Chapter 9 #2
Bullets fly in every direction.
Muzzle flashes lighting up the dim room like strobe lights. Brass casings hitting concrete with metallic pings, rolling, scattering. Men screamin’—warnings, curses, names. "Get down!" "Behind you!" "Fuck—"
The sound is overwhelmin’.
A member on Brick's side—I recognize him, rode with him, don't remember his name—shoots at Diesel from behind a chair. Misses. Round punches through the cinderblock wall behind him, showering dust.
Diesel doesn't flinch. Returns fire without hesitation. Two shots. Both hit. The member drops, slides down the wall leaving a red smear.
Another traitor tries to run for the door.
Ratchet cuts him down before he's halfway across the room. Three rounds in the back. Tight grouping. The man's momentum carries him forward even as his legs give out. He slides down the door, leaving a red smear on the steel.
Havoc provides cover fire from behind the overturned church table. Kneeling. Braced. Methodical shots. Taking his time. Picking targets. Breathing between rounds like he's at the range teaching prospects. Like this is just another drill.
A bullet catches him in the chest. Right side. I see it hit, watching as his body rocks backward, his face twistin’.
But he keeps shooting. Doesn't go down. Just adjusts his position. Shifts weight. Keeps firing like the bullet was an inconvenience, not a wound.
Another round hits his shoulder. Left side this time. His gun wavers, but doesn't drop. Blood soaking his cut, spreading dark across the leather. Face going pale, but jaw set. Still shooting.
A third bullet strikes him in the neck. It’s over. Blood sprays across the table he's using for cover. Across his hands. Across the floor. His gun falls. He goes down hard, his body hitting the floor with a sound I'll hear forever.
The fighting intensifies after Havoc falls. There’s no reason to be measured or cautious. This is a hunt, and we’re pickin’ off traitors one by one. Bodies dropping every few seconds, blood pooling and spreading as the floor becomes slick with it. Shell casing’s are everywhere.
I empty my gun into a traitor trying to flank until the magazine locks back empty—the slide frozen. Another mag slips in on instinct.
A traitor rushes me while I'm reloading. Close quarters. Desperate. No gun. Just hands reaching for my throat. Eyes wild. Mouth open in a scream I can't hear over the ringing in my ears.
I finish the reload. Bring the gun up. Shoot him in the face. Point-blank. The body drops at my feet. Blood and bone fragments spray across my jeans.
The last traitor standing drops his weapon.
Hands up. Shaking. Mouth open. Eyes wide. About to beg, or bargain, or offer something.
Diesel shoots him anyway.
No hesitation. No mercy. No prisoners.
The gunfire stops abruptly.
Like someone shut off a switch. Like the world ran out of bullets and violence all at once.
Ringing silence. Everyone's ears are screamin’. The gunsmoke’s thick enough to taste.
Someone pounds on the door from outside.
Fists hammering as muffled voices carry through the steel. The prospects, or the women, demandin’ to know what happened.
The door is barred from the inside. They don’t have a chance in hell of gettin’ in.
I count the standing men.
Diesel—cut soaked with someone else's blood, breathing hard. Face spattered with red. Gun still in hand.
Chains—smoking gun still raised. Glass eye reflecting fluorescent light. Real eye tracking the bodies.
Ratchet—reloading methodically. Checking his magazine. Counting rounds like this is just another day.
Four, five, six… twenty-two patched members still breathing, including me.
The body count, on the other hand, is a shit-show of a number. The church looks like a slaughterhouse.
Diesel steps forward into the center of the room, then points at the survivors. "You stand for Badlands or you die with them," he says. "Right fucking now. Not to Legion. Not to me. To Badlands. The real Badlands. Not Brick's Fed operation. Not some rat deal. The patch. The brotherhood. The life."
He's not asking permission or takin’ a fuckin’ vote.
He wants a pledge and he wants it now. Normally, I’d say this was not a great way to total up your loyal members. With bodies and blood pooling in the room, still wet.
But they’re alive for a reason and all of them are holding weapons.
They don’t hesitate. They declare one by one.
"Badlands."
"Badlands."
"Badlands."
Down the line until everyone's spoken except me.
I don't need to say it. They already know. But I do anyway. “It’s only ever been Badlands.”
Diesel nods. “Welp,” he starts. Like this is just another day in the life. “You’re in charge now, Legion.” He looks at the rest of us. “Anyone got a problem with that?”
They shake their heads.
“Good,” Diesel says. Then he pushes his bloody knuckles at me. “All hail, President Demon.”
I blow out a breath, dap him, then stand there like an idiot as all the other guys follow his lead.
When that’s over, I look at Chains, who is kneeling beside Havoc's body. He’s careful and respectful as he presses two fingers to his neck. Checking for a pulse even though it's obvious. He waits. Finds nothing. Then looks up and meets my eyes. “Gone.”
I think about June. Their farmhouse. Their dinner table. Their six kids. The way she looked at Havoc like he was her whole world.
Time for that sorrow later.
Right now, we’re still in the middle of winning.
“OK,” I say, pointing at the door. Outside, people are still bangin’. “We got things to take care of out there too.”
Diesel nods to me.
I nod back.
Then I turn to Ratchet. "Open it."
Ratchet pulls the steel crossbeam. He yanks it free with both hands and lets it clang to the floor. The sound echoes as he pulls the door open. The hinges protest with a long shriek as sunlight floods in.
I step out first. Smoke billowing out behind me like I'm walking through fog. Gun still in hand, eyes adjusting to brightness. The compound spreads before me—bikes, buildings, dust, sky.
Brandy starts toward me, twenty feet away. Moving fast. Mouth opening. About to speak. Phone still clutched in her hand. Eyes wide—fear, or surprise, or calculation.
I raise my gun without breaking stride. Her death comes smooth. One shot, right between her eyes. She drops mid-step, slumping to the dirt. Her phone clatters as blood starts pooling under her blonde hair.
Silence.
I scan the immediate area. Five women outside in various positions. One near the garage—younger, probably early twenties. Two by the main clubhouse—hangarounds I recognize but don't know their names. One near the bikes—older, maybe thirties. One trying to back away—moving slow, hands up.
I look at Diesel without speaking, not asking.
And no one hesitates.
We all raise our weapons as one.
They’re runnin’ now. But it only takes five seconds to make the world go still again.
Six bodies, including Brandy. Which isn’t really important. It’s the people who aren’t here, that matter.
They were told to stay away.
None of this was about me, or my fine. It wasn’t even about Brick.
It was about loyalty. Principle.
It was a trap.
Silence settles over the compound.
Just wind. Dust devils spinning in the parking lot.
I spend the rest of the day feelin’ nothin’. Hollow, where emotions should be. Because there's work to do. Bodies to bury, blood to mop up, things to work out. Practical matters that add up to survival logistics.
And the whole time I feel it.
Something has changed.
Everything has changed.
Because nothin’ says you’re all in like a massacre.