22. 22 Blaze
22: Blaze
Tori wasn't wrong to assume that of the three of us, I'd be the one shitting my pants the most to have to go back. My hand instinctively reaches for the jagged scar running across my abdomen. It throbs with the memory of Nico's blade slicing through my flesh—searing pain, warmth, and a burning sensation I wasn't expecting.
I push the thought back as far as it'll go, shoving it into the darkest corners of my mind where it can’t trip me up now. Focus is everything. Losing it, even for a second, is how mistakes happen, and I’ve already paid the price for one.
This time, I’m not alone.
That should be reassuring, but with Ryder and Keagan at my sides, it feels more like walking into a lion’s den with a pair of clowns. These two couldn’t focus even if someone slapped shock collars on them for every dumb thought.
I clearly made a mistake when I formed these teams.
That's not really true though, is it?
These two make the best team, wielding unpredictability like an art form. The casino is going to be anything but peaceful, and these two thrive in chaos. I just hope I can keep up without losing my sanity—or my patience.
The ride is mostly silent with the exception of the engine's hum.
“What’s your pump-up song?” Ryder cuts the silence, leaning into Keagan, his usual grin firmly in place. He’s practically perched on Keagan’s shoulder, craning to see the screen on his phone.
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” Keagan fires back with a smirk, his voice full of challenge.
Now I’m curious. And mildly irritated.
They both flash their phones at each other before I can stop them, and the car erupts with their hysterical laughter.
“What?” I demand, gripping the wheel tighter. “What’s so funny?”
“It’s the same song!” Ryder laughs between wheezes, wiping a tear from his eye. Keagan claps him on the back like they’ve just uncovered some great universal truth.
“Which song?!” I snap, glancing at them in the rearview mirror.
“It’s only the best pump-up song ever for something like this,” Keagan says, barely containing his amusement.
“It’s ‘Remember the Name’ by Fort Minor,” Ryder blurts out, his excitement infectious.
“No fucking way,” I mutter, shaking my head as I reach for my phone. I plug it into the aux cord, the first few notes of the song pouring through the speakers.
Ryder explodes. “You’re kidding me right now!”
The laughter that fills the car is easy, unguarded. For a moment, it feels like nothing’s wrong, like we’re just a bunch of friends on a road trip and not three people walking into war. It’s a small thing, but it helps relax me. Reminds me who I am. Who we are.
The casino’s underground entrance looms ahead, a pair of harsh security lights casting long shadows against the pavement. There are three guards stationed outside instead of the usual one—a small but telling change.
Nico’s already on edge. Good.
I don’t slow the car as we approach. Subtlety isn’t on tonight’s agenda. We’re here to send a message, loud and clear.
Ryder rolls down his window, his gun already raised, and Keagan leans halfway out the backseat like he’s in a damn action movie. Keagan’s shot drops the first guard with aim so good, it shouldn’t be possible from a moving car. Ryder wings the second guy, and before I can take out the third, one of Diablo’s men finishes the job. The entrance is ours in seconds.
I park the car just outside, barely in time to watch three more vehicles pull up behind us. Men spill out, weapons in hand, looking like something out of a Rambo reboot.
The stench of cigars and stale liquor slams into me the second we step inside. The casino is alive with noise—slot machines humming, overhead speakers crackling, laughter rolling through the air like smoke.
Then all hell breaks loose.
Gunfire erupts, shredding the moment like a bad hand at blackjack. The sharp pops of pistols, the deeper boom of shotguns, the rapid-fire percussion of automatics—all blending into a symphony of chaos. The air turns thick with the bite of gunpowder, sharp and acrid, burning its way into my lungs.
Diablo’s men tear through the floor, weapons drawn, ready to turn this place into a slaughterhouse. Screams rip through the air as civilians scramble, toppling chairs, flipping tables, clawing their way toward the exits. A woman in a red dress stumbles, hands outstretched, only to catch a bullet meant for someone else. She crumples like a dropped doll, eyes wide, blood pooling around her.
I should care that innocent people are dying. I should. But really, I don’t.
A Niner rushes at me with a knife, and I step into the attack, twisting at the last second, catching the bastard’s wrist and driving his knife into his gut. The guy folds with a grunt, wheezing, and I don’t hesitate—grabbing the back of his head and smashing his face into the edge of a craps table. Blood spatters across the green felt, soaking into the dice like some sick omen.
Ryder moves like he was made for this. One second, he’s grabbing a pistol off a dead body; the next, he’s unloading rounds like he’s playing a goddamn arcade game. Two Niners drop—one clutching his throat, gurgling, the other curling around a gut wound, gasping for air he won’t get. A third ducks for cover, but Ryder’s already on him, vaulting a table and slamming a boot into his chest. The guy hits the floor hard, head cracking against the polished marble.
Keagan doesn’t waste time. A Niner comes at him with a crowbar, wild and sloppy, and Keagan just sidesteps, catching the guy’s wrist and twisting. The sick pop of bone snaps through the air, followed by a guttural scream. Keagan silences it with a knife to the ribs, yanking it free before the guy even realizes he’s dead. Blood sprays across a flashing slot machine, painting cherries and lucky sevens in crimson.
More gunfire. A shotgun blast rips through a row of machines, sending sparks and shattered glass raining down. A chandelier groans before giving way, crashing onto a blackjack table, crushing the dealer who had been crawling for cover. The room is a mess of overturned furniture, shattered bottles, and bodies stacking up between the neon glow and broken dreams.
Diablo’s men are brutal, but the Niners? They’re like roaches—no matter how many we put down, more keep crawling out of the shadows. A big bastard with a scarred jaw tackles one of Diablo’s guys, driving brass-knuckled fists into his face. Blood spatters across the carpet, but before the Niner can finish the job, I put three bullets in his chest. He staggers, blinking like he can’t quite process being dead, then collapses in a heap.
Ryder snatches a bottle of whiskey off a bar cart, hurling it at a Niner crouched behind an overturned table. It shatters against his head, glass embedding in his skin, booze soaking into his clothes. Before he can react, Ryder puts a bullet between his eyes.
Keagan is already moving, eyes locked on the staircase leading to Nico’s office. More Niners block the path, guns raised, waiting. He reloads, jaw tight.
“We need to get upstairs,” I growl, wiping a streak of blood off my cheek with the back of my hand.
“Yeah? And how exactly are we doing that when the Niners sent this nice little welcoming committee?” Ryder drawls, nudging a still-twitching body with the toe of his boot.
Keagan doesn’t answer. He just raises his gun and fires. The first guy stumbles back, clutching his chest. The second collapses before he even gets a shot off. The third ducks, but I’m already there, closing the distance in seconds.
I crash into the last guard, sending them both sprawling onto the stairs. The Niner fights dirty, clawing at my face, but it doesn’t matter. I slam his head into the step—once, twice, three times—until the only thing left is a bloody smear on the marble.
“Let's move,” Keagan snaps, already heading up.
Ryder reloads, grinning. “Time to pay Nico a visit.”
The casino floor is a battlefield behind us—bodies, blood, broken glass—but it doesn’t matter.
The only thing that matters is making sure Tori stays safe.
That means killing Nico here and now.
I grit my teeth as I push forward, my gun aimed but still. Ryder’s glance confirms he feels it too… the bloodlust.
I signal for the others to wait and push the door open cautiously, my gun raised and ready. But what greets me is a much less welcoming sight than I expected.
The last time I stood face-to-face with Marcus, I tricked him into meeting me at a bar and tortured him into giving me the information I needed to save Tori. I thought that was the last I'd see of him.
“Marcus,” I say, my voice low, even.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. His gun is already drawn, his grip steady, but his eyes—those dark, familiar eyes—are full of conflict.
“Blaze,” he replies, his voice tighter than I remember.
“Where’s Nico?” I demand, stepping closer but keeping my weapon raised. I know better than to trust him.
Brother or not.
Marcus doesn’t answer right away, agitating me further. The barrel of his gun shifts slightly, his finger twitching on the trigger. It’s a standoff that leaves me feeling like I’m breathing through sand.
“Marcus, I'm going to ask you one more time before I shoot you. And as much as I hate you, you're still my brother,” I urge him, because no matter what, killing Marcus would leave a stain on my soul I wouldn't be able to wipe clean. “Don't make me kill my brother.”
He hesitates a moment longer, then, slowly, Marcus lowers his weapon. The sound of the gun hitting the floor is deafening.
“He’s not here,” Marcus finally says, his voice barely above a whisper. “He’s at the trafficking site, moving the next shipment. He knows you’re coming.”
I lower my gun but keep my grip firm. “And you? What are you doing here?”
“Exactly what he asked,” Marcus admits, dragging a hand down his face. “I was supposed to oversee the casino. Keep things under control. But Nico…” He pauses, swallowing hard. “He’s not the man I thought he was. Everything that’s happened—Tori, you, all of it—it’s not what I signed up for."
I take a step closer, my voice softer now. What I'm about to say goes against my nature completely. And maybe it’s because of Tori, of the way she peels back my layers and exposes my bullshit, but the moment of vulnerability slips out and the smallest shred of hope takes over. “Then come with me. Let’s end this together.”
Marcus shakes his head, his expression pained.
So much for that hope.
“No,” he whispers, his voice cracking. “Me being there with you would give too much away. Let me stay here and take responsibility for this mess. I want to step up for once.” He fists his hands like he's pissed at himself for ever falling in line behind Nico. “You've always been the better son, haven't you?” His teeth grate as he admits words that hit me like a freight train, slamming into a part of me I’ve tried to pretend doesn’t exist.
He said it. He actually said it.
After years of being the shadow, the child who was never enough to anyone—Marcus just handed me the one thing I never thought I’d hear. The admission that I am the better child.
My mind reels, flashes of our childhood flooding in with sharp clarity. I see myself hunched over schoolbooks, struggling to meet impossible expectations, while Marcus got a pat on the back for showing up. I hear my father’s voice, that cold, sharp blade of judgment, always telling me to be more, do more. And Marcus? Marcus got to sit around and play games, laugh with friends, and live a normal life.
A bitter laugh escapes me, unbidden. “Well, congratulations. You finally figured out what I’ve been killing myself to prove.”
His head snaps up at that, his eyes locking onto mine. “You never had to prove it, Blaze. Not to me. I knew. I always knew. It's why I hated you—because you are better than me, and I was always worried dad would eventually see it, too.”
I stare at him, his words unraveling something I didn’t even realize I was holding onto. I should be angry, but all I feel is the ache of a lifetime spent waiting for this moment. A lifetime of needing someone to say the thing I’ve wanted to believe but couldn’t.
“You need to go before Nico moves again,” he urges, snapping me out of my thoughts. “You don’t have much time.”
As I turn to leave, I feel something shift in me, a small crack in the armor I’ve spent my life building. Marcus’ words settle into that space, filling it with something I can’t quite name. It’s not forgiveness, not yet. But it’s something… something healing.
I step out to find Keagan and Ryder leaning against the wall and playing rock, paper, scissors. I just stare at them as they suddenly stop and meet my gaze. Ryder grins as he wipes imaginary sweat from his brow.
“Thank God. I thought I was going to have to go in there and kill Marcus.” He shakes his head like that could have been the worst outcome of his life. “I'd never hear the end of it with you.”
“For fuck's sake. Just shut up and follow me. Nico's at the trafficking site,” I snap, already racing down the hall.
Ryder doesn't waste time, knowing exactly what this means. Tori is waiting, and this time we're not failing her.
Nico is dying tonight .