations, most note-worthy of such was the time he had got holed up in a collapsed sewer tunnel with three bullets in his gun and four angry blokes he had slighted waiting for him outside. Maybe it was his time with Overwatch, but lately he found himself disgusted by the reaches of the places he often found his new occupation entrenched him in, something that was a foreign concept to him, he'd seen plenty worse when he ran with gangsters.

And so he sat at the counter of perhaps the swankiest pub in New Boston he'd ever had the pleasure to breathe in the stench of, and he'd been into many pubs in his youth. Most of the chairs and tables were flipped and broken, those that weren't lay there collecting dust over an inch thick layer of stains and strange grime. The counter wasn't much better, the glass was only clean where it was within reach of the bartender, a balding, squat fellow, anything otherwise was similarly dirty. McCree did his best impression of appearing casual and relaxed as he took a swig of fiery liquor, careful not to let even his hardened lip graze the oily edge of the glass.

There weren't many other people in the pub, expectedly, and those that were weren't drinking. A passed out man in the corner, his pockets emptied, most probably not by him, a shady fellow standing by the door to the toilet, no doubt with a collection of strange pills and tablets for sale in that coat of his, the bartender and McCree. He made a face as he set the glass down, even he had standards, not very high ones but still.

A high pitched electronic whine from outside, a light shone through the gaps in the dirt on the windows and the frames shuddered as the engine of a hovercar roared. McCree sat with his back to the door, so he couldn't see but could hear the car pull up, the door opened and boots on the ground. The doors to the pub were pulled open and the sound of several individuals, one, two, three, four pairs of feet.

The bartender hurriedly stood, plastering on a nervous smile. 'Ah, Mr. Ick! Pleasure to have you here, how's the family?'

A voice, scarred and arrogant, 'They'll be coming after your ass if I don't find a drink with my name on it.'

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Mr. Ick, just the man he was looking for, a big player in the Boston Gangs that ruled the suburbs, Ick was a member of a gang that called themselves the 'Threads'. McCree didn't turn to look, keeping to his drink that swirled in strange orange spirals in the dirty glass. He wrapped a hand around the glass, with his thumb he wiped off a patch of grime, and he lifted up the glass so he saw the reflection of the pub in the planes of crystal, surveying his environment. Mr. Ick, a thin man in a suit with a scar running down the side of his head and across his throat and an ugly sneer on his snout. Accompanying him were three men, hired muscle no doubt, tall, muscle bound rottweilers on two legs in suits that they had not picked out for themselves, high and tight haircuts on their crowns and sunglasses hiding their eyes. There were guns holstered at his belt. Three bodyguards, he could take three.

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After this contract it would be troublesome for him to stay in New Boston. The gangs didn't care much about a few missing drug runners but bagging a prize like Mr. Ick, once he did that he'd have to play smart to make sure he didn't end up in a body bag.

His cape would hide enough movement for him to make the first move, or that was his plan at least. Mr. Ick was sitting down on a longue chair that hadn't been there before, one of the guards standing behind him, the other at his side, and the last beside the doorway. He set the glass down with a soft clink, pulling out a note and sliding it over the counter to the barman, whispering, 'If I were you, I'd make like a snake and get of here.'

The bartender scoffed, 'Ha, tourists, you need to learn a thing or two about New Boston.'

McCree had stopped listening long ago, his left hand, a metal prosthetic which whirred softly, wrapped around the glass loosely, his other good hand sliding down to the holster at his side. Mr. Ick talked loudly on a headset implanted into his palm which he held against his ear like a pretend-phone, 'Remember, ask for Mr. Claw, make sure he knows what happens to people who mess with the Threads.'

One of the bodyguards noticed McCree's hand moving down to a barely concealed gun. He began to reach down to his own pistol, mouth already forming the words to get his ward out of here. But unfortunately for the bodyguard, he hadn't had nearly enough practice with a gun to be as fast on the draw as his adversary.

McCree spun around in his seat, sliding his Peacekeeper from its holster and as he raised the gun, loosed one bullet, the shot reverberating around the pub and leaving ears ringing, the bullet catching the first bodyguard in the foot.

One bullet.

The muscle man keeled over, crashing into another table that collapsed under his weight. Mr. Ick flinched in surprise, his call abruptly pausing, one of the bodyguards looked uncomprehendingly while the other obviously more experience one drew his pistol and raised it to fire, before two more shots rang out, one catching him in the chest and the other clipping his temple.

Three bullets.

The second bodyguard fell backwards, his black tie trailing before him, and the third didn't bother with guns, just lunging at the gunman. McCree had pulled the trigger halfway when the third bodyguard grabbed his wrist roughly, pointing the gun skywards but not loosing a shot. The cowboy's face contorted into a grimace as he struggled with the bodyguard for a moment, before his metal hand raised the glass on the counter and smashed it down on the bodyguard's head and splashing liquor over the two of them. As the man collapsed, his scalp bleeding, a shot found its place in his calf.

Four bullets.

The man screamed in agony, but a shot like that wouldn't kill him, just make sure he didn't chase after anybody for a while. Mr. Ick was frozen to his seat, fumbling for his own gun with clammy hands. McCree glanced to the side and saw the first bodyguard he had shot in the foot beginning to rise with difficulty, and shot the man's right arm, eliciting a scream as a gun clattered to the floor.

Five bullets.

Mr. Ick dropped his pistol, obviously desperate to appeal to McCree. That frightened look didn't sit well on a face of scars like that. McCree was still at his seat but was standing now gun levelled at Mr. Ick's face as the gangster stammered, 'Hey, it doesn't have to go down like this. Bounty hunter, right? I heard about the price on my head, what was it? Fifty-k? Seventy-k?'

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McCree raised an eyebrow, gruffly muttering, 'Seventy-five.'

Mr. Ick pulled out his wallet, beginning to ladel out wads of notes. 'I've got two hundred-k right here, millions in my bank. Let me go and I'll quadruple whatever you'r'e being paid, I swear it. My money's as good as their's.'

The cowboy growled with perhaps the slightest hint of mirth, 'I ain't working this here occupation for the money. Its a public service.'

'I swear, I have five hundred million in my account right now! Half! I give you half!'

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'Pleasure doing business with you.'

Six bullets.

Mr. Ick gave the loudest scream he'd ever heard a man give, head flung back and clutching his knee in pain. As he yowled like a cat, McCree raised the Peacekeeper and popped the barrel out, six empty shells tumbling out and clattering on the floor. 'Quit your whining, scumbag, be happy I didn't put that one between your eyes.'

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Only screams in return. He grabbed the gangster roughly by his lapel, ripping off his tie and gagging the meekly writhing man with it, stifling screams to muffled sounds of protest. As he dragged Mr. Ick onto the floor, he picked up his wallet along, taking a small fee of several thousand dollar notes, before throwing it over the counter at the bartender which he knew was still cowering there. More than enough compensation to shut him up, and hopefully enough to renovate this pit he called a pub.

'One Hudson Wicks,' McCree growled as he held the shell shocked gangster up by his collar, pushing him against the counter. 'Otherwise known as Mr. Ick.'

A short trip down to the nearest police station. McCree had to take a few difficult side paths to avoid the crowd and the stares that carrying a body generally attracted. Even when he reached the station he collected a few frightened glances from a woman filing some report and a few of the younger officers.

Behind the counter was a police officer with a grey handlebar moustache hidden behind a newspaper. The aging man looked over his papers at the face of the , cross checked it with his own computer screen where he had pulled up a mugshot. 'Good job again, Mr. East, must be a record. That's what, five this month?'

'Five,' he confirmed, standing back as two officers came to take Mr. Ick into custody. 'And second Thread I've bagged. Seems like I'll have to move soon, the hounds are getting real familiar with my scent, if you catch my drift.'

The police officer, an older fellow whose nametag read Richards J., smirked, typing something into his computer and the mugshot tucking itself away. 'Well, I am legally obliged to tell you the New Boston PD is willing to offer you protection for your services.'

His services technically weren't legal, but here in the suburbs of New Boston things were quite a bit different from the clean utopias that the rules flowed from. The arrangement they had was simple, the PD gives him a name, Jonathan M. East, his alias, brings in that particular individual, as any good concerned citizen would do when presented with a mysteriously wounded and shot criminal perpetrator. And if he was lucky, some taxpayers' money would mysteriously find its way into his account.

Officer Richards muttered disapprovingly, 'You're doing good work here, son, commissioner doesn't pay you half of what he should for what you do.'

'I'm happy with what I get,' he shrugged. He didn't mention the little sum of eight thousand he'd liberated from Mr. Ick's wallet. 'The usual arrangement for the money then?'

Richards didn't reply him, eyes glued to the papers in his hands. McCree shook his head, from his experience media wasn't a very trustworthy source of news. He stepped aside as two other officers came and handcuffed Mr. Ick to be taken away to wherever they wanted him to be taken away to. McCree watched the softly twitching Thread being dragged away, absentmindedly asking, 'Interesting headlines lately?'

The man gave a low harrumph, 'You wouldn't believe it. A shooting in Tokyo and it doesn't even make the frontlines, instead some bull about some actress' sex scandal.'

'A shooting?' Not that he was particularly interested beyond small talk. Shit went down all over the world, especially in Asia with the conflict at the India-China Border where that Vishkar Corporation was making land grabs across the fence.

'Mmhmm,' the man nodded, the handlebar on his snout bobbing up and down. 'Lone gunman entered Shimada United last night, wounds twenty eight, kills fifteen, before detonating a bomb on the premises.'

McCree tensed at the name. Hanzo Shimada was one of the few Overwatch members who went public with his identity after they dissolved, using his name to restore the Shimada clan and founding the legal front of a multi-million dollar corporation that, though it began with a toy line of high quality Overwatch figurines, but in a decade it had found its way into private defence contracts, manufacturing and shipping. All of it was a cover up for the Clan's criminal side of assassinations, contraband weapons, drugs and dealings with triads.

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Richards continued, looking down over his nose. 'CEO of Shimada United, Hanzo Shimada, was found in the burning wreckage of his office, unconscious and suffering from potentially fatal wounds. Only exciting thing on the news and it shows up on fourth page.'

McCree silently gave a nod, suddenly feeling an overpowering need to get somewhere safe, maybe hole up in his apartment for a few days. He nodded to an officer who waved to him, making an effort to retain his nonchalance though under this guise he felt as if someone had gripped his heart in a vice grip. He did feel some sense of mourning for Hanzo, they had been friends years ago though they had not kept in touch, but most of all he felt fear. This was undoubtedly an assassination attempt, albeit a very messy one, but as head of the Shimada Clan, a veritable criminal organisation and a giant corporation, Hanzo was sure to have some enemies. But he was also ex-Overwatch, and that was what worried Jesse, because if someone was targeting Overwatch agents…

No. Just a coincidence, just an unfortunate attempt on a friends life by some disgruntled rivals. Nothing more.

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Jess McCree stepped through the doors of the police department, pulling a cigar out of his coat and biting down on it softly, pulling out a box of matches from the same pocket. He looked around as he lighted the cigar, eyeing the drivers on the street, the pedestrians who returned his glances furtively, all the familiar instincts returning as he looked up to the eves and roofs for the slightest hint of movement.

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Just a coincidence, nothing more.

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His hand slid down to his Peacekeeper holstered at his side even as he reassured himself of his own safety. Nothing more than that.

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But he had to be sure.