Motherfucker!

Tazz tugged the collar of his shirt up over his mouth and nose. His eyes burned and watered, distorting his vision as he turned in a circle, struggling to see through the smoke, detect the threats. Adrian—you fuck! How the hell did they find them? And where the fuck was Blade? He’d taken Jules to one of the back rooms…

Fuck. Adrian’s men had to have come in through the back. Was Blade dead?

Fire crackled the exterior of the warehouse, the flames licking up the high windows, the walls no doubt splashed with gasoline. The exit doors were cut off by the fire, forcing them to seek escape through the rear of the structure. Where they’re fucking waiting for us.

The smoke blotted out a portion of the light coming through the windows, dimming the room even more. Figures moved through the smoky room—most of them Tazz’s own guys, growing frantic for a way out. But some…

Tazz watched as a shadowed figure grabbed one his men from behind and slit his throat. Oh fuck. They were moving in silently, picking off his guys, hardly detectable amidst the cloak of the smoke and the men’s own panic. He withdrew his weapon and backed up, aiming the gun this way and that, trying to pinpoint a viable target without killing one of his own. But they were all just shifting figures in the smoke, impossible to distinguish one from another.

Chaos erupted when the men realized they were being stalked by stealth hunters and picked off. Guns were drawn and shots fired haphazardly as their fear and panic escalated.

“Shit!” Tazz hissed and ducked as a bullet zinged past his head. Dumbass motherfuckers! They were going to kill each other! “Cease fire!” Tazz shouted at the top of his lungs, but the men weren’t hearing him. He stayed low and moved, disoriented, through the smoke toward one of the walls. “You’re gonna kill each other, you stupid fucks! Stop shooting-” Tazz froze, his shouts silenced abruptly as three shapes materialized out of the smoke a couple yards away coming right toward him—fast. Fuck! He brought his weapon up in a flash, squeezing the trigger as he went. The gun flew out of his hand as it fired, clattering against the concrete floor somewhere out in the smoke-filled room. He heard one of the men shout but their words were muffled and distorted as his lungs suddenly emptied when a fist that felt like a battering ram nailed him in the gut, doubling him over. His legs weakened and he dropped, his knees cracking hard against the floor. A fist clutched his hair and ripped his head back and he stared up into the face of Jules’ cowboy.

“You’re dead, motherfucker.” The deep, almost guttural southern drawl reverberated into Tazz’s bones and he knew it was true.

 

♦

 

Cory was thrust back in time—back into the nightmare that took place in another warehouse—when blood splattered his face and throat seconds after the shot fired…and a body fell against him heavily.

“Diego!” Cory cried and caught the young man before he fell to the floor. “Fuck! Diego!” Cory went down with him, laying Diego on the floor, searching frantically for a pulse. Oh Jesus—Jesus—no! God, no! Blood was everywhere, draining down the man’s face and neck, drenching his hair. “Fuck…no…” Cory choked, his mind exploding with horror images of Shay, the back of his head blown out, bleeding all over Cory. “No!”

“What?” Clint yelled at him, fear straining his voice.

“Fuck!” Cory screamed. “He shot Diego!”

Clint pivoted back around, his fist still buried in Tazz’s hair, and bellowed in rage, his knee smashing into the man’s face. “Motherfucker!” Clint laid into him, kicking the fuck out of him until the man lay in convulsing, bloody heap on the floor. “God dammit!” Clint dropped down beside Cory and stared at Diego’s still form.

“He shot him in the head,” Cory shuddered, his throat closing as tears ran down his face. “Fuck…fuuuck!”

Clint was shaking as he stood up. “Get that fucker out to the car,” he said tightly. “I’ll get Diego.”

The Egyptian appeared out of the smoke and assessed the situation in seconds.

“Take the kid,” Clint told Cochise. “Get him outside. Secure that motherfucker and do not let Cory come back inside.”

“Uncle Clint,” Cory started to protest but Clint shook his head, eyes hard.

“Get out of here—now!”

Cochise scooped up Diego as Cory grabbed Tazz and wrenched him to his feet without care. “Move, God dammit!” he yelled in his ear. The man stumbled and almost went down, but Cory jerked him upright again and shoved him forward, using him as a shield in the event that a stray bullet flew their way.

You don’t get to go out so easily, motherfucker, Cory thought bitterly, rage infusing his blood, his heart coming apart inside him as he was hit with the full brunt of Shay’s death all over again.

 

♦

 

Cochise laid the kid in the backseat of one of the cars as Cory shoved the other man into the trunk, punched him a few times then slammed the lid. Cochise stared at the young man’s body, his blood all over the Egyptian’s hands, soaking into his shirt. For a moment, he was staring down at the still body of Gianni Venetti…then Shay. He flinched when Cory touched his shoulder. He turned slowly from the open rear door of the car and looked at Cory. “He shouldn’t have been here.”

A couple of Cruz’s men came around from the front of the warehouse, alarm masking their faces when they saw the blood all over Cochise and Cory. “What happened?”

Cory stared at them, tears seeping down his face. “Diego…”

“What?” The taller of the two men went rigid. “What about him? What? Is he okay?”

“Where is he?” the other man trembled. He was about Cory’s age.

Cochise stepped back from the door and motioned inside the car.

“What…” Both men hurried to the car.

“No…” the shorter guy whispered, his jaw clenching as tears filled his eyes. “Fuck!” He shoved his hands through his hair and stepped back a few paces, his throat working. “No…he…he was going to be a father. This can’t… this can’t be happening…he can’t be…he fucking can’t!”

Cory leaned against the trunk, chin trembling as tears streaked his face.

“Who did this?” the other man whispered tightly. “Did you fucking kill him?”

Blinking against his tears, Cory rapped his knuckles on the trunk. “He’s in here,” he said thickly. “I promise you, he will fucking suffer for everything he’s done.” He swallowed hard. “He will fucking beg for death.”

Cochise moved away from the men and walked back toward the warehouse.

“Cochise?”

“Stay here,” Cochise pointed at Cory. “Do not set foot back inside.”

The young man made no attempt to follow as he sank back against the trunk and nodded.

Cochise drew his weapon as he stepped through the makeshift door and re-entered the warehouse. It was quieter inside, the chaos out front less hectic. He imagined Clint and the others had plowed through the other gang members rather quickly. He’d seen the look on Clint’s face…his reaction to Diego’s death. At that moment, he had ceased to be human and become what Cochise knew them to be; killers.

 

♦

 

That could’ve been Cory. What would you have said to Anthony if you’d brought him home a dead son? Why the fuck did you let him come along?

Clint was moving on autopilot, his brain set in destruction mode, barely registering the feel of his blade as it ripped away one life after another. Bodies fell at his feet and he stepped over them, unemotional, their blood wet on his hands as he grabbed his next victim, his blade plunging in without hesitation.

Is it just an act? Who we are at home?

Clint trembled and threw the body aside, fist clutching the bloodied knife.

We pretend to be family men, but “this” is what we really are.

The reality of the Egyptian’s words exploded through Clint. He tried to grab onto thoughts of Axel, their home, their future together as husbands—something of value and importance to keep him grounded, prevent his mind from slipping, careening backward into a damaging mindset that could destroy everything that mattered to him.

The heat of a man’s throat warmed his palm as his hand tightened, squeezing his jugular, his bloody fingers slick against his skin. The knife touched the base of the man’s throat and pressed against the soft tissue—and was suddenly jerked away as a strong hand gripped his wrist.

Clint stared over the man’s shoulder and into the face of the Egyptian, breath rushing through his nostrils. Cochise took the knife from his hand. “I got this.” He killed the man and dumped his body. “I’ll help Cruz and his guys pick off the rest.”

The Egyptian was dismissing him. “I can handle it,” Clint said stiffly, his blood pumping forcefully through his veins.

Something flickered through Cochise’s eyes. “You’ve done enough. Now, let me finish it.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so—now get the fuck out of here!”

Clint hesitated as he held Cochise’s stare; the Egyptian wasn’t going to back down. Clint blinked first and walked away.

Outside, he found Cory sitting on the trunk of one of the cars, heels hooked in the rear bumper, head in his hands. The kid had just relived the nightmare of losing Shay, his healing wounds ripped open again. Clint walked over to him and Cory slowly raised his head, face wet with tears.

“Does Cruz know?” he whispered.

“No.”

A couple of Cruz’s men lingered around the rear passenger door of the car, faces distraught as they spoke low to each other.

“Are they all dead?” Cory asked with an edge to his voice.

“Most of them,” Clint murmured and his tone sounded hollow to his own ears. “Cochise and the others will take care of the few who remain.”

Cory stared at him, his eyes traveling down to Clint’s blood-stained hands then back up to his tense face. “Are you all right, Uncle Clint?”

Was he? Clint nodded but wasn’t sure it was the truth.

Stepping off the car, Cory touched his arm. “Come on.” He motioned Clint to follow him and led the way to a slightly rusted faucet that sprouted out of the wall of the warehouse. He cranked the handle with some effort and a gush of filthy water spewed out, then tapered off into a clear stream. Cory urged Clint to squat next to him and he drew Clint’s hands into the cold water, washing away the blood.

Clint looked at the young man as Cory gently scrubbed his hands. “This is it for you,” he said low. Cory glanced at him inquiringly. Clint shook his head. “You’re not going on another job—ever again. I don’t care if your dad is kidnapped, you will leave this shit up to us. You’re done.” He swallowed thickly. “You go back to Colton and you figure out a legitimate profession for yourself. Get married. Build a family. And live a long life.”

Nodding slowly, Cory murmured, “Is that an order, Uncle Clint?”

His throat knotted tight, Clint confirmed, “You better fucking believe it.”