Chapter Ten
Vendetta
The moon was a dull blade scraping the edge of the sky.
Vendetta crouched low behind the rusted frame of a logging trailer, his breath misting in the cooling air, his ears tuned to every creak and rustle in the woods.
The entrance to the drainage tunnel loomed just ahead, half-choked with overgrowth and moss, like the earth itself was trying to swallow it.
It reminded him of Fallujah, dusk patrols with his unit moving low and tight through alleys choked with dust and tension. It was different soil, but he felt the same charged silence before the coming storm.
Behind him, Shade tapped twice on the butt of his rifle.
Ready. Ripper and Axel ghosted into position at his flanks.
Outcast scanned their rear, calm as ever, while Snow adjusted the strap on his gear bag and gave a nod.
Snow, the Hounds’ VP, was a late arrival.
The man had a deadly look in his eyes. As Vendetta watched, he pulled a balaclava from his pocket, covering his solid white hair so he wouldn’t give away their position. They were in it now.
A half mile to the front, Razor, Crash, Beast, and Player were already raising hell.
Bike engines roared, the sound of gunfire ripped open the quiet evening.
Smoke bombs bloomed like thunderheads at the front edge of the compound.
The commotion would keep most of the Cottonmouths’ attention on the diversion team. That was the plan.
But the plan didn’t account for the eerie lack of response.
Vendetta’s gut twisted. There were no return shots, and he didn’t see a flood of Cottonmouths charging out to defend their gate. Just a couple of scouts moved along the rooftops, their silhouettes pacing and twitchy. There weren’t enough of them up there. Not by a long shot.
“It’s too quiet,” Ripper muttered, echoing his thoughts.
Vendetta’s gaze studied the compound walls beyond the tunnel’s edge. “Maybe word got out…”
“Or maybe it’s a trap,” Snow said flatly.
Snow could be right. But Vendetta had lived too long, fought through too much, to assume hesitation meant surrender. Were there cracks forming in what used to be loyalty? Or was this a setup?
“Shade, you and Hero take your half right when we breach,” Vendetta said quietly. “Find the control room. Knock out their comms if you can. I want Eli deaf and blind.”
Shade nodded. “Copy that.”
Vendetta looked at the others. “We go left. We hit the barracks first, clear it. Then we move on Eli.”
His pulse pounded like war drums in his ears as he moved toward the tunnel entrance. The air was cooler inside, thick with damp stone and rot. They moved in single file, with their rifles raised and their boots silent against the concrete.
Every footstep forward brought him closer to the reckoning he’d craved for months. And it wasn’t just about revenge anymore. It was about carving out the infection Eli had allowed to spread when he allowed Sinister Skin and their corruption into Oak Grove.
Vendetta felt ghosts walking with them. Tank, every girl who never escaped, and every brother twisted by fear or guilt.
He swore he wasn’t going to relent until it all fucking burned down.
The metal grate gave way with a low groan, the sound dampened by the tunnel walls.
Vendetta led the way, his boots sinking into wet leaves and sludge, his rifle tight against his shoulder.
Behind him, Outcast and Snow followed like shadows.
Ripper and Axel closed the line. The stink in the drainage tunnel was sharp.
The smell of combined old water, rust, and mildew rose, and it was still way too quiet on the Cottonmouths’ side of things.
Vendetta’s breath slowed as he counted the seconds between steps, his instincts sharpening.
It reminded him of crawling through irrigation ditches outside the wire, waiting for a trigger man to make his move.
This was a different mission on the other side of the world, but he felt that same edge-of-your-soul anticipation.
When they emerged behind the equipment shed, moonlight cut hard across the gravel. It was quiet now out front. But he knew they would have heard a counter offensive if one had been launched. Was Razor and his group, whose job was to keep Eli’s eye on them, just waiting them out now?
The compound spread out in front of them in long rows of metal buildings with floodlights washing over bare ground and fences. Now, there were just two spotters on the roof.
“Ripper,” Vendetta whispered, pointing upward. “Roof left. Quiet.”
Ripper nodded, disappearing into the shadows like smoke.
“Outcast, Snow, cover him. Axel, on me.”
They moved slowly, in silence. Every step was a test of nerve. Until a shout cracked the quiet. Then a shot. Ripper’s suppressed rifle barked once, and the spotter folded, gone before he hit the tin.
That was when all hell broke loose.
From the front gate, the roar of engines shattered the stillness, and he knew it was Razor’s team.
“Showtime,” Vendetta muttered, keeping low as he sprinted to the next structure as alarms began to wail.
This was the breach. This was Baghdad, building by building. The muscle memory surged -- angles, cover, communication without a word. Fire and chaos to the front. Precision at the core.
“Split,” Vendetta ordered, panting now. “Shade goes right. We go left.”
Catching Shade’s gaze across the yard, he saw no hesitation. His friend peeled off into the smoke and floodlight glare with Hero and three more Hound soldiers. Gunfire broke out near the gate. Razor and Crash were drawing attention away from them, exactly as they’d planned.
Ripper fell in behind him with Axel, Outcast, and Snow, pressing into the flank. A figure bolted from a warehouse; Vendetta raised his weapon but held fire. The Cottonmouth was unarmed and running.
But there was more movement from the barracks.
“Eli’s close,” Vendetta said, voice tight. “You feel that?”
Outcast grinned, teeth white in the dark. “Yeah. It’s the stink of fear.”
They crept forward, sweeping corners and clearing structures as chaos broke out across the yard.
Voices shouted orders. A few Cottonmouths fired wildly into the trees, probably not even sure what they were shooting at.
That was the problem with half-loyal men.
They stopped fighting when the cause didn’t mean shit to them.
Vendetta took a deep, steady breath. He hadn’t come here for noise. He’d come for justice. For Dylan. For Tank and every piece of himself left bleeding in those woods. And he was going to fucking take it. Tonight.
Gunfire ripped through the night, closer now. Vendetta crouched low beside a rusted-out barrel as bullets kicked gravel at his boots. Across the yard, Axel returned fire in tight bursts, driving back two Cottonmouths pinned near a loading dock.
“They’re already folding,” Snow muttered, ejecting a spent mag. “They didn’t even commit to the line.”
Vendetta’s gaze tracked movement. He saw two more bolting from the barracks with weapons half-raised, looking confused and scattered.
“Because they know it’s over,” Vendetta said. He surged forward, cutting across the gap, Outcast and Ripper flanking left and right. Axel hit the outer wall of the main building first and dropped to one knee.
“Door’s locked,” he hissed.
Vendetta didn’t stop. He turned his shoulder, braced, and slammed into it.
The old hinges groaned. On the third impact, the door gave, swinging inward with a screech.
Nothing but smoke and shadows greeted them.
They made it inside, into a narrow hallway lined with storage doors.
Red exit lights flickered like failing pulse monitors.
Vendetta stepped in first, rifle raised, sweeping left. Ripper slipped past him, clearing right. A shot rang out from upstairs, close. The Cottonmouths were still here.
Outcast reached for his comm. “Shade, we’re in the main structure. Watch the upper floor.”
A pause. “Copy. Already clearing the south wing. They’re scattering. Trucker’s down. Creep’s bleeding. Eli’s running for it.”
Vendetta’s heart slammed. “He’s here,” he growled. “He’s still fucking here.”
Ripper jerked his chin toward the stairwell. “End of the hallway.”
“Then let’s fucking finish this,” Vendetta said, his voice low and sharp as a knife.
They pushed forward in formation, a team forged in blood.
Two Cottonmouths burst out from a side door, Axel fired point-blank, dropping one.
The other lunged with a blade, barely missing Outcast’s arm before Vendetta laid him out with the butt of his rifle.
They reached the stairwell with its narrow concrete steps. Old lights flickered above them.
Vendetta turned to them all. “Anyone not ready to see this through, say it now.”
No one moved.
“You helped me get Anya home to Mercy.” Outcast rolled his shoulders and shrugged. “I’m keeping my end of this.”
Ripper smirked. “Let’s go put the bastard in the dirt.”
Vendetta nodded without a smile. “Eli dies tonight.”
He took the stairs two at a time. And at the top, he saw blood on the wall, boot prints smeared down the hallway. A door slammed ahead of them.
“That one,” Vendetta said, already moving.
It was time for the reckoning.
The door gave way on the second hit, splintering beneath Vendetta’s boot like brittle bone. Wood cracked and hinges screamed, but none of it mattered, not compared to the man inside.
Eli Crizer. There he stood, pistol in hand, like it meant something. Like it could change what was already written.
Vendetta stepped through the haze of busted wood and plaster, the hall light casting a long shadow across the floor. Tank’s old cut clung to his back like a second skin, soaked in ash and blood, stitched by ghosts.
“You gonna shoot me this time?” he said, voice steady despite the fire in his chest. “Fucking do it. But you better not miss.”
Eli’s hands shook. Vendetta could see his fear. Denial and disbelief were stamped across his face.