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his door and he and both of his torpedoes opened up with Thompsons, one round catching Charlie in the arm. She screamed and collapsed against Kennedy. He threw the car into reverse. They backed up, bullets riddling the front grill and shattering the windscreen.
    An electric blue ball suddenly exploded against Dragna’s driver. The man looked down at a torso that was a bloody, charred mess and collapsed. The other two slammed doors with looks of panic, Dragna’s bodyguard moving to get into the driver’s spot before the next shot impacted the vehicle.
    They never stood a chance. A squad of steel Wehrmacht swarmed the land yacht and began to dismantle it like army ants on a cockroach. Kennedy squeezed his eyes and turned his head against the screams that filtered in through the busted windscreen. The things were tearing those poor bastards limb-for-limb for shooting their maker.
    Kennedy put the cab in gear and prayed. It lurched, but then leaped forward and away from the cemetery. Sal nursed Charlie’s bleeding shoulder the best he could.
    “ You gonna be okay, doll?” Kennedy asked after they cleared the cemetery gates.
    She groaned and looked up into his eyes. “Guess we’re even?” she whispered.
    “Kiss on it?”
    Charlie huffed, but Kennedy took the time to lean over and plant a kiss on her smudged forehead anyway. He never made it that far. Charlie raised up at the last second so that their lips collided and Sal had to scream at Kennedy to watch his driving over the vulgarity and whatnot.
     
     
    The only casualties of the Battle of Evergreen were members of the mafia and one mayor … and those were temporary.
     
     
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The Incident at Sycamore Ridge
    By Gary Madden
     
    Alan Roth momentarily glanced over his shoulder, checking on the barrel-chested man guarding the office door before looking back to the man behind the polished teak desk. Steven Mudd, Billet’s sole survivor of Black Tuesday, had been railing against the enemies of the American businessman for twenty minutes now without getting any closer to revealing why he’d requested a reporter be sent to his office. An evangelistic peak in the old man’s tone drew Alan away from his thoughts and back to his host.
    “They’re Communists, Mr. Roth.” The veins in Mudd’s neck bulged, his face red with conviction as he retrieved a handkerchief to dab away the perspiration that beaded on his liver-spotted brow. ”Like a cancer, they will infect and destroy this community unless something’s done.”
    “I can see this is a subject you’re passionate about, Mr. Mudd,” Alan said, grabbing the initiative. “But I’m not sure I’d call your position fodder for a news story. Every major paper on the Eastern Seaboard is filled with op-ed pieces about the evils of unionization. Excuse me saying so, but there’s nothing newsworthy about one more concerned voice joining the choir.”
    “Oh, this is more than one man complaining about a group of deviants and their sick political ideas. Twenty-four hours ago they seized my Sycamore Ridge mine. They’ve barricaded themselves inside, cut off communication, and taken possession of my property. How’s that for newsworthy?”
    “You’re sure of your facts?” This revelation piqued Alan’s attention, a suspicious boss might not be a story, but an armed standoff amounted to something more. He opened his notebook and prepared to scribble details.
    “They didn’t return to their homes at the end of their shift and the telephone line in the mine office is dead.”
    “Which all could be coincidences.” With a sigh, Alan closed the notebook. “But I think what you have is nothing more than a lot of supposition. Since the crash, every capitalist in this country thinks his workers are plotting behind his back.”
    “I see.” Mudd folded his hands, looking at Alan over the rims of his glasses. “Then you’re not interested in my story?”
    “I don’t see a story.”
    “Mr. Roth,