Chapter Thirty-Nine #2
“You think you’re so fucking smart,” Michael continued, his voice dripping with contempt as he circled me slowly like a predator stalking wounded prey, savoring every moment of my suffering.
“Stealing my money. Running to the Brotherhood like some kind of hero. Playing both sides.” He punctuated his words with a brutal kick to my ribs.
I heard something crack. A sound like a dry twig snapping, and then felt a sharp, stabbing pain radiating through my chest like lightning bolts, making it even harder to breathe.
“You’re nothing,” he said coldly, his face twisted with rage as he kicked me again, harder this time, his boot connecting with bone.
“Just another stupid cunt who thought she could outsmart me.”
I curled into a ball, trying to protect my head, my stomach, anything vital.
Blood filled my mouth, warm and metallic.
I could taste copper and salt and fear. The bitter, acrid taste that came when a body knew it was in real danger.
My ribs throbbed with each shallow breath, and I was pretty sure at least one of them was cracked, maybe broken.
Get up. You have to get up. But I couldn’t.
My body wouldn’t respond to the desperate commands my brain was screaming.
Every nerve was screaming in protest. Every breath was agony, like shards of glass grinding against my lungs.
My vision swam, darkening at the edges, and I fought against the urge to just give in, to let the darkness take me.
Michael crouched beside me, his boots scraping against the concrete floor.
He grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked my head back with brutal force, forcing me to look at him.
His face was twisted with rage, veins bulging at his temples.
“This is all your fault,” he hissed, his breath hot and rancid against my face.
Spittle flew from his lips. “The Brotherhood is hunting me. The Society cut me loose. Everything I’ve built, everything I’ve worked for—it’s all falling apart.
All because of you.” He shoved my head down hard, and my face hit the concrete with a sickening crack.
Pain exploded through my nose, white-hot and blinding.
Stars burst behind my eyelids. I felt blood gushing immediately, hot and wet, pooling beneath my cheek and spreading across the cold floor.
The coppery smell intensified, making my stomach lurch.
“But you know what?” Michael stood, releasing me with a contemptuous shove.
His footsteps echoed as he paced away. “You did me a favor. You really did. Now I get to clean up all my loose ends in one place. Tie up everything nice and neat.”
He turned back toward Eros, who was struggling violently against his restraints, his muscles straining, the chains rattling and clanking. His eyes were wide with fury and helplessness, and I could see the desperation there, the same desperation I felt. “Starting with him.”
I lay there, bleeding and broken, watching through blurred vision as Michael walked toward the gun.
Move. You have to move. My body screamed in protest. My ribs were on fire. My face felt like it had been shattered. Every breath was a knife in my lungs.
Move, Alex. Fucking MOVE!
Michael picked up the gun, checked the clip, and turned back to Eros. “Where were we?” he asked conversationally. “Oh, right? I was about to blow your brains out.”
Eros glared at him, defiant even in the face of death. “The Gods will come for you. If they don’t find you, the Brotherhood will. You know that, right? You’re a dead man walking.”
Michael smiled. “Maybe. But you’ll be dead first.”
He raised the gun, and I moved. I didn’t know how. Didn’t know where I found the strength. But I dragged myself across the floor, my hands slipping in my own blood, my vision tunneling, my entire world narrowing to one single objective.
The gun. Get to the gun.
Wait. No. Michael had the gun. But there, on the floor near Eros. Another gun. Smaller. A backup piece that must have fallen from Michael’s waistband during the struggle. I reached for it, my fingers closing around the grip. It was heavier than I expected. Cold. Solid.
You’ve never fired a gun before. You don’t know what you’re doing.
But I didn’t need to know. I just needed to pull the trigger. I raised the gun, my hands shaking so badly I could barely aim. Michael’s back was to me. He was focused on Eros, savoring the moment, drawing it out. “Any last words?” he asked.
“Yeah.” Eros smirked as his eyes flickered to me. “Duck.”
Michael started to turn, and I fired. The recoil nearly knocked the gun from my hands, the force of it traveling up my arms and into my shoulders with a violence I hadn’t anticipated.
The sound was deafening in the enclosed space, a thunderclap that made my ears ring and my head spin.
The muzzle flash lit up the dim room for a split second, casting harsh shadows across the walls.
Michael stumbled backward, his arms windmilling as he tried to catch his balance.
A red bloom appeared on his shoulder, spreading across the fabric of his shirt like spilled wine.
But he didn’t fall. He didn’t even cry out.
Instead, he turned toward me, his face twisted in shock and rage, his eyes wide with disbelief. “You—”
I fired again. And again. And again. I didn’t aim.
Didn’t think. Didn’t breathe. Just pulled the trigger over and over, my finger acting on pure instinct and adrenaline, emptying the clip into him until the gun clicked empty and Michael finally, finally collapsed onto the floor.
His body hit the ground with a heavy thud that seemed to echo in the sudden silence.
The acrid smell of gunpowder hung thick in the air, burning my nostrils and throat.
The silence that followed was absolute as I stared at the gun in my hands. At Michael’s body, blood pooling beneath him, his eyes open and unseeing.
I killed him. Oh God, I killed him.
My hands started shaking. The gun slipped from my fingers and clattered onto the concrete.
I killed someone. I’m a murderer.
“Alex.”
Eros’ voice cut through my panic. Rough. Urgent.
“Alex, you need to move. Now.”
I crawled toward him, every movement sending fresh waves of agony through my broken body. My hands were slick with blood. Mine, Michael’s, Eros’, I couldn’t tell anymore.
“Keys,” Eros rasped. “In my cut. Inside pocket.”
I reached into his leather vest with trembling fingers, found the keys, and pulled them free.
“There’s a knife,” he continued. “Back pocket. Cut me loose.”
I found the knife and sawed through the zip ties binding his wrists.
The moment he was free, Eros grabbed my arm, his grip surprisingly strong despite his injuries.
“Listen to me,” he said, his eyes boring into mine.
“You need to go. Right now. I don’t know who’s coming, but I can hear bikes.
If they find you here, with me.” He gestured toward Michael’s body. “Whoever it is will kill you.”
“But.”
“No buts, baby.” He pressed his bike keys into my palm. “Just go, Alex. Black Harley. Parked out back. Take it and go. Don’t stop. Don’t look back.”
In the distance, I heard it. The rumble of motorcycles. Multiple engines. Getting closer. For a split second, I hesitated. Part of me wanted to stay. Didn’t want to leave Eros.
“Go,” Eros firmly ordered, gently pushing me away. “Before it’s too late.”
I nodded, unable to speak past the lump in my throat.
Then I ran. My body screamed in protest. My ribs felt like they were grinding against each other.
Blood dripped from my nose, my mouth, my split lip.
But I didn’t stop. I burst through the back door of the storage facility and into the parking lot.
And just as Eros said, a black Harley gleamed in the afternoon sun.
I threw my leg over the seat, jammed the key into the ignition, and kicked the engine to life.
The rumble of bikes was louder now. Closer. I could see them in the distance, a line of leather and chrome heading straight for the facility.
Go. Now.
I twisted the throttle and shot out of the parking lot, the bike roaring beneath me, the wind tearing at my hair and clothes.
I didn’t look back. Didn’t let myself think about what I was leaving behind.
Didn’t let myself wonder what would happen to Eros.
I just rode. Away from the blood and the violence and the man I had just killed.
Away from everything. And as the storage facility disappeared in my rearview mirror, I realized something.
I wasn’t running anymore.
I was choosing.
Choosing survival. Choosing freedom. Choosing myself.
Even if it meant I would always be alone.
Even if it meant I could never stop moving.
Even if it meant I killed a man and would carry that weight for the rest of my life.
I was choosing me, and that had to be enough.