DANTE’S POV The gun clicked empty.
I pulled the trigger again and got another click, and by then the last of them had made it around the brick building corner, holding his elbow against his ribs like his guts might fall off if he let go, his boots kicking up snow as he ran.
My lungs screamed from the freezing air, and my fingers were so numb I could barely feel as I dug the phone out and dialed the number from memory.
Fernando picked up on the third ring.
“The fuck have you been, Dante?
You were supposed to be here by midnight.
We got a situation at the safehouse.” Fernando barked it out, and I could picture him saying the words, that dwarf frame squaring up against mine.
“You got a situation,” I drew a sharp breath, my breath fogging in the cold air.
“And you think I’m fucking sipping margaritas in the Bahamas?
That cocksucker won’t stop sending his goons after me.
I got lucky this time.
You’ve got bodies waiting on El and Bell.” He groaned.
Little shit had the guts to complain when I was the one keeping him breathing.
“Escape, don’t engage.” He started in.
“How many times have I told you, the more you kill, the louder you announce where we are.
Lay low.” “You little piece of shit.” I swore under my breath, “You better get here fast.” A pack of cigarettes was peeking out of the closest corpse’s jacket.
I dropped down to one knee and took it along with a cheap plastic lighter.
I walked down the dark alley where the runner had vanished.
I reloaded my gun, tucked it away, and finally got to where my bike was parked beside the brick building.
I brushed the snow off the motorcycle seat, threw a leg over, and turned the starter.
The engine rumbled to life under my thighs.
I flicked the lighter three times until a small flame took, dragged smoke deep into my lungs, welcomed the heat, and pulled out into the street.
The industrial sprawl melted into amber streetlights and patchy neon.
Snow dusted my visor.
I wasn’t navigating, just driving away from the blood.
Three blocks past the main strip, I spotted a rundown dive with half its sign dead: THE R—AR.
Tucked between a pawnshop and a dark laundromat.
Good enough.
I killed the engine at the curb, jammed the keys in my pocket, and went through the door.
Heat hit me first, heavy with stale beer and cheap perfume.
I skipped the bar and headed straight for the booth in the corner.
I sat with my back to the wall and kept my eyes on the door.
I raised two fingers to the bartender for a double whiskey.
Quick scan.
A couple off-duty dancers huddled in a booth, ignoring everything.
Nobody watching the door.
Nobody reaching under a coat.
The waitress slid my whiskey onto the table and left.
One of the exotic dancers sauntered over, her heels click-clacking on the floorboard.
She slid into the booth without permission, her fingers running over the arm of my leather jacket.
“Hey, big boy,” she murmured, leaning in.
“You here alone?” I glared at her and the smile wavered.
She pouted, took the hint and left.
The door opened, letting in a gust of cold air and a few stray snowflakes, and I looked at the woman that came in because she was exactly the kind of trouble I liked.
Long auburn hair spilled out from under a face cap that sat too low, blue or green eyes couldn’t tell from that distance.
Nobody wears a cap like that inside a bar at night for fashion, that was a cap doing a job.
She had a damp canvas backpack slung over her left shoulder, carrying it like it weighed nothing.
Her eyes swept over my booth without pausing, and she slid onto a stool at the far end of the bar.
One guy peeled off his stool with his beer and his confidence.
She shook her head before he even got the first word out.
He sat next to her anyway.
She downed her drink, stood up, and headed toward the back of the bar.
The genius who’d chased her off continued sitting, probably too embarrassed to stand up after being humiliated by her.
That’s when I heard the sound of bikes over the jukebox music.
Through the glass I watched them line up along the curb, six to seven guys in all black coming down from the bikes, walking with purpose towards the entrance.
So the crawler had talked faster than I gave him credit for.
“Shit,” I swore under my breath, downed the whiskey, stood up, and moved for the back exit.
Fernando would’ve been proud that I finally listened to him for once.
The hallway to the back was narrow and dark, and the girl with the cap was coming up the other way, fast, and we hit shoulders before either of us could avoid it.
Her head came up.
I saw her face for a split second, and I noticed the look on her face.
No time to analyze it though as I hurried towards the door.
I pushed past her and out the back door.
Into four of them.
Four guns covering one back door, all of them stamping their boots against the cold.
Whoever was running this crew out front respected me, which was flattering and inconvenient.
“Dante.” The nearest one had his gun out but hanging at his side, so the order was to bring me in alive.
“Boss says if you come in on your own, it goes easy.” “You mean the bastard sitting in a dead man’s chair?” My throat was so dry the words came out rough.
“He killed the old man, pinned it on me and sent you clowns here to do his bidding.
Tell him I’m coming for him whether I get proof or not.
He’s gonna die by my hands.” “Fuck that, you’re coming with us.” He started raising his gun and I shot him in the throat before it got level.
After that everyone was shooting.
A bullet hit the wall beside my head and sprayed brick dust into my face, and I fired back three times half blind, blinking grit out of my eyes.
When my vision cleared he was on the ground and not moving, blood already spreading dark against the snow.
Before I could recover, the other two rushed me together, no waiting, no talking.
I snapped my sights onto the nearest chest and pulled the trigger.
Click.
The slide was jammed half an inch back.
The lead guy hit me like a sack of concrete, driving his shoulder into my chest.
We crashed against the cold brick.
I cracked the useless gun across his face, grabbed his collar, and slammed my forehead straight into the bridge of his nose.
Bone crunched.
He sagged, but the last guy was already on me, and I fought to grab his gun.
We slammed against a metal dumpster on the side, hands tearing over the steel frame of the weapon.
“Just come in, man,” he said through his teeth while he pulled.
“He’s killing everyone who was loyal to you.
It’s only a matter of time before you wind up dead.” “He killed the Don!” I drove my knee up into his thigh.
“You’re taking orders from the reason there’s a fucking in-war.” “I don’t—” BANG!
The gun went off between our bodies.
Heat tore across my ribs and for a second I was sure I’d been gut shot.
I wrenched the gun sideways with everything I had, felt his fingers break inside the trigger guard, and then I was hitting him across the head with his own weapon until his knees quit and he slid down the dumpster and stayed there.
Behind me, the one with the broken nose was dragging himself across the snowy ground toward one of the dead man’s gun, leaving a line of red behind him.
I kicked him in the head on his way, picked it up and shot him in the head.
Brain matter splattered on my boots and the surrounding snow.
I put my hand inside my jacket to find the bullet hole.
There wasn’t one.
The shot had carved a line along my ribs and kept going, and my palm came away soaked in blood.
Quiet in the alley after that.
Not inside.
The bar behind me had turned into screaming and breaking glass, gunfire in there too.
I wanted to know what the hell was happening inside.
Someone else was clearing house, I hadn’t called for backup yet, so who the hell was doing me a favour?
I went along the side of the building heading towards the curb which was a mess of people running and screaming.
My bike was still out front, a thick layer of snow already settling on the seat again.
The front door banged open and there she was.
Cap gone, hair loose with snowflakes catching in it, backpack on both shoulders now, tight, the way you wear it when you plan on running.
And a gun in her hand, held low and correct.
She saw me at the corner and the gun came up, both hands, steady on my chest before I’d finished turning.
I fired first.