Chapter 9 #5
I slam my combat knife into the throat of the Reaper charging at me, feeling the blade slice through skin, muscle, and cartilage with precision.
Hot blood sprays across my face, metallic and warm, as I twist and yank the blade free.
The gurgling sound as he drops tells me everything I need to know: he’s dead in seconds.
Three more Reapers converge on me, their faces contorted with a mixture of hatred and fear. Good. They should be afraid.
“Slaughter!” one of them screams, raising his gun with hands that shake just enough to notice.
I’m already moving before his finger finds the trigger.
My pistol feels like an extension of my arm as I squeeze off two shots in rapid succession.
The first catches him in his chest, punching through his cut and into vital organs beneath.
He stumbles backward, eyes wide with surprise as he looks down at the spreading crimson stain blooming across his chest. His mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water before he collapses in a heap of leather and blood.
The remaining two split up, trying to flank me, a smart move if they were facing anyone else. The one on my left is older, more experienced, moving with purpose rather than panic. The other is younger, wilder, adrenaline making him sloppy as he circles behind.
I drop to one knee, pivoting to fire at the experienced one. My bullet catches him in the meaty part of his thigh, tearing through muscle with a wet thunk. He howls, stumbling but still advancing, determination overriding pain. Admirable, but futile.
The whistle of a blade slicing through air behind me sends prickles racing up my spine. I roll left, feeling the wind of the near miss as steel parts the air where my head was a heartbeat before. The younger Reaper’s momentum carries him forward, off-balance from the missed strike.
I come up with my knife in my left hand, gun in my right, muscles singing with the familiar dance of combat.
Blood pounds in my ears, time slowing to that familiar crawl that happens when your body understands it’s fighting for survival.
Every detail sharpens: the sweat beading on the younger Reaper’s upper lip, the slight hitch in the wounded one’s step, the copper tang of blood filling my nostrils.
“Come on, motherfuckers,” I growl, baring my teeth in what might be a smile but feels more like a snarl. “Let’s finish this.”
The wounded one fires wildly, desperation making him careless.
Bullets splinter the wood beside my head, showering me with fragments that sting my cheek.
I return fire with mechanical precision, the recoil traveling up my arm as I squeeze the trigger twice.
First shot catches him in the shoulder, spinning him halfway around.
The second finds his neck, opening his throat in a spray of arterial red.
He goes down hard, body thrashing as his life pumps out onto the floor in rhythmic spurts.
The younger one charges with a roar that’s more fear than courage, swinging a machete in a wide, telegraphed arc.
I sidestep easily, letting his momentum carry him past me, then drive my knife deep between his ribs.
The blade slides in with surprising ease, finding the space between bones as if guided by some higher power.
He gasps, a short, shocked sound, as his weapon clatters to the floor.
I twist the knife, feeling tissue tear and organs rupture as I yank him close, our faces inches apart.
“Where’s Riggs?” I demand, the question coming out in a low hiss.
His eyes are already glazing, blood flecking his lips as he struggles to breathe through a punctured lung. “F-fuck you,” he manages to spit, warm droplets landing on my cheek.
I twist the knife again, watching pain contort his features. Not for pleasure—I take no joy in this—but for information. For Xavier. “Where?”
“Back…” he wheezes, eyes rolling as shock sets in. “Service entrance…”
I let him drop, the wet thud of his body hitting the floor barely registering as I’m already moving toward the hallway that leads to the rear of the clubhouse.
My boots slide slightly on the blood-slicked floor as I round the corner, coming face to face with three more Reapers at the end of the corridor.
They raise their weapons in unison, but their surprise costs them precious milliseconds.
I don’t hesitate. Two quick shots drop the first one, his forehead erupting in a spray of bone and brain matter.
Then I’m charging the others, ducking low as they open fire.
The confined space of the hallway amplifies the gunshots to a deafening roar, bullets punching holes in the wall behind me.
White-hot pain sears across my shoulder as a bullet grazes flesh, but the burning sensation only sharpens my focus.
I slam into the second Reaper at full speed, driving him back into his companion with enough force to hear the crack of ribs.
My knife finds his gut, the resistance of skin and muscle giving way as I rip upward with brutal efficiency.
The coppery stench of perforated intestines fills the air as I kick him away, already turning toward the last man.
He backs up, eyes wide with terror as he fumbles to reload his empty weapon.
The metallic click of his magazine releasing echoes in the sudden silence.
My gun clicks empty at the same moment—no more bullets—but I don’t need them.
The knife in my hand feels alive as I launch it with a flick of my wrist, years of training condensed into a single, fluid motion.
The blade spins once before burying itself in his chest with a meaty thunk, the impact driving him back a step.
His eyes drop to the handle protruding from his sternum, mouth working silently as understanding dawns.
His knees buckle, body folding in on itself as he slides down the wall, leaving a smear of crimson in his wake.
I move forward, retrieving my knife with a sharp yank that sends fresh blood welling from the wound. I wipe the blade on his cut, the leather absorbing the worst of the gore before I continue down the hallway.
More gunfire erupts ahead, sharp, staccato pops coming from the direction of the service entrance.
The sound sends ice through my veins despite the heat of combat.
Xavier. The thought of him in danger, of these animals getting anywhere near him, sends fresh adrenaline surging through my system.
I reload on the move, fingers working automatically to eject the spent magazine and slam a fresh one home while my mind races with possibilities, each worse than the last.
I round the corner to find two Reapers trying to break through a barricaded door, the safe room where we’d planned to shelter the women and children.
One of them slams his shoulder against the reinforced wood while the other prepares what looks like a small explosive charge.
Rage burns white-hot in my chest, consuming everything else.
These fuckers came for our families. For children.
“Hey!” I shout, wanting them to see what’s coming. Wanting them to know exactly who’s sending them to hell.
They spin in unison, raising weapons, but they’re too slow, too sloppy in their surprise. I put a bullet through the first one’s eye, the back of his skull exploding outward as the round exits. His head snaps back, a fine red mist hanging in the air as his body crumples.
The second gets off a shot that tears through my right side, hot pain blooming like a flower opening its petals.
The impact staggers me momentarily, but rage carries me forward as I close the distance between us.
I tackle him to the ground, the air leaving his lungs in a whoosh as my weight drives him into the floor.
I straddle his chest, pinning his arms with my knees as I drive my knife into his throat, then drag it sideways with savage precision.
His body bucks beneath me, a final desperate attempt at survival as blood pulses over my hands in time with his fading heartbeat.
The warmth of it seeps through my jeans, adding to the sticky mess already covering me from previous kills.
I push myself to my feet, scanning for the next threat, the next target.
The pain in my side sharpens as adrenaline ebbs slightly, reality asserting itself through the combat haze.
I press my hand against the wound, feeling warm wetness seep between my fingers and soak the fabric of my shirt.
Not fatal—the bullet passed through clean—but I’m leaving a bloody trail now.
Doesn’t matter. I need to find Xavier. Need to find Riggs and end this once and for all.
More shouts from ahead, and a voice I recognize cuts through the chaos.
Grey. He’s alive, still fighting. The knowledge steadies me as I follow the sounds, moving more cautiously now as blood loss begins to make itself known.
My vision tunnels slightly at the edges, details blurring as my body redirects resources to vital functions.
I focus on my breathing, on the next step, forcing clarity through sheer willpower.
Two more Reapers appear at the intersection ahead, moving away from me, unaware of the death at their backs.
Their cuts are spattered with blood—whose, I can’t tell, but the thought that it might be Xavier’s sends another surge of murderous intent through my system.
I raise my gun, arm steady despite the growing weakness in my limbs, and squeeze the trigger twice.
The first shot catches the taller one at the base of his skull, dropping him instantly.
The second hits his companion between the shoulder blades, the impact driving him face-first into the wall before he slides to the ground.
No wasted movement. No hesitation.