Chapter 17 – Vespera
Tomas’s intel was good, precise, a map drawn in his steady voice, delivered with a look that said he’d bleed for me.
You never miss, Tomas, I think, my lips tight, my focus honed. And I’m not wasting this.
I see the shack ahead, half-collapsed, ribs of wood sagging under the weight of time and neglect, moss hanging from the roof like skin peeling off bone, green and wet in the moonlight.
It’s right where he said it would be, a rotting sentinel in the bayou’s gut, exactly as promised.
No surprises yet, but my nerves hum, sharp, ready for the trap that could still be waiting.
The machete rests in my hand, its weight familiar, an extension of my will. Fingers firm around the hilt, steady, unyielding, promising blood before the night’s done.
My boots move quietly, step by step, deliberate, feeling out the ground, testing its give. Mud tries to suck at my soles, greedy, pulling, but I don’t let it hold me, each step a defiance of the swamp’s grip.
I don’t breathe deeply. The swamp reeks of rot and rust, a sour tang that clings to my throat, my skin, warning me to stay sharp.
You thought I’d hide, didn’t you? Thought I’d let you come for me. Not tonight.
The moon cuts down through gaps in the canopy, cold light slicing the dark, sharp as my blade, painting shadows that twist and sway.
Inside, I see movement, a shadow pacing slowly, then stopping, a silhouette against the shack’s cracked window.
Guard posted, his outline bulky, weapon slung loose, a rifle or shotgun, hard to tell in the dim.
He’s armed, but not alert, his posture slack, leaning too hard into routine, into the idea no one would come out this far to start a war.
They still think I’m the one running, I think, a flicker of a smirk ghosting my lips, cold and certain. They’re about to learn how wrong they are.
I crouch beside a broken tree trunk, its bark slimy under my palm, and watch for another twenty seconds, counting his steps, his pauses.
He steps outside, boots scuffing the porch, muttering to himself, words lost in the swamp’s hum. Fiddling with his zipper, back turned to the woods, oblivious to the death waiting in the dark.
“Wrong place,” I whisper, voice barely a breath, a vow to the night, to him. “Wrong night.”
I move.
Fast. Silent. My body flows like water, boots gliding over mud, machete low, ready.
Blade across throat, a single, clean stroke, steel biting deep, parting flesh with a whisper.
He gasps, a wet, choking sound, no scream, just surprise, wide eyes catching the moonlight as life spills out.
His body jerks, feet scrambling in the mud, a desperate dance that lasts seconds before he crumples.
Then stills, a heap in the dirt, no longer a threat, no longer anything.
Blood hits the soil, warm and fast, a dark pool soaking into the roots, feeding the swamp’s endless hunger.
I wipe the blade on his shirt, the fabric rough under my hand, blood smearing, but the edge clean again.
Step over him, my boot brushing his arm, no weight to it now, just meat and bone left behind.
No pause.
No remorse. He chose his side, and I’ve got no mercy for those who come for what’s mine.
I’m done running, done letting Alfeo’s dogs circle, done waiting for their next move.
They bleed now, every one who dares to touch my bar, my people, my heart.
The shack creaks ahead, its walls groaning under the weight of secrets, of men who think they’re safe.
And I’m not stopping here, not while there’s breath in me, not while there’s fight left to give.
The swamp’s alive around me, its pulse a chorus of croaks and buzzes, a rhythm that matches my own, fierce and unyielding.
Cypress trees loom, their branches heavy with moss, watching, silent witnesses to the blood I’ve spilled, the blood I’ll spill again.
The water ripples nearby, a gator’s wake or something else, but I am steady as a rock.
My grip tightens on the machete, the hilt warm now, molded to my palm, a partner in this war I’m waging. The moon’s light shifts, clouds sliding across its face, but I don’t need it to see. I feel the shack, feel the men inside, their arrogance a beacon drawing me closer.
Tomas’s voice echoes in my head, his intel a lifeline, his trust a weight I carry with pride.
You gave me this, and I’m not letting you down, I think, my chest tight with the bond we’ve forged, unspoken but ironclad.
Tiziano’s presence lingers too, his strength a fire in my blood, his loyalty the reason I’m out here, cutting through the dark for our future.
The guard’s blood soaks deeper into the mud, the swamp claiming him, erasing him like he never was. I move toward the shack’s door, its frame warped, barely hanging on, a weak barrier against what I bring. My boots are silent, my breath controlled, every sense sharpened to a blade’s edge.
You thought you could hide out here, didn’t you? I think, my eyes scanning the shack’s cracks, catching flickers of light inside, voices low, unaware. Thought the swamp would keep you safe. It doesn’t. I do.
My heart beats steadily, not with fear but with purpose, a rhythm that drives me forward, into the maw of whatever waits inside. The machete’s ready, my body’s ready, and I’m not the one who’s running anymore.
The shack looms, its shadow swallowing me as I near, the swamp’s warnings fading into a hum of anticipation. I’m here, and whoever’s inside is about to learn what happens when you cross me, when you threaten what’s mine.
I pause at the door, just for a second, feeling the weight of the night, of Tiziano, of Tomas, of the bar that’s my heart. Then I move, ready to carve through the dark, ready to make them bleed, ready to claim the bayou’s heart for my own.
I push into the shack.
The door barely holds on its hinges. It groans as I open it, wood dragging against the warped frame.
Inside, the place stinks of sweat and cheap booze. The floor’s stained. Boots line one wall—mud-caked, some still damp. Crates in the corner overflow with ammo. Spilled shells glitter like teeth under moonlight.
But what stops me is the table.
One map.
Spread wide.
New Orleans.
My bar.
A red circle burned through the center like someone pressed a lit cigarette into it.
I move closer.
No names. No notes.
Just creased lines and coded marks.
Scouting paths. Supply lines.
Entry points.
Escape routes.
It’s not surveillance.
It’s coordination.
“They’re not scouting. They’re planning.”
They’re not waiting for weakness.
They’re counting on it.
I roll the map tight, tuck it under my arm.
Alfeo’s game just changed.
He wants fire?
I’ll give him a blaze to choke on.
I grab two of the liquor bottles and unscrew the caps. Then, I douse the walls—old wood, old ghosts, old plans.
The smell burns my nose.
I strike a match, watch it catch on the edge of the paper and lick up the wall.
Then I turn.
The shack erupts behind me.
Wood cracks. Ammo pops.
Flames chew through strategy and secrets.
Yet, I maintain my stance.
“I don’t wait for war anymore. I light it.”
The map crinkles in my fist.
My bar won’t fall.
Not while I’m still standing.