The cold was biting, crystalline teeth gnawing at the flesh of anyone daring or stupid enough to remain outside in the middle of the New York winter. But that night, no one was thinking about the frosty air or the ice on the pier.

Underneath the heavy blackness of New York’s nightly World War Two dim-out, fourteen witnesses huddled in horror as two men leveled their guns at a handsome young woman standing at the end of the pier, like a dog backed into a corner by its master. Only this woman wasn’t cowering like an animal. She stood tall, erect, facing the two barrels—only ten feet from her face—like eyes whose hot tears would be her undoing. Water splashed around her, roaring loudly as the waves below crashed into rock, concrete, and wood, soaking her clothes and plastering her blonde hair to her face.

One man shouted, his words hard to make out over the crushing sound of the waves, “You should have left it alone, girl!” Then, jabbing the gun to accentuate each word, “You brought this on yourself!”

With stark indignation, she shook her head, sending water in every direction. What she did then sent shivers down the spine of everyone present—all hoping she would simply give in, give the men what they wanted, and make it stop. The woman smiled. Not only smiled but grinned the menacing grin of a child about to deliberately disobey her parents. Then she shouted over the waves, “Oh, but you asked for it, Raymond! You’re just too stupid to recognize how deep you’re already in it.” She laughed in defiance of the weapons trained on her and went on. “You know, you were the easy one! The sad little boy in need of another trophy to prove to his pals he’s worth the price of the two-hundred-dollar shoes on his feet.” Spitting the words as if she harbored no fear for the firearm’s gaping mouths yawning at her, she was completely okay with driving these men even further into anger and agitation with every word—more than fine. She was joyous. In a complete juxtaposition of expectation, it appeared this was exactly what she wanted, like she was delivering the eulogy at her own funeral and was ecstatic to be invited.

Raymond Grant shook. Not because of the bitter cold but because of the hatred he felt toward the woman at the end of his gun. “Don’t think I won’t do it, Natalie! Don’t think I won’t spill your blood over this boardwalk and watch as the rain washes you out.”

The second man, who’d yet to speak until now, turned his gun toward the first—toward Raymond. “She doesn’t have the dough, Grant. We need the money!” 

Grant ignored him, continuing his affront on the girl. “Where’s the money?” The crowd shrieked back at each rage-filled syllable. The man was clearly coming unhinged and would soon shatter. There was a blackness in his eyes that seemed to emanate from and engulf him all at once, connecting him to the night. He was a dark soul, with dark eyes, carrying a dark gun that was only made visible in his hand by the glint of the moon’s subdued light on its casing.

“Gone!” She grinned. “I assure you it’s in better hands.”

“You—” The other man cut Grant off.

“We need the money, Grant. We came for the money! You pull that trigger, and you’ll never see it again! A dead woman drowns with her secrets, Grant.”

A frail older woman moved to escape from the crowd, but the moment she took her first step, Grant’s eyes flashed with fire. He whipped the gun around and pointed it at her face. “Stay.”

Paralyzed with fear, the woman sank back, as did the rest of the onlookers. Each one of them was sure that if they moved, he’d blow their heads from their bodies.

“Grant!” Flynn aimed his gun at Grant now. “We’re not here to kill witnesses!”

“Shut up, Flynn!” Grant brought his gun back to the woman and took a step toward her. He looked at her as he spoke to Flynn. “I lost thousands. Hundreds of thousands! You’ve never seen that kind of money. You don’t know what—”

Grant didn’t stop because he thought better of it. He stopped because the madwoman was talking again, this time directing her words to Flynn. That same indignation bubbled around each word as she gushed, “Then there’s the prestigious private eye, Gordon Flynn. You were at least challenging, if only slightly.”

Flynn’s gun, still pointed at Grant, faltered. The barrel sank and swung almost imperceptibly in her direction.

She went on, prodding Flynn to bring the weapon back to her. She had a death wish. “But once I heard of your wife, it was easy. You’re so eager to please. Not just her, any woman. You lapped up the damsel-in-distress routine like the sad puppy you are.” Flynn’s barrel rose again, back to the woman, both men aiming their guns at her again. And both shaking with their fingers on the trigger. But she didn’t relent, only continued yelling, pushing and pushing.

The onlookers tensed, some covering their ears or eyes, others crouching. Several turned away from the scene altogether. It was torture, watching three deranged people duke it out in front of you, two of them holding weapons that could put you on the deck with one tiny squeeze of their finger.

“You were pitiful, Gordon. And in the end, all you did was exactly what I wanted. It’s no wonder she left you.” She licked her lips, as if anticipating the slugs that were about to take her down. Her eyes were round—dual moons orbiting a psychotic sun.

She turned back to Grant and phrased the words that would tip this situation all the way off the scales. “Are you so arrogant, Raymond, that you don’t even know where you’re standing? Could you really be so stupid as to not know?”

At this, Gordon Flynn leaned toward Raymond Grant in that darkest of nights. No one heard what he whispered, but without warning, gunshots thudded above the girl’s words—two sets. The harsh percussion rose over the booming waves. Shot after shot echoed, and people screamed, terror ripping through the crisp night air.

Then it was over. The waves brought the only sound as the two men stood like gargoyles at the center of the pier.

“What have we done?” Flynn asked.

“We put the dog down,” Grant said, turning his gun on Flynn. But when he pulled the trigger, there was no bang, only a click. He’d emptied the pistol on Natalie.

A shaft of light encircled the couple from somewhere in the distance. “Put the guns down!” a man shouted as the light moved closer, shining in their eyes the entire way. Neither of them ran. They were beyond that now. Everything they’d been through in the last two and a half months—everything that had led them to that pier, on that night, with those guns—had left them with nowhere else to turn. This was their final stand‌. Two pistols fell to the planked floor, barely audible over the water and the sobs of those who had just seen a woman shot to death in cold blood.

Beneath the pier, harsh waters slammed a woman’s body against the pylons.

The cold was biting, crystalline teeth gnawing at the flesh of anyone daring or stupid enough to remain outside in the middle of the New York winter. But that night, no one was thinking about the frosty air or the ice on the pier.

Underneath the heavy blackness of New York’s nightly World War Two dim-out, fourteen witnesses huddled in horror as two men leveled their guns at a handsome young woman standing at the end of the pier, like a dog backed into a corner by its master. Only this woman wasn’t cowering like an animal. She stood tall, erect, facing the two barrels—only ten feet from her face—like eyes whose hot tears would be her undoing. Water splashed around her, roaring loudly as the waves below crashed into rock, concrete, and wood, soaking her clothes and plastering her blonde hair to her face.

One man shouted, his words hard to make out over the crushing sound of the waves, “You should have left it alone, girl!” Then, jabbing the gun to accentuate each word, “You brought this on yourself!”

With stark indignation, she shook her head, sending water in every direction. What she did then sent shivers down the spine of everyone present—all hoping she would simply give in, give the men what they wanted, and make it stop. The woman smiled. Not only smiled but grinned the menacing grin of a child about to deliberately disobey her parents. Then she shouted over the waves, “Oh, but you asked for it, Raymond! You’re just too stupid to recognize how deep you’re already in it.” She laughed in defiance of the weapons trained on her and went on. “You know, you were the easy one! The sad little boy in need of another trophy to prove to his pals he’s worth the price of the two-hundred-dollar shoes on his feet.” Spitting the words as if she harbored no fear for the firearm’s gaping mouths yawning at her, she was completely okay with driving these men even further into anger and agitation with every word—more than fine. She was joyous. In a complete juxtaposition of expectation, it appeared this was exactly what she wanted, like she was delivering the eulogy at her own funeral and was ecstatic to be invited.

Raymond Grant shook. Not because of the bitter cold but because of the hatred he felt toward the woman at the end of his gun. “Don’t think I won’t do it, Natalie! Don’t think I won’t spill your blood over this boardwalk and watch as the rain washes you out.”

The second man, who’d yet to speak until now, turned his gun toward the first—toward Raymond. “She doesn’t have the dough, Grant. We need the money!” 

Grant ignored him, continuing his affront on the girl. “Where’s the money?” The crowd shrieked back at each rage-filled syllable. The man was clearly coming unhinged and would soon shatter. There was a blackness in his eyes that seemed to emanate from and engulf him all at once, connecting him to the night. He was a dark soul, with dark eyes, carrying a dark gun that was only made visible in his hand by the glint of the moon’s subdued light on its casing.

“Gone!” She grinned. “I assure you it’s in better hands.”

“You—” The other man cut Grant off.

“We need the money, Grant. We came for the money! You pull that trigger, and you’ll never see it again! A dead woman drowns with her secrets, Grant.”

A frail older woman moved to escape from the crowd, but the moment she took her first step, Grant’s eyes flashed with fire. He whipped the gun around and pointed it at her face. “Stay.”

Paralyzed with fear, the woman sank back, as did the rest of the onlookers. Each one of them was sure that if they moved, he’d blow their heads from their bodies.

“Grant!” Flynn aimed his gun at Grant now. “We’re not here to kill witnesses!”

“Shut up, Flynn!” Grant brought his gun back to the woman and took a step toward her. He looked at her as he spoke to Flynn. “I lost thousands. Hundreds of thousands! You’ve never seen that kind of money. You don’t know what—”

Grant didn’t stop because he thought better of it. He stopped because the madwoman was talking again, this time directing her words to Flynn. That same indignation bubbled around each word as she gushed, “Then there’s the prestigious private eye, Gordon Flynn. You were at least challenging, if only slightly.”

Flynn’s gun, still pointed at Grant, faltered. The barrel sank and swung almost imperceptibly in her direction.

She went on, prodding Flynn to bring the weapon back to her. She had a death wish. “But once I heard of your wife, it was easy. You’re so eager to please. Not just her, any woman. You lapped up the damsel-in-distress routine like the sad puppy you are.” Flynn’s barrel rose again, back to the woman, both men aiming their guns at her again. And both shaking with their fingers on the trigger. But she didn’t relent, only continued yelling, pushing and pushing.

The onlookers tensed, some covering their ears or eyes, others crouching. Several turned away from the scene altogether. It was torture, watching three deranged people duke it out in front of you, two of them holding weapons that could put you on the deck with one tiny squeeze of their finger.

“You were pitiful, Gordon. And in the end, all you did was exactly what I wanted. It’s no wonder she left you.” She licked her lips, as if anticipating the slugs that were about to take her down. Her eyes were round—dual moons orbiting a psychotic sun.

She turned back to Grant and phrased the words that would tip this situation all the way off the scales. “Are you so arrogant, Raymond, that you don’t even know where you’re standing? Could you really be so stupid as to not know?”

At this, Gordon Flynn leaned toward Raymond Grant in that darkest of nights. No one heard what he whispered, but without warning, gunshots thudded above the girl’s words—two sets. The harsh percussion rose over the booming waves. Shot after shot echoed, and people screamed, terror ripping through the crisp night air.

Then it was over. The waves brought the only sound as the two men stood like gargoyles at the center of the pier.

“What have we done?” Flynn asked.

“We put the dog down,” Grant said, turning his gun on Flynn. But when he pulled the trigger, there was no bang, only a click. He’d emptied the pistol on Natalie.

A shaft of light encircled the couple from somewhere in the distance. “Put the guns down!” a man shouted as the light moved closer, shining in their eyes the entire way. Neither of them ran. They were beyond that now. Everything they’d been through in the last two and a half months—everything that had led them to that pier, on that night, with those guns—had left them with nowhere else to turn. This was their final stand‌. Two pistols fell to the planked floor, barely audible over the water and the sobs of those who had just seen a woman shot to death in cold blood.

Beneath the pier, harsh waters slammed a woman’s body against the pylons.