Alfonso’s hand immediately gripped the lever of the armored rear door, his knuckles turning white as his face darkened with fury.
His massive frame shifted forward, ready to step out into the cold morning fog and face the firing squad of the Bulldogs Gang with his own bare hands.
“Boss, wait! Stay inside the car,” Griffin hissed sharply, his eyes locked on the dozens of assault rifle barrels aimed directly at their windshield.
He threw his arm back, physically blocking Alfonso from pushing the door open.
“Don’t step outside. Less you get shot directly in the heart this time by these bastards. You’re already wounded. Sit back. I’ll deal with them.”
Alfonso let out a low growl from the back seat, but he slowly released the door lever, his dark eyes burning holes through the bulletproof glass as he watched his right-hand man prepare for battle.
Griffin grabbed his automatic pistol from the hidden dashboard compartment, checked the chamber with a practiced click, and tucked it into his waistband.
He drew a deep breath, adjusted his leather jacket, and pushed his door open.
The damp morning air rushed into the cabin as Griffin stepped out onto the asphalt, slamming the door shut behind him.
He walked forward with an easy, unbothered stride, keeping his hands visible but hovering mere inches away from his weapon.
The fog swirled around the front of the car as Griffin stopped a few paces away from the enemy blockade.
Dente, the Bulldogs’ ruthless executioner, stepped forward from the center of the masked soldiers, lowering his automatic shotgun slightly, a twisted, superficial smirk stretching across his scarred face.
“Relax, Griffin,” Dente called out, his voice echoing coarsely across the quiet highway.
“We are not here to make a fuss or harm anyone today. Lower your guard.”
“You block our private highway with an entire militarized convoy and tell me to relax, Dente?” Griffin countered, his voice dripping with a freezing sarcasm.
“Give me a single reason why I shouldn’t order our hidden snipers to blow your head off right now.” This story is hosted at g.com.
“Because Zuroth has sent a very important message to Alfonso,” Dente replied smoothly.
He turned back toward one of the SUVs and gave an authoritative nod to his men.
“Bring him out.”
Two masked Bulldogs soldiers dragged a man from the back seat of the vehicle, dumping him onto the cold asphalt right in front of Dente’s bs.
The man was a bloody, broken mess.
His face was swollen beyond recognition, his torso covered in contusions, and his breath came in wheezing gasps as he clutched a shattered arm against his ribs.
“Zuroth sends his deepest apologies for everything that happened at the hospital,” Dente stated, pointing the barrel of his shotgun casually at the bleeding man on the ground.
“That hit was never meant to happen. Zuroth never ordered a strike on the EGUF.”
Griffin narrowed his eyes, his posture remaining rigid.
“You expect me to believe that?”
“It is the truth,” Dente insisted, kicking the side of the groaning man with his heavy boot.
“It had been this specific man who had shot Alfonso out of a personal, bitter grudge that he couldn’t tell us about. He went rogue, used our logistics, and compromised our truce. To show how incredibly sincere Zuroth is about keeping the peace between our territories, he ordered us to hunt this bastard down and bring him directly to Alfonso. Your boss can deal with him in whatever twisted way he wishes. His life is yours.”
Griffin let out a loud, mocking laugh that cut through the damp air.
“We won’t buy that cheap story, Dente. Nice try. If the hit wasn’t intended for Alfonso, why the hell did your men fire back at us with artillery when our guards engaged?”
Dente threw his hands up in a defensive gesture, his smirk never fading.
“Surely, Griffin, you can’t expect my men to have just stood by and done nothing as the Excross Gang members shot at them. They had to defend their own lives in the chaos. And besides, we killed none of your members last night. Just some minor injuries. We kept our return fire disciplined.”
“I’ll have to talk to my boss for this matter. But I doubt that Alfonso will let a hit on his life slide by just handing over an almost dead man as a sacrificial lamb.”
Suddenly, the heavy rear door of the armored vehicle swung open with a dull thud.
Alfonso, who had been silently watching the entire exchange from behind the tinted glass, stepped out onto the highway.
His towering, broad-shouldered frame immediately commanded the space, the morning breeze catching the lapels of his suit.
The masked Bulldog soldiers instinctively shifted their weight, their grips tightening on their rifles as the legendary Emperor of the EGUF walked toward the front of the scene.
Alfonso stopped right beside Griffin, his icy, dilated eyes bypassing Dente entirely to look down at the mangled body of the rogue soldier groaning on the wet asphalt.
“Alfonso,” Dente greeted, his tone turning cautious as he felt the sudden, suffocating shift in pressure.
“I assume you heard the message from Zuroth.”
Alfonso slowly tore his gaze away from the bleeding man and fixed his piercing eyes onto Dente’s face.
His expression was a mask of cold, unyielding iron.
“This dead man won’t help you at all, Dente,” Alfonso spoke, his deep voice dropping into a calm register.
“Any explanations from Zuroth won’t work under my rules. Your boss knows exactly how I operate. He knows how I like tit for tat. I don’t negotiate, and I don’t accept apologies wrapped in broken bones.”
Dente swallowed hard, his fingers tightening nervously around the grip of his shotgun as Alfonso took a slow, menacing step forward, his massive frame towering over the Bulldog executioner.
“The only way I can let this entire matter slide,” Alfonso continued, a slow, sinister, and bloodthirsty smile spreading across his handsome features, “is by shooting Zuroth at the exact same point I was shot last night. I want to put a bullet right through his ear to even us out.”
Dente stared at him, his face losing all color as his jaw dropped in shock.
“What?!” Dente gasped out loud.