Chapter 3. Texas

The intercity bus stopped in El Paso, Texas.

John stepped off the bus and winced at the bright sunlight. His stomach twisted unpleasantly from hunger. The last time he ate was fifteen hours ago—a Snickers bar he bought before boarding.

"A little fasting is even good for your health," John muttered, recalling his empty wallet.

Still, he wasn’t planning to starve for long. Superpowered individuals, unless their abilities were too specialized, never had trouble making money.

[In my case, the timeless classic works best,] John smirked. [Robbing thieves. Cops don’t complain, and Zarathos is pleased.]

Now he just needed to find a target.

Anyone who grew up in a rough neighborhood knew how to get into trouble. Even a bookworm who never played outside knew who not to look at.

To attract trouble, you just had to look like a mark.

John slouched slightly, concealing his muscles, and made his gaze uncertain. In this guise, he approached three guys sitting on the steps of an abandoned house, blasting loud music and drinking beer.

The guys tensed slightly as John’s shadow fell over them.

"Yo!" John said, putting on an overly serious face. "I need a gun."

The trio sized him up and set their beers aside.

"Do we know you?" asked the tattooed guy calmly. "Who the hell are you?"

"I'm nobody," John replied, his voice slightly shaky. "I just need a gun."

"And why do you think we have one?"

"Well," John averted his gaze. "I figured guys like you always have guns."

"Guys like us?!" The tattooed man jumped up. "You see us drinking beer and just assume we're gangsters?!"

John took a few hesitant steps back, but the guys had already surrounded him.

"I didn’t mean anything by it," he mumbled.

They gave him hostile looks. Then, after a second, the leader burst out laughing.

"Relax! I'm just messing with you!" The tattooed guy clapped him on the shoulder. "So, why do you need a gun? Never mind! You got money?"

"Yeah, of course," John patted his jacket pocket.

[They don’t know it’s just an empty wallet.]

"Alright, follow me," the tattooed guy motioned him inside the abandoned house. "I’ll show you what I got."

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

The moment the door shut, John's took a metal pipe to the skull.

"Get him!" the thugs yelled, piling on top of him.

John didn’t care. The Cross of Zarathos activated. As fire erupted from his bones, the pain vanished. His flesh burned away, revealing the skeleton beneath.

Ghost Rider was here.

The first thug was the easiest to punish. The idiot was so caught up in kicking John that he didn’t even notice the transformation. The hellfire leaped onto him, incinerating his sinful soul and reducing his empty husk to ash.

The second thug managed to jump back—but not far enough. One slap from the Rider turned him to dust.

The tattooed guy was the luckiest. He managed to dive behind a table and grab a rifle. An unusual choice of weapon for a street thug.

"Die, mutant!" the thug roared, firing wildly.

His luck ended there. The Rider advanced like the Terminator, the bullets bouncing harmlessly off his magic-enhanced skeleton.

The rifle ran empty. John casually yanked it from the thug’s hands and snapped it over his knee. At that same moment, the thug’s will broke.

"Please, spare me! I can be useful!" thug began crossing himself, as if that proved his innocence. "You need a gun? I got plenty!"

Rider tilted his head slightly, as if intrigued.

"Yeah, yeah! I’ll show you!" thug practically skipped, relieved to have bargained for his life. "It’s just nearby!"

[So much for ‘tough guys.’] John glanced at the ashes beneath his feet. [All it takes is killing their friends.]

They went down to the basement. The thug moved aside a hidden wall, revealing a stash.

[What a useful minion. Without him, I might have missed the stash. My greedy heart couldn’t have handled that.]

"This is an MP5," the thug said, showing the submachine gun. "It fires in both auto and semi-auto. I also got an M16, an under-barrel grenade launcher, and some grenades."

If John had skin on his face right now, he might’ve raised an eyebrow—or even whistled. This wasn’t street-level. This was military.

"Where’d you get this?" asked Ghost Rider.

The thug flinched at his voice—like grinding metal sheets.

[Considering I don’t have a tongue, is this the sound of my soul? Some questions are better left unanswered.]

"They're rookies," the thug mumbled. "Some army guys set up in my hometown—Branding. A total backwater where nothing ever happens. They rolled in with crates of weapons, planning some huge deal. That’s all I know, I swear!"

"How’d you get their weapons?" Ghost Rider grabbed his shoulders.

"I just stole a couple while they were distracted!" The thug broke out in a sweat from the heat so close. "I was just gonna sell a few here, nothing more!"

Ghost Rider gave a slow nod. Sounded like the truth.

"So… you gonna let me go?" the thug asked cautiously.

"Of course. But first, I need confirmation that you’re telling the truth."

"I swear on my mom! Man, just let me go!"

"I have other methods of confirmation."

Fire spiraled in his empty sockets, burning away sins. Penance Stare.

In a single second, the sinner felt every ounce of pain he’d ever inflicted. There was no more effective way to interrogate. His mind shattered, saliva dripped from his lips, eyes turned empty—but his tongue still worked.

"You show me all the weapons?" John crossed his arms.

"No…" His lips trembled, but his words were hollow—soulless. He was already dead, just still breathing. "It's… there…"

Breaking a floorboard, Ghost Rider found a hidden crate with a pistol and holster inside.

[I’ll take it.] John tucked the pistol under his jacket. [Chasing down fleeing sinners is too much of a hassle.]

The broken thug didn’t move as John took the pistol and gathered up the hidden cash—they’d already sold off a few automatics.

John asked a few more questions, and when he was sure the informant had nothing else of value, he sent his soul to hell.

[In my own way, I did let him go.]

He pulled the pin on a grenade and blew up the entire stash. Firepower like this had no place on the streets.

By the time he stepped outside, he was human again—the process of regrowing muscle and skin was agonizing. Clicking a key fob, he heard the beep of a stolen car.

[Might be worth checking out Branding.] John slid into the driver’s seat. [I can spare a day to rid the world of some illegal arms dealers. And it’ll keep Zarathos’ fire from roasting my skull for a while.]