If Ernesto really could see the future, he'd know Monty would never give him a gun.

The two men sat in a Green Bay Panda Burger, a study in contrasts. Monty was an older, somber African-American who was tall and fit. His tablemate was a young, perky, red-headed fellow who would never be referred to as either tall or fit. Ernesto was going on about how he wanted to take part in the raid. That wasn't happening, and Monty was only half-listening at this point, focused on more important things. He thought he had made a mistake, but, no, it was right there on the receipt, –PICKLES, and yet there they sat, two green slices befouling his meal. He was in no mood to get up and insist his order be fixed; rather, he removed the offending vegetables and dropped them on a napkin.

"I'm sure I could be of help," Ernesto said.

"I'm sure you would be," Monty said, quite sure that Ernesto wouldn't be, but now his attention was drawn to the far side of the room. A girl of four years or so was being loud in her seat before her father reached over to grasp her arm. The man leaned in and whispered harshly to the child, and she shuddered under his glare. Monty knew the type of man and knew that the girl would face far worse once she returned home. It was Monty's solemn belief that some people shouldn't be allowed to be parents. He prepared to walk over to them when Ernesto said something that drew his attention back. He didn't think he heard correctly, so he asked Ernesto to repeat himself.

"Back in the car, I performed a movement."

Nope. That's what he'd heard. "A what?"

"A movement. You know, when I move forward in time. That's what I'm calling it."

"Yeah, no. First off, we need to pick a new name."

"What I'm saying is, I looked ahead, and everything was good. I went to where we entered the building, and then I moved forward again, and found us eating in another Panda Burger. You thanked me for saving your life, and everything seemed okay."

"You're not going; you can't. You're too..." Naïve, inexperienced, incapable... "Important. It's too dangerous."

"If it's too dangerous for two people, then how isn't it for one?"

"Because of what you can do. If I get killed, it won't matter to anybody, but with you..."

"How can you say that? It'd matter to me. We're friends."

Monty stopped himself from laughing because the guy was completely serious. Monty first met Ernesto for a half-hour last month, and they'd been together the last two days. That was it, but the man seemed genuinely hurt by the insinuation that they weren't friends. People didn't become friends that quickly. In the military, sure, when Monty and another soldier had met during a firefight, saving each other's lives without knowing the other's name, then they'd bond over beers afterwards. Monty and Ernesto didn't have that type of relationship. All the two of them had done was talk.

"I looked," Ernesto said. "You can't go by yourself."

"I'll be fine."

"No, you won't." Ernesto nudged a French fry through a puddle of ketchup on his tray before leaving it there. "I checked. If you go in by yourself..., I'm sorry, but you die."

Monty was unfazed by the revelation. He had accepted his own extinction since yesterday's conversation. "Well, you said when the police go in, they also die. Better me than them."

"No, it's not. When they go in, the drug lab blows up. When you go, you get shot. I saw us going in, and I saw us after. You said I saved your life, so I have to go."

"Can't let you. Sorry."

"Are you saying I'm lying?"

"No," and Monty sighed. The guy had shown him too much not to be believed, and Monty did not think of Ernesto as the duplicitous sort. "It's just--"

"I'm going," Ernesto said with a definite nod as if this settled things. "I'll go right now without you. If you stop me and get yourself killed, I'll just go the next time by myself. I will. I mean it, I will. When the police go in, they die. When you go without me, you die. When I go with you, neither of us do, so, I'm going. I'm not letting you die, so that's it."

Monty shook his head and looked over to the next table. The father and daughter were gone. Monty missed his chance to help the girl, and now he was going to get a really sweet guy killed to finish out the day, but Ernesto was stubborn. Monty discovered that early on. If the guy didn't get killed this time, he'd find some other way to put himself in danger trying to save lives.

He paused, keeping his eyes on Ernesto before saying, "Okay, fine. You can come."

"Thanks," and Ernesto smiled wide. "You won't regret it," and he began to eat.

"Sure." Monty looked at the pickle slices before balling the napkin and starting his meal, but they continued to nag him like an omen that things were about to go very wrong.

***

In Monty's Special Forces days, there was an ongoing joke amongst his compatriots about the type of mission in which Monty and Ernesto were about to engage. When the brass assigned an action that had fifty ways to go wrong and his team could anticipate forty-nine, such missions fell into the unofficial category of a complete and utter fuctastrophe. Often, upon hearing of an objective, ideas would be tossed about by his unit to create the most fuctastrophic plan possible. A personal favorite was:

Hey, Monty.

Yeah.

I have a plan for getting the reporter out of the compound.

Do tell.

You see, it's a big compound. Tons of people. The head honcho has his family there, his wife, sons, and daughter, as well as perimeter guards, bodyguards, wait staff, everything.

All right.

So, first off, we sneak in as close as possible from the northwest side. Security's weak there.

Sneak where weak. So far, so good.

Then, once we're spotted, we enter guns blazing, cutting a swath to the main house.

Blaze a swath. Still with you.

And then, once inside, guess where we head to?

The reporter?

The daughter.

The daughter?

Right. I'm bringing along a secret weapon. I went and wrote a poem.

A poem, you say.

Love sonnet, actually, filled with words of woo. I read it to the daughter, she becomes smitten, and her father doesn't kill me because it would break her heart.

And us, too, I suppose, because we're friends of his future son-in-law.

Of course. You're acting like I haven't thought this shit through.

Sorry. No offense. This is a hell of a plan. This must be one hell of a poem.

Oh, yeah. Got rhymes in it and everything. Wanna hear it?

God, no. I can't risk you enthralling me right before a mission. You don't want me all dreamy-eyed looking through a sniper scope.

Smart thinking.

Sounds great. Operation's a go.

And that became their catch phrase for when the higher-ups passed down a plan that was doomed from the start. After a briefing, a senior member of their team would say, "Operation's a go." The brass would leave happy, and everyone else would know what they were in for. Once, an informant called for an extraction, citing time-sensitive actionable intelligence. Monty's team blew into the heart of the city, pulled the man from the street, and dragged him back to their command amid a flurry of bullets and explosions. In his debrief, their snitch claimed knowledge of the location of Mr. Forty-Odd of the fifty-two Most Wanted but wouldn't reveal anything until they retrieved his prized cocker spaniel.

Monty's unit was ordered to return to the scene of their crime, where the townsfolk remained in a tizzy and shell casings on the ground were still warm to the touch. The saving grace was that most opponents had yet to reload their weapons, or else had wandered off to eat or use the facilities, because, after all, common sense said no one in their right mind would be stupid enough to return so soon after. Fortune favored Monty's team, for despite multiple injuries, there were no amputations, severe burns, or deaths, so that was considered a win, but that hideous animal used both orifices to ruin the Humvee's interior during its rescue. Monty was so pissed that in the midst of battle, he sent headquarters a proof-of-life photograph of the damned dog with Monty's gun held against the mutt's head. Their bosses weren't pleased, but neither was Ramirez, their driver, who screamed the whole way back variations of, "Oh, yeah, this operation's a go! Operation is an absolute go!"

Now, Monty exited his hotel room bathroom from a shave to find Ernesto trying on an army surplus flak jacket that flopped about, as the straps wouldn't adhere around the man's size. Ernesto feigned a two-fingered quick draw in the mirror while mouthing shooting noises before noticing Monty. The guy couldn't stop grinning as he asked, "So, are we ready?"

"Sure," Monty said, as he picked up his gun and holster from the bed. "Operation's a go."

***

The methamphetamine lab hid in a decrepit two-story mental institution that deserved bulldozing decades ago. The abandoned building sat squat in the center of town, stuck in a bureaucratic limbo as to whether it merited historic preservation or imminent demolition. Inside, palm-sized paint flakes cracked the walls, and every functioning door showed signs of disuse and abuse. Thick dust caked the floors, leaving foot-shaped indentations as Monty and Ernesto walked through.

According to Ernesto, only three cooks occupied the lab and their approximate location was known. Monty chose the stairway furthest from the second-floor crime operation, hoping to avoid any possible guards. At the top of the stairwell, Monty waited for Ernesto to catch up. Monty knew the sweat on the man's face stemmed more than from the climb. Excitement had dissolved into worry, and Ernesto's smile tightened into a grimace. He had a gun for show and protection, but he never used one before, so more show, less protection.

The stairs led to a defunct activity room, barren but for support columns and a series of tables piled with chemistry equipment. Monty counted six men in the room. No words were discernible, but the tone indicated haggling, and Monty calculated those that were users-turned-cooks, and those that were thugs-turned-buyers. The odds were ugly for Monty by himself, and with Ernesto's help, it would be the same as if Monty were by himself, so he pivoted his fingers back and forth beneath his throat to signal that they were to abort. Before either could take their first step down, a figure turned a corner beneath them and started up the stairs.

"Cops!" the man yelled, fumbling for the machine gun around his neck. Monty knew what was next. The stairway was a death trap. Their adversary would spray bullets, and Ernesto would take some directly or through ricochet. Monty grabbed Ernesto's arm to yank him from the stairwell up and into the room, and so it began.

Some drug dealers brought their biggest guns to meetings as a show of their seriousness, and today was no exception. Monty pushed Ernesto behind a support column, but he moved to another because there was no room for them both. Bullets impacted their cover, carving concrete chips away as Ernesto shivered and started to cry without sound. Monty couldn't worry about that now; he had to lay down enough shots towards the men in front of them while keeping an eye on the larger threat from the stairway. Monty fired twice around the column while making sure Ernesto was unharmed.

Ernesto sat on the floor, his eyes squeezed shut and his knees to his chin. To his credit, he reached blindly around the column to attempt a trio of shots as cover fire. They were going to die, and Monty allowed himself a last thought before heading into the fray: I failed, again. I'm sorry, Ernesto. I'm sorry, Lily. A deep breath before he opened up on the seven men.

Four, now, as the three nearest Monty were already falling over dead.

There was shock to everyone except Ernesto, as he seemed oblivious to what he had just done. Monty managed to hit one gunman in the shoulder before every survivor unloaded in Ernesto's direction, as the little fat guy appeared the greater threat. Monty fired six times more before emptying the rest of his magazine at the figure back in the stairwell. Despite this, he couldn't help but watch as Ernesto aimed wild once more and pulled the trigger.

It didn't require precognition to foresee a meth lab blowing up, and detonate, it did, in a series of multicolored explosions, as different chemicals ignited at their own leisure. The first fireball was the biggest, and those individuals nearest caught fire. The closest concrete column wavered in the smoke before collapsing. Monty thought there might have been a reprieve for their escape before the wall crumbled as well, landing with enough weight to crack the weakened wooden floor, which split in half.

One side of the floor stayed attached to the second story while another side fell to the level beneath, creating an angle that everything on the upper level fell down. Monty slid, Ernesto tumbled, gunman and their guns rolled and bounced. Brick and glass and chemicals and fire followed everyone in a hail of shards and stone, smoke blinding all. Monty landed first and stumbled on the uneven ground while grabbing for Ernesto, guiding both to a patch of sunshine that dared through the madness. Walls crashed into faltering columns, dropping ceilings, which weakened walls, and the collapse continued around them. Chemical tanks rained from above, and as more debris fell, the top of one tank spewed something that caught fire, causing the heavy canister to spin around the room like an enraged booster rocket, knocking over anything in its way. Another tank had the courtesy of blowing up immediately, ending the larger explosive threat in seconds.

Monty and Ernesto hit an open doorway at the same time to find the man from the stairwell there. Monty threw himself at the guy to protect his partner, but after two punches to the man's face, Monty stopped. His adversary was not standing in wait, but had landed against exposed rebar, which had punctured the man's arm and penetrated his side, leaving him pinned and wriggling against the wall. His eyes pleaded with Monty for assistance. Monty shrugged and ran after Ernesto. The man had engaged in crime and should have known that things don't always resolve in a happy ending. If he survived, perhaps the horror of his injury could be a deterrent to others that wanted to play criminal.

The short hallway branched out with sunshine beckoning from the left side. Despite his delay, Monty passed a gasping Ernesto and turned down the lit corridor, sighting the double glass doors of a side entrance. "Come on," he yelled, stopping to make sure Ernesto followed. Monty could be out in seconds, though the building's grumbling protestations indicated they needed to exit before that, but he couldn't abandon the guy that Monty had pulled into this mess.

Ernesto reached the end of the hallway and turned right.

For a second, the insanity and idiocy of such an action didn't register, and Monty felt like saying, Screw it, and saving himself.

If I get killed, it won't matter to anybody.

It'd matter to me. We're friends.

Fuck.

Instead of the safety of an easy egress, Monty turned back and pursued Ernesto, knowing as he headed towards the man, they headed towards their deaths. If Monty could grab him, he could try to drag the guy back to the exit.

An exit that just disappeared under a barrage of rubble.

Even at full speed, no hesitation, Monty never would have made it out. Maybe it was time to follow the guy who could see the future.

In a hallway of four doors, Ernesto bypassed two to reach a third, running through with Monty on his heels. Across the room, an emergency exit mocked them, daring them to cross the threshold as the brick walls coughed clouds of mortar from their seams. Monty sprinted past Ernesto to ensure the door opened but allowed Ernesto through first as the building grumbled a final death groan.

Monty pushed Ernesto into the alleyway to find the neighboring building's occupants peeking out of their own back door. Gaping upwards at some unknown terror, they retreated inside, but Monty jammed his arm into the opening, letting the door slam across his wrist. Monty dragged Ernesto through, ignoring the shadow blotting out the sunlight, and he dove in as the door crashed close with a roar. The walls trembled, and Monty watched the door dent and buckle, but hold.

A few moments to catch his breath, and Monty assessed his surroundings. They were in a beauty shop, with several ladies in the middle of treatments. One woman exited the front door screaming, curlers in her hair, followed by another with half-painted nails. Others stood in shock at these two ghostly figures covered in plaster dust. Monty removed his jacket and banged it against his legs while Ernesto fell into a seat in the shampoo stall, gasping for air between his exertions and his sobs.

Monty dabbed a wet towel over his face and rinsed his scratched-up arms under the sink faucet to remove grime and blood. Once reasonably clean, he did the same for Ernesto as quick and gentle as he could, carefully wiping around Ernesto's eyes as Monty ruffled the guy's hair to free remaining concrete bits. A minute of dusting off, and Monty guided Ernesto through the front door and away.

Ernesto looked in need of comfort, and he seemed one to take solace in comfort foods, so once they had driven far enough from the melee, Monty sought the closest burger joint he could find. He found Ernesto a booth and came back later with a repeat of their earlier orders, as Monty knew one meal on the menu that Ernesto liked.

Ernesto touched nothing before him. He appeared numbed and saddened by the recent spate of events, and Monty descended into a state of disbelief as well. It wasn't the acceptance of Ernesto's prophetic gifts, for the man had shown too many times that his ability was real. It wasn't the incomprehensible marksmanship Monty had witnessed, as he had given up by now the idea that they still operated in a rational world. It also was not their navigation of a building's collapse virtually unscathed, though not with nary a scratch, but when Monty had splinters in his arm and the other guy has rebar in his, one developed perspective.

Monty could accept all these things to one degree or another, but there were certain things his mind refused to wrap itself around, things that defied all logic. He double-checked his receipt and looked to his burger before checking his receipt once more. How was it possible? How did this keep happening? How was incompetence replicated in two different places? Was there some shadowy pickle consortium providing kickbacks for slices served? Monty needed to stop thinking about it before it drove him mad, so he focused once more on Ernesto. The guy needed some cheering up, so there was no reason for Monty to not follow the script.

"Ernesto." No acknowledgment, so Monty tried, "Ernie, look at me." When eye contact was made, he continued with, "I wanted to thank you. You saved our lives back there." Ernesto woke from his fugue with a jolt, realizing he was reliving a predicted scene as he examined his surroundings. Monty waited a few moments before, "I got to know. How'd you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Well, for instance, how'd you know the way out? I headed to the obvious exit to the left, but you didn't, and had I continued, I'd be dead now."

"I don't remember any of that."

"You turned right, passing two doors to get to the third."

"I didn't see any other doors, just the one." Ernesto squinted as he explained. "I remember running, and everything was blurry, maybe from the smoke, but I only saw the turn to the right, and I felt I had to go that way, and after, everything was blurred except for the one door. Maybe blurry isn't the right word; more like my vision was a whole lot of images on top of one another, and those were the only things clear. I don't know. I just felt that's where we had to go. It's sort of like I saw all possibilities, but I could only see the one that would work. It just felt right, kinda like..."

His silence ventured into uncomfortable territory, so Monty asked, "Kind of like what?"

"Well, like when we were being shot at, when I fired, it wasn't like I was just pointing my gun; it was more like I felt I knew where I had to aim it. Do you think...?" and Ernesto stopped for a sip of his soda before exhaling. "Do you think I killed anyone?"

Do I think you killed anyone? You killed everyone.

Taking a life changed people. Monty had seen it many times in war. Some would never want to pick up a gun again, or else they would want to use it one last time. It would destroy Ernie to think he'd hurt somebody, let alone the truth.

Monty sighed and shook his head. "No, man. You didn't kill anybody."

"You're sure?"

"I'm certain. Was there anyone on the ceiling?"

"What? I don't--"

"Because that's where all your shots ended up. I watched where I fired. I took everyone down. Sorry, not being mean, but you weren't much help. You did distract them, though, and you absolutely did get us out of there."

"You're sure?" and Ernesto's tone indicated disbelief.

"I'm positive. I wouldn't lie to you," Monty said, and he reached out to pat the guy's hand. "We're friends."

Ernesto nodded, and relief settled in as he picked at his meal. "Good. I'm glad. I mean, I'm not glad people died, or that you had to kill people."

"It's fine. They were a block from a middle school, and if it wasn't for summer break and the holiday, the area outside would've been packed. There's no tragedy there. I'm not happy about how it turned out; not sad, either. It just is."

"Well, I'd like to not kill, if possible."

"Me, too. Always."

"Or get us killed. I mean, that was close; so close. We coulda died." Ernesto's eyes widened. "Oh, jeez, I didn't realize. We almost died. I mean, we really nearly almost died," and he clamped a hand to his mouth before running to the nearest trashcan, retching with vigor into its insides.

Monty noted the other diners observing the scene with horror, some scrutinizing their own meals. To their audience, he said with a shrug, "I told them, no pickles. I don't know what it's gonna take."

***

The next day, Monty rented two hours at a gun range and set up a target twenty-five yards away. He wanted enough time to evaluate Ernie's sharpshooter classification. Monty handed him a gun. Ernie fired six shots; three hit the paper, one hit the ground. Monty took the gun away. "Okay, that's good. We're done for the day. I'll take care of the leg work, but you're not going out any more."

"But did you see the news today? Two murders that happened nearby."

"I know."

"You don't. You don't know what it's like. I want to help them, but you can't do it all."

"Well, I don't know." Monty scratched his chin. "We have cash. We find some people that can help. I know some guys from my Army days..."

"Would they want to do this?"

"If you paid them enough, yeah."

"I don't want someone who does this for money. I want them to want to help people. I don't want mercenaries, but what we're doing is dangerous and kinda illegal."

"It's highly illegal."

"I guess, yeah."

"No, no guess. We get caught, we are so going to jail."

"Right, and what if they are married or have... uh, you know, families?"

"I know what you're saying."

"You know, like, we need people that weren't going to be doing much in the future."

"Like me?"

"I wasn't trying to say that." Ernie looked at his shoes.

"It's fine. It's true. Look, you give me the names that we can get, and while I'm out doing what I can, you try to find more people."

"Like a team?"

"Sure, a team."

"A team," Ernesto said. "Yeah, that'd be awesome. And I've already got a name."