Chapter 24 Declan
DECLAN
My headlights illuminate the familiar sign of Frank's Gym as I pull into the parking lot.
I see a few cars parked, one I know to be Jay's. The engine idles for a second as I look around, not seeing anyone.
Two black SUVs roll in behind me and park. I get out as they shut off their engines.
Shane hops out of the passenger seat of one of them, cracking his neck, followed by four of our guys. Three exit the other.
"Jay said there's trouble, huh?" Shane asks, adjusting his holster beneath his jacket.
"Yeah. Said there was a fight between our boys and some outsiders," I say, irritated by the fact I had to leave her to come here. "If they cracked another nose or trashed the place over nothing, I'm pulling them off the next fight."
We approach the front entrance. The door hangs partially open, interior lights dimmed.
We step inside, boots echoing against the concrete floor.
And that's when the second thing hits me.
Silence.
There's no sound of sparring, no yelling, no gloves hitting pads, no hip-hop blaring from the speakers. Just dead air and the distant hum of the vending machine off in the corner.
"Where the fuck is everyone?" I ask, getting even more irritated.
"Maybe out back?" Shane says, stepping beside me. His voice is low, also suspicious.
We walk deeper into the gym. Racks are lined neatly with weights. Water bottles sit unopened beside benches. A jump rope sways gently from a hook like someone just left it.
But the gym's empty and I immediately think, Jay better fucking be here. He's the one who called me.
My pulse quickens and we move. I've walked into enough tense situations to recognize when something isn't right. The skin on the back of my neck prickles.
Then Shane freezes mid-step, pointing toward the corner near the emergency exit. "What the hell is that?"
I pull out my phone, switching on the flashlight. A dark smear glistens on the wall. Unmistakably blood.
"Something's not right," I say, drawing my gun. The others follow.
My men fan out, weapons ready, raised as we approach the back alley door.
I take point, stopping right in front of it. I turn to nod to Shane, who nods back and brings his aim right at the door.
I take a deep breath and kick the door open with the heel of my boot, expecting movement, anything.
But at first glance, the alley appears empty, lit only by a single flickering lamp halfway down the street.
We take a second and then all file out, my men's aim moving from left to right, up and down, scanning the area.
I get to about the middle of the street and that's when I see them. Two of my fighters sprawled on the ground, unmoving. Blood pools beneath them.
"Hey boss," one of my men says and I turn around.
There, laying against the wall, is Jay, my lead trainer, the one who called me. His throat's been cut ear to ear, eyes fixed in permanent shock. His phone lies beside his outstretched hand.
"What the fuck is—"
Before I can finish a flash from the rooftop catches my eye.
BANG!
BANG!
BANG!
Gunfire erupts from above. The man beside me jerks, blood spraying on me as he falls against me.
"GET DOWN!" I shout, dragging the bleeding man behind a dumpster.
Glass shatters around us as flaming bottles crash down on both sides of the alley. Molotov cocktails ignite instantly. Flames snake up the brick walls, trash bins ignite, creating a wall of fire, smoke, and chaos.
From the shadows, screaming masked men run in from both ends of the alley, carrying guns, knives, and bats.
"IT'S A FUCKING TRAP! TAKE COVER!" I yell, squeezing off three rounds toward the closest attacker. One hit finds him in the chest, tumbling him to the ground mid-stride.
Shane dives left, crouching behind a car. He's returning fire until I watch a bullet rip through his shoulder. He curses but keeps his gun up, switching to his left hand.
"We're fucking surrounded!" he shouts over the gunfire.
I scan for an exit from this hell, but both ends are blocked, and they're on the rooftop. There's no way around it; we're pinned down.
One of my younger guys, Mikey, has frozen completely, his gun shaking in his hands. I get up and run to him, grabbing him by his jacket and shoving him behind a burning trash can.
"Get your shit together or you're dead!" I yell in his face. "And so are we!"
He nods, terror in his eyes, but finally raises his weapon.
I pivot around and all I hear are screams. Gunfire. The sound of flesh hitting pavement. My men firing back, but we're outnumbered.
A Molotov hits the wall above me, glass raining down in burning shards. I duck, rolling out just as another attacker swings at me with a crowbar.
I shoot him once in the leg and he falls to his knee, and fire two more times in his chest. He shakes and falls backwards.
I scramble to my feet and more shots rain down and I jump behind the trash can next to Mikey again.
I look up and see another man running at us. I fire once, and I feel a sudden huge blow to my back. I try to turn, but I'm too late. A figure jumped from the fire escape, slamming into me full-force.
We crash to the ground, my gun sliding out of reach across the pavement. The attacker is huge, at least two-fifty, and knows how to fight. He lands a solid punch to my ribs that knocks the wind from my lungs.
I counter with an elbow to his throat, creating space to land a right hook to his jaw.
We roll around, fists flying. His fist connects with my jaw. I headbutt him. Blood spurts from his nose.
He pulls a pistol from his jacket and I grab his wrist and slam it against the pavement trying to get him to let go.
He doesn't.
So I seize his wrist with both hands, twisting violently until I hear the satisfying crack of bones. He howls; the gun drops.
In one fluid motion, he pulls a knife with his good hand. The blade shines off the fire as we grapple. I get my hand around his wrist, but sweat and blood make my grip slip.
White-hot pain explodes in my side as the blade sinks deep into me, slicing through flesh and muscle.
"Fuck!" I scream, warm blood soaking my shirt, my vision blurring momentarily.
The attacker pulls the knife free, preparing for another strike. The bastard straddles me, pinning my arms with his knees. I thrash beneath him, but the pain in my side is paralyzing. My strength is fading.
Then he leans in.
"The Phantom King sends his regards."
He raises the blade high, blood, my blood, dripping from its tip. His eyes behind the mask are cold.
As the blade descends toward my chest, a shot rings out. The attacker's head snaps sideways, a spray of red mist coming from where his eye used to be. He collapses on top of me, dead weight.
I push him off, looking up to see Mikey standing there, gun still raised, hands shaking.
"Holy shit," he whispers.
"About fucking time," I groan, pressing my hand against the wound in my side. Blood seeps between my fingers.
The gunfire around us has lessened. I hear Shane shouting orders, our men pushing the attackers back. People running.
Despite the agony in my side, I drag myself toward my attacker's body. I need to know who these fuckers are.
With one hand pressed against my wound, I go through the man's coat with the other.
I find a wallet and open it.
No driver's license, no ID of any kind. Just cash and… something slips out.
A card.
I pick it up. It's a sleek ivory business card. I run my thumb over the raised lettering that says: SHADOWHARBOR FOUNDATION.
Nothing else. No phone number, no address. I flip it over to find an embossed black feather.
"Motherfucker," I yell.
I search his other pockets and find several loose black feathers tucked into an inner pocket. I clench them in my fist, blood seeping between my fingers.
The Fucking Morrigans.
First Knox. Then our routes, drivers, my ship, and now these meant for me.
My vision wavers as I push myself up on my knees, but everything spins.
The sirens in the distance grow louder as the gunfire finally stops. I look around at the carnage. Four of my men down, not moving. Shane clutches his bleeding shoulder, barking orders into his phone. The alley reeks of gunpowder, smoke, and death.
I try to stand but my legs buckle. The knife went deep, and I've lost too much blood.
"Boss!" Shane runs over. "Shit. That doesn't look good. You're fuckin' bleeding bad."
The alley turns sideways as I collapse into the ground.
"We need to get him to a hospital!" One of my men say.
"No." I manage. "No hospital."
Shane stares. "You're gonna bleed out!"
"Bring me home," I say, voice weakening. "Bring me to her."
"Pick him up, take him to the car," Shane yells.
My vision narrows to a single star in the sky as they lift me. Every step they take sends lightning through my side.
"Stay with me, boss," Shane says, his voice sounding miles away.
They load me into the back of the SUV. I feel the engine roar to life, tires squealing as we pull away from the massacre.
Blood soaks the leather seats beneath me. My consciousness fades in and out like a bad radio signal.
As darkness closes in, all I can think about is Lyra. Her face. Her touch. The way she looked at me before I left.
If I die tonight, at least I'll die with her.
The thought follows me as darkness swallows everything.