Total pages in book: 40
Estimated words: 38333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
All the rats drop in seconds.
The room goes quiet again. Just for a heartbeat. Just long enough for everyone to realize what just happened. Heavy breathing. Gunsmoke hanging thick in fluorescent light. The chemical taste of burnt powder coating my tongue.
Then Ledger moves.
His chair crashes backward and then he's on his feet, aimin’ at me. His finger’s on the trigger and his face is twistin’ with rage, or fear, or calculation—can't tell which.
Diesel shoots him before he can fire.
Ledger's shoulder explodes. Red mist. Bone fragments. He spins from the impact, gun dropping from nerveless fingers. Goes to his knees. Mouth open. Eyes wide and shocked like he can't believe his own brother just shot him.
"Diesel—" he starts.
Nobody lets him finish.
Roach lunges for cover behind the overturned table.
Scrambling. Desperate. He reaches for a gun on the floor—Brick's gun, dropped when he fell. His fingers are stretching for it when Chains shoots him from the side.
Back of the head. Clean shot. No drama. Roach goes limp mid-reach. Body settling against the table leg like he's just resting. Blood pools under his cheek.
Club members start choosin’ sides in real time.
Some dive behind overturned chairs. Some freeze completely, caught between loyalty and survival. Some raise weapons and fire. The room divides along invisible lines everyone suddenly understands—Brick's people versus Legion's people. Traitors versus loyal. Feds versus Badlands.
The real Badlands.
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.