Chapter Forty-Five #2
Eros walked over to the bartender, slapped a wad on the bar, and snarled, “Clear the place. Now.”
The man grabbed the cash and shouted, “Bar’s closed! Everyone out!”
Standing our ground, patrons rushed from the building, not needing to be told twice.
As the Tumbleweed cleared, I saw her. Tied to a chair in the corner, her eyes, those turquoise pools that held both fire and fear, were locked on mine. She looked more terrified than I had ever seen her, but there was also a spark, a flicker of defiance that refused to be extinguished.
“Who the fuck is in charge?” Eros shouted, his voice booming loudly.
“I am.” A tall, slim, soon-to-be-dead fuck smiled, pointing a gun at my woman’s head. “Where’s the cunt?”
“She isn’t coming,” Eros snarled.
The Death Dog’s smile was a grotesque rictus, his gun pressing harder against Kyllian’s temple. At her side, Banshee sat, beaten near to death, holding his side.
Ravage, his machete glinting in the dim light, moved with a predatory grace, flanking a few of the Death Dogs.
Indigo, ever the silent observer, had his own piece drawn, a dark, silent promise aimed at one particular Death Dog’s head.
Eros, ever the hothead, was already moving, a blur of motion towards the other Death Dogs milling around watching the show.
This wasn’t just about freeing Kyllian and Banshee anymore.
It was about sending a message. A brutal, bloody message.
“How ya doing, baby?” I asked, my voice dangerously soft as I never took my eyes off the fucker with the gun.
“I’m pissed,” she snarled, her defiance and anger radiating off her in waves. “What the fuck do you think?”
“Yeah, I see that.” I smirked.
The Death Dog’s smug confidence wavered, his grip on Kyllian tightening as his eyes darted toward his brothers.
He knew he was outmatched. They may have had the numbers, but he knew he had underestimated the Brotherhood of Bastards, and more importantly, he had underestimated FIRE. And for that, he would pay.
“You’re mine, Pleb,” Indigo snarled as he smiled at KROD, whose eyes widened in fear. “Did you think we didn’t know? That I didn’t know?”
He was caught, a rat in a cage, with no chance of escape, as Indigo moved closer to him.
Indigo’s words hung in the air, a death knell for KROD’s arrogance.
The prospect’s face, already pale, drained of what little color it held.
He’d been so confident, so sure of his position, and now, the rug had been pulled out from under him.
Indigo’s smirk widened, a chilling sight that promised retribution.
He advanced slowly, his gun still trained on the dead fucker, but his eyes, usually so guarded, held a flicker of something almost gleeful.
He knew he had him. He knew KROD was trapped, his earlier bravado dissolving into pure, unadulterated terror.
The prospect swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he tried to regain some semblance of composure. “I... I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he stammered, his voice cracking. But the fear in his eyes betrayed him. He knew Indigo knew. He knew his little game was up.
As Indigo closed the distance, the glint of his gun seemed to amplify in the dim light, a cold, hard promise of pain.
“You think you’re clever, don’t you?” Indigo’s voice was a low growl, barely a whisper, yet it cut through the tension like a knife.
“Think you could hide among us? Think you could play us for fools?”
The prospect swallowed again, his gaze darting wildly, searching for an escape that wasn’t there.
He was caught, a rat in a trap, and the Brotherhood of Bastards were the hungry felines closing in.
And as Indigo finally brought his gun barrel to KROD’s temple, the finality of the moment settled like a suffocating blanket.
There would be no escape, no mercy. Just the cold, hard reckoning that awaited anyone who dared to betray the Brotherhood.
The roar of the other Death Dogs, enraged and desperate, echoed in the background, but in that moment, their cries were lost to the silent, deadly dance between Indigo and his captive as Indigo pulled the fucking trigger.
I was a blur. My hand was already on the Death Dog’s gun hand, knocking it away as Indigo’s shot rang out, a deafening roar that shattered the tense silence.
The back of the Death Dog’s head exploded, and he crumpled to the floor, a lifeless husk.
Eros had already dealt with his prey, leaving them sprawled on the ground, groaning in pain.
My eyes found Kyllian’s, and though terror still flickered there, it was now laced with a fierce, unyielding defiance.
She had always been a fighter, and now, seeing that fire reignited, I knew I had made the right choice.
“You,” I growled, my voice low and dangerous, turning my attention to the remaining Death Dog, his smug confidence replaced by a dawning, sickening realization.
“You thought you could touch what’s mine?
You thought you could threaten my woman and walk away?
” My fist connected with his jaw, a brutal, bone-jarring impact that sent him reeling.
He stumbled backward, his eyes wide with a dawning horror as he clutched his jaw, a crimson bloom spreading across his face.
He had underestimated the Brotherhood, and he had definitely underestimated me.
And for that, he would pay.
Ravage, ever the silent predator, moved with a fluid grace, his machete a blur of silver in the dim light as he advanced on the downed men, making an example out of them, one Skinner would never forget.
Indigo, his presence a dark, brooding shadow, remained a silent observer, his drawn piece a dark promise against the remaining Death Dogs who dared to stir.
This wasn’t just about freeing Kyllian and Banshee anymore.
This was a declaration of war.
A brutal, bloody message delivered with cold, hard steel and unforgiving bullets.
This was the Brotherhood of Bastards, and they always collected their debts.
“Finish it, Firestride,” Eros shouted. “They’re coming in!”
Without blinking, I raised my gun, pointed it at the dead fucker and fired just as the doors to the Tumbleweed kicked open and in walked Morpheus, King and Zeus, and several others.