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B ullseye

The Supernatural Southwest Spectacular was prime networking territory.

Bullseye Maverick propped his boots on the hood of his custom Trans Am.

He angled his head so that his horns glinted in the sun as a centaur barrel racing team thundered past him.

The spectators would be distracted from the centaurs’s entrance and for a moment, all eyes would be on him.

The legendary Bullseye Maverick.

He was somewhat of a folk hero around these parts.

Mostly because minotaurs weren’t usually known for their driving skills.

The supernatural trucking world was small, and reputation was everything.

Miss one delivery, deliver a few hours late, and suddenly you're hauling enchanted fertilizer for fairy farms instead of the high-dollar, high-risk cargo that paid the bills.

And Bullseye had bills. Lots of them. And they were piling up every day. Right now, a goblin crew was busy enchanting the chrome on his partner’s eighteen-wheeler, while a team of pixies detailed the cab. Image was king, after all, and it wasn’t cheap.

"You're thinking about it," his partner said from beside him. Snowman’s massive yeti frame somehow managed to lounge elegantly against the Trans Am's passenger door. A slight dusting of snow perpetually fell around him, though it evaporated before hitting the ground in the Arizona heat.

"Not thinking about anything," Bullseye replied, adjusting his leather jacket. "Just enjoying the show."

"Uh-huh. That's why your tail's been twitching ever since those dragons rolled in."

Bullseye's tail, traitor that it was, gave another flick.

He forced it still. The truth was, they needed a high paying job.

Their last three runs had been small-time—potion ingredients, crystal shipments, and a load of enchanted garden gnomes that farted I Wish I Was In Dixie .

They had been legitimate cargo that paid legitimate money, which was to say, not nearly enough.

The stack of bills in his glove compartment told the real story. Truck payments, insurance, and the modification costs for vehicles built to handle a minotaur of his size and strength

"Big Scorcher and Little Sparky are bad news. Everyone knows that," Bullseye said, but it was half-hearted at best. At this point, he was arguing because he liked being contrary.

"Everyone also knows they pay better than anyone else in the magical hauling business." Snowman grinned, his snow-white teeth matching his fur. "And check out that custom rig of theirs, the one with actual dragon-scale paint."

A massive truck prowled through the lot towards them. Its paint shifted colors with every movement, from deep crimson to burnished gold, and smoke curled from its chrome stacks. The father and son dragon team were perched on the running boards, their scales matching their truck's paint job.

"Heard they've been asking around about drivers," Snowman continued innocently. "Specifically asking about us, actually. Something about needing someone with our particular skill set."

"They can ask all they want." Bullseye watched another centaur round the final barrel. "Inquiries don’t pay my bills."

"Well, word on the street is they've got some kind of job that needs doing. Real money, too." Snowman brushed some snow from his fur. "But you're probably going to say it’s too risky. Especially with your reputation for playing it safe."

Bullseye's horns glinted in the sun as he turned to glare at his friend. "I do not play it safe."

"Says the minotaur who wouldn't even arm wrestle that troll last week."

"He was using enchanted bicep oil. I could smell it."

"Sure, sure." Snowman pushed off from the Trans Am and stretched. "Well, I guess when they come over here—and they're definitely coming over here—you can tell them you're not interested."

Before Bullseye could respond, a wave of heated air rolled across the parking lot. The dragons were sauntering over, their scales rippling with metallic colors that would make a custom paint shop weep with envy.

"Well, look what we got here, Daddy," Little Sparky called out, his gold-tinted scales flashing as he strutted over.

The young dragon had his father's swagger but none of his size.

But what he lacked in bulk, he made up for in attitude.

"It's the famous Bullseye. You know, the one who thinks delivering cursed potpourri makes him Dale Earnhorn. "

"That's Earnhardt, son," Big Scorcher rumbled, smoke curling from his nostrils as he followed at a more dignified pace.

"That's rich coming from a dragon who still needs daddy's credit card," Bullseye shot back at Little Sparky. "What's wrong, junior? Trust fund not covering your scale-shine addiction?"

Little Sparky's scales rippled with indignation. "Big talk from a cow with delusions of horsepower."

"Boys, boys," Snowman cut in, casually creating a small flurry between them. "Let's keep it civilized. Even if some of us are still working on our growth spurts."

Little Sparky's tail lashed. "Says the walking slushie. Why don't you melt away while the grown-ups handle business?"

"Grown-ups?" Bullseye snorted. "Kid, you're what—barely past your first molting? Come back when your voice stops cracking fire."

Big Scorcher leaned against a nearby pickup truck, which immediately began to smoke. Its alarm went off, screaming in what sounded suspiciously like Elvish. The dragon ignored it. "Son, what have I told you about antagonizing potential employees?"

"To do it with style?" Little Sparky grinned, showing off fangs that gleamed like new chrome."

"Now, now, Junior, we didn't come here to trade insults. We came here because we heard this minotaur might actually have the horns to do a little job for us," Big Scorcher said.

"What type of job?" Snowman asked, creating a small snow flurry between himself and the dragons' heat.

"We've got twenty crates of Bond Buster sitting in our Los Angeles warehouse. Premium grade, laboratory pure. And we'll pay forty thousand gold pieces to haul it cross-country to our New York facility."

"Forty grand to haul potions?" Bullseye's tail flicked with interest despite himself. "What's the catch?"

"The catch," Big Scorcher said, leaning against a nearby pickup truck which immediately began to smoke, "is that Bond Buster is illegal to transport anywhere east of the Colorado River. Every trucker we've approached has either chickened out or gotten arrested trying."

"Bond Buster?" Snowman's expression darkened. "That's the stuff that breaks witch-familiar bonds, isn't it?"

"Who cares?" Little Sparky said dismissively. "Dragons on the East Coast are tired of witches thinking they're so special with their little pets. About time someone leveled the playing field."

"And nobody's managed to make the run?" Bullseye asked, ignoring the implications for now.

"Not a single driver," Big Scorcher confirmed. "Closest anyone got was an orc team that made it to Kansas before the magical authorities caught up with them. They're still in federal lockup."

"So what makes you think I can do what nobody else has managed?" Bullseye drawled.

"Simple," Little Sparky strutted around the Trans Am like he was appraising it. "We heard you were either crazy enough or stupid enough to try anything. Question is, which one are you?"

“For the right price, I’m crazy enough to do just about anything.”

"Tell you what," Big Scorcher said, tossing a bag of gold to the elf whose truck he'd accidentally melted. "Let's make it interesting. I’ll up the payment to eighty thousand gold if you can get our cargo from Los Angeles to New York in thirty-six hours."

"Thirty-six hours?" Snowman whistled. "That's—"

"Impossible," Little Sparky finished with obvious satisfaction. "That’s kind of the point, snow cone. Though if cow boy here thinks he's up for it..." He trailed off.

Bullseye felt the familiar thrill that always came with impossible odds. Thirty-six hours cross-country, carrying illegal cargo. It was exactly the kind of run that separated the legends from the also-rans.

"So let me get this straight," Bullseye said slowly. "You're offering me eighty grand to do something you think is impossible. And if I fail?"

"When you fail," Little Sparky corrected, "You get nothing and we get that fancy Trans Am of yours. Fair trade for wasting our time."

"Well now," Snowman drawled, "that's a hell of a wager. 'Course, I've seen this crazy bull do the impossible before."

“It’s taking him a long time to say yes. I hear there's a nice safe route delivering enchanted Girl Scout cookies up in Portland."

"Junior," Big Scorcher rumbled warningly.

"What? I'm just making sure he understands exactly what he's getting into. And exactly what he's going to lose." Little Sparky ran a claw along the Trans Am's hood, leaving a tiny trail of sparks. "I'm thinking of repainting it when I win. How do you feel about hot pink?"

Bullseye's tail went rigid. Nobody threatened his car. "Touch my paint job again, lizard boy, and you'll be picking your teeth out of next Tuesday."

"Boys," Big Scorcher interrupted, smoke curling from his nostrils in amusement. "Let's keep it professional. What do you say, Bullseye? The cargo's already loaded and waiting."

"Thirty-six hours," Bullseye repeated. "Cross-country. With every magical authority between here and New York looking to bust anyone hauling Bond Buster."

"Now you're getting it," Little Sparky preened. "Are you going to take the bet, or should I start calling you Minivan Mike?"

Bullseye looked at his Trans Am, then at the dragons, then at Snowman who was shaking his head vigorously behind the dragons' backs. Eighty thousand gold pieces would solve every problem they had, set them up for years, and give them the freedom to be choosy about jobs.

"You got yourself a deal," Bullseye said finally.

"Guess it's time to put the hammer down and see if we can't outrun trouble one more time," Snowman said.

***

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