Steal Vengeance: Rise and Power of Ace

The smoke clears out of the doorway as Chess drops to her knees on the bloodstained floorboards, pulling her daughter tight against her chest. Her hands are trembling, slick with red, the years of hard-won peace tearing apart in seconds. She tilts her head back toward the open night air and screams it straight from her chest:

“DAMN YOU, ACE!”

That cry snaps the room dead silent.

Standing right by the shattered window, Bray grips the frame until the splintered wood digs into his palm. Tom Holland plays that beat completely cold—no yelling, no frantic panic, just the boyish light draining clean out of his eyes until only pure venom is left. He looks down at Chess, then at the girl fighting for air, and quietly turns toward the gun rack.

Blackjack steps out of the shadow of the back room, his jaw set like iron. The retirement is finished.

Bray loads his iron one round at a time, each metallic click ringing out like a death sentence. When he snaps the cylinder shut, he doesn’t look like a protector anymore—he looks like an executioner ready to hunt the Ace and tear that stolen town apart piece by piece.

“Blackjack, I got this. I don’t want you to get hurt either,” Bray said

Blackjack stared at him, his weathered hand hovering inches from the grip of his old Colt. The years of gun smoke, copper mines, and buried grudges flickered behind his eyes. He opened his mouth to bark back, to remind the kid who built this damn territory, but the sight of Bray’s eyes stopped him cold.

There was no fear in Bray. Just that terrifying, ice-cold stillness of a man who had already buried his own soul to make sure someone else paid the butcher’s bill.

Across the room, Chess choked back a ragged sob, pressing a sodden cloth against her daughter’s ribs, rocking her gently against the timber wall. The girl’s shallow, ragged breathing was the only sound cutting through the ringing aftermath of gunfire.

Blackjack slowly let his hand drop from his holster. He swallowed hard, the fight draining into a bitter, heavy nod.

“Don’t you give that dog an inch, Bray,” Blackjack rasped, his voice scraping low like iron dragging over gravel. “You take ’em down slow. Make Ace feel every ounce of lead before he hits the dirt.”

Bray didn’t blink. He pulled the collar of his coat up against the howling dust whipping through the shattered window, thumbed the hammer back just enough to check the brass in the cylinder, and turned for the door.

“They won’t see morning,” Bray said quietly.

He stepped out into the dark, boots hitting the gravel of FrontierTown, ready to summon the three riders who were about to make Ace’s scouts regret ever drawing a weapon.

Sitting on the edge of that heavy STEAL VENGEANCE crate in the shadows of the old rail warehouse, wearing a dark duster, slowly turning an ivory-handled revolver in his gloved fingers. He isn’t sweating Bray or the old legends; to him, Blackjack and Chess are just washed-up relics clinging to a town they don’t have the stomach to hold anymore.

When word reaches him that Chess’s daughter took the bullet meant to send a message, Ace doesn’t flinch or show regret. He just stands up, slides the iron back into its holster, and gives his scouts a flat, chilling look.

“If the girl is bleeding, they’ll come angry,” Ace says, his voice low, smooth, and razor-sharp. “And angry men walk straight into the sights. Set the line.”

Now Bray (Tom Holland) is marching four guns straight into the lion’s mouth, and Ace is waiting in the dark to see if the kid actually has the venom to pull the trigger.

“But boss, there’s one person who ran this town before you... “don’t mention his name,” Ace yelled

The scout froze, the blood draining from his sunburned face as the word caught like a bone in his throat. He had the name right on the tip of his tongue—Maverick—the tyrant whose iron-fisted ghost still hung over every mine timber and railroad tie in the valley.

Ace surged forward, the heel of his heavy boot coming down with a crack against the floorboards. The smooth, clinical calm vanished for a split second, replaced by something rabid and raw. He grabbed the scout by the front of his canvas duster, hauling him inches from his face, Sebastian Stan’s jaw tightening until a vein throbbed against his temple.

“He died in the dust, and his mine belongs to me,” Ace snarled, dropping his voice down to an icy, venomous rasp that made the whole warehouse feel ten degrees colder. “Chamberlain built a kingdom out of dirt, and three washed-up drifters took it from him with toys and tricks. I am not Beauregard Chamberlain. You speak that dead dog’s name in my presence again, and I’ll feed you to the canyon.”

Ace shoved the scout backward into the heavy timber of the STEAL VENGEANCE crate with a hollow, echoing thud.

The scout stumbled, coughing against the sawdust, nodding frantically with his hands raised. The other men in the room went dead still, not a single one daring to breathe, let alone adjust the holsters at their hips. They all knew Ace’s obsession: he didn’t just want FrontierTown—he wanted to prove he was greater, crueler, and more untouchable than the monster who built it.

Ace slowly adjusted the leather lapels of his coat, the cold composure settling right back over his features like an executioner’s mask. He turned back toward the dark window, looking out across the moonlit roofs toward the edge of town where Bray and his four guns were already marching.

“They think they buried the devil when they put Maverick in the ground,” Ace murmured, staring into the dark. “Let’s show ’em the devil was just warming up the seat.”

Crazy’s mocking laugh echoes off the rafters, making Ace grind his teeth. She doesn’t fear Maverick’s ghost, and she sure doesn’t fear Bray marching through the dirt—to her, the whole bloody vendetta is just a carnival game.

“Heehee... why stop at the mining shafts, Acey?” Crazy giggles, her voice dropping into that teasing, wicked purr as she leans down into his face. “We crack their ribs, we tear down their pretty coaster, and we mount the old heroes’ heads right over the town gate! Won’t that be a lovely show?”

Ace doesn’t laugh. He just gives her that stone-cold Sebastian Stan stare, slowly wiping a speck of sawdust from his glove.

Outside, the heavy thud of boot heels hits the boardwalk. Bray and his four guns have arrived at the perimeter.

“So they are here already, but it’s not midnight yet; they came too early,” crazy said

Crazy spun on the heel of her worn leather boot, her ratty skirts kicking up a cloud of sawdust as she peeked through the crate slats. A wide, jagged grin split her face, her eyes rolling back in pure, twisted amusement.

“The boys didn’t even wait for the clock to strike twelve!” she cackled, clutching the grips of her pistols to her chest like a pair of dollies. “So impatient, so rude! Don’t they know a lady needs time to powder her nose before a slaughter?”

Ace didn’t move an inch. The cold blue in his eyes stayed locked on the double barn doors at the end of the warehouse. Outside, the steady, rhythmic crunch of four pairs of heavy boots marching across the gravel was getting louder, cutting through the dry night wind.

“Bray isn’t here to keep appointments,” Ace said, his voice level, flat, and chillingly quiet as he pulled a long, notched lever on the side of the crate. A heavy iron lock snapped loose inside the timber with a dull clang. “He’s here because he thinks blood can buy back what they lost.”

Ace drew his iron, the long steel barrel catching the dim amber lantern light. He looked over at Crazy, his jaw tight.

“Let ’em breach the perimeter,” Ace murmured, stepping back into the deep shadows of the rafters. “Let the boy think he has us cornered. Then shoot the legs out from under him.”

Right on cue, the heavy timber of the front entrance rattled—Bray’s boot hitting the wood on the other side.

“Your early bray its not midnight yet, and that’s when chapter 1 gets created,” Ace said

Bray didn’t break stride. The heavy timber doors creaked wide on rusted hinges, letting the howling night wind sweep a gust of red canyon dust across the warehouse floor. Bray stood framed in the moonlit doorway, the long black hem of his coat whipping behind him, eyes fixed entirely on the shadows where Ace lurked.

“The preface is already written in blood, Ace,” Bray said, his voice flat, razor-sharp, and deadly calm. “Chapter 1 doesn’t wait on a clock. It starts the second you step out of the dark.”

Behind him, the silhouettes of his three riders fanned out along the threshold, revolvers drawn and leveled low.

Up on the crate, Crazy let out a shrill, delighted screech, bouncing on her heels as the hammers clicked into place. Ace stepped forward into the pale lantern light, his lips curling into a tight, humorless smirk as he cocked his iron.

“Have it your way, kid,” Ace murmured, raising the barrel straight toward Bray’s chest. “Let’s see if you survive the opening line.”

BANG!

The sudden crack of the gunshot ripped through the rafters, the flash lighting up the dark warehouse for a split second before the heavy slug buried itself into the dirt floor, splashing gravel inches from Bray’s boot. Blue sulfur smoke drifted up from Crazy’s smoking revolver, curling around her wild, untamed hair.

Crazy jumped in place on top of the crate, clapping her hands like a giddy child before catching herself. A manic, guilty grin spread across her face, her shoulders hitching up in an exaggerated shrug.

“Oopsie!” she squeaked, spinning the hot gun around her index finger by the trigger guard. “My trigger finger just got so awfully twitchy, Acey! The music was playing in my head, and my hand danced all on its own, heehee!”

Ace didn’t flinch, but his eyes closed for a fraction of a second, his teeth grinding behind a tight, murderous jawline. He slowly tilted his head toward the crate, the veins in his neck bulging against his collar as he fixed her with a blistering glare.

“Really, Crazy? I didn’t say shoot yet,” Ace growled, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low grumble that made the wood timbers seem to vibrate.

He didn’t take his gaze off her for two full seconds before smoothly swinging his iron back around toward the doorway.

Bray hadn’t moved an inch. His boot hadn’t retreated, his posture hadn’t broken, and his cold, unblinking eyes remained glued directly to Ace’s throat. Behind Bray, the three riders raised their weapons in unison, the deafening metallic clack-clack-clack of three hammers pulling back echoing into the tense, smoky silence.

“You’re losing control of your dogs, Ace,” Bray said, voice cutting clean through the haze. “Which means you just lost your turn.”

Ace lowered his iron just a fraction, a smug, arrogant smirk curling the corner of his mouth as he tapped the side of his revolver against his leather holster. He leaned back against the timber of the STEAL VENGEANCE crate, completely unbothered by the three barrels aimed square at his chest.

“Lost my turn? Look, the author is not dropping Chapter 1 till midnight,” Ace said, his tone slick, mocking, and full of venom. “So either you wait, or if you shoot before then, there will be hell to pay.”

Crazy burst into a fit of breathless giggles from atop the crate, kicking her heels against the charred wood in rhythm with the ticking hands of the old pocket watch hanging from Ace’s vest. “Tick-tock, boy! You can’t break the rules before the ink is dry!”

Bray stared down the sights of his gun, his knuckles white against the dark walnut grip. The sulfur from Crazy’s stray bullet still hung bitter in the air, drifting between the two factions like a thin gray wall.

“Hell is already paid for,” Bray said, his voice dropping into a razor-sharp whisper that cut straight through Crazy’s laughter. “And the author gave me the gun.”

Bray didn’t lower his weapon. He slowly pulled the hammer of his revolver back with a loud, deliberate click, locking his gaze onto Ace’s eyes.

“We’ve got minutes until midnight, Ace. You want to spend them talking about the author, or do you want to draw?”

Ace’s cold, mocking smirk faded into something completely merciless. He didn’t blink. With a lightning-fast snap of his wrist, his revolver came up, the ivory handle catching the lantern glow as the cylinder whipped into position.

“Fine. I guess we’ll end the preface with someone getting shot,” Ace said.

BANG!

The muzzle flash split the darkness in a violent arc of fire and sulfur. The heavy lead tore through the smoky air between them, striking one of Bray’s lead riders right in the shoulder. The force spun the man around with a sickening crack, sending him crashing hard into the timber doorframe before hitting the dusty floor with a ragged groan.

Crazy threw her head back and shrieked with unhinged laughter, slapping the lid of the STEAL VENGEANCE crate as wood splinters showered down from the impact.

Bray didn’t flinch, didn’t yell, and didn’t retreat. His boots stayed planted in the dirt, his coat flaring in the sudden muzzle blast. His gaze dropped to his wounded man for only a heartbeat before snapping back to Ace, his jaw clamped tight, the blue in his eyes turning completely dead.

“That’s your final free pass, Ace,” Bray whispered, the words trembling with pure, venomous ice.

Outside in the frontier chill, the rusted town hall bell began its deep, mournful toll—the first heavy strike echoing across the canyon to mark twelve o’clock.

Midnight had arrived. The preface was officially closed in blood, and Chapter 1 was ready to tear FrontierTown wide open.