Conn threw a blistering right, meaning to take the short man’s head off.
But he struck only air.
Toole dipped under the punch, slipped inside, and hammered Conn’s body with both fists.
Conn’s ribs exploded with pain. His breath left him, and one of Toole’s fists rushed upward and clipped his jaw, filling his head with sparks.
He staggered back.
Toole could fight.
But so could Conn.
And as Toole rushed again, Conn adjusted, snapping a left jab as he sidestepped the rush. The left barely grazed Toole’s chin, but the right hand that followed pounded into his cheek and sent him reeling.
Conn rushed forward, winging punches as he chased the retreating man. Because that was another thing he’d learned over his many fights: once you had an advantage, you kept rolling until you eliminated the threat.
His punches were wide and hard, not at all like a boxer’s punches, but they were fast, too, and though Toole slipped the first few with seeming ease, Conn’s relentless attack paid off when a looping hook caught the prizefighter in the ear.
The blow froze Toole, and the right that followed smashed into his face, flattening his nose into a bloody mess.
Conn didn’t pause to admire his work. He kept wailing away, putting his full strength into every punch—left, right, left, right, left, right—landing a thundering barrage that battered Toole’s ugly face, making it uglier still as Conn’s knuckles opened cuts and swelled eyes and broke bones.
At that moment, Conn had no plan for how to escape. In fact, he’d forgotten his dire situation. He was solely focused on one goal: destroying the man who had killed his brother.
He grunted, digging deep, and connected with a slashing right that smashed into Toole’s temple and sent him sprawling.
“Gonna kill you!” Toole whimpered, crawling away, and Conn realized with grim satisfaction that Toole was crying.
He started after him, meaning to stomp the life out of the weeping murderer, but Dog hollered wordlessly, putting the gun on him again, ready to shoot.
Conn paused as Toole struggled to his feet and went to Duncan and yanked his gun from its belt.
Conn hesitated, looking for a way out.
Leap to one side? Charge Dog?
Either action would get him killed.
Duncan gave another weird, sadistic giggle. “I told you not to mess with him, Henry.”
“Shut up!” Toole hollered and fired his weapon.
Duncan cried out and fell onto his backside. He lowered his hands to the blood pouring out of his abdomen and lifted them and stared at his bloody palms, mesmerized… and grinning.
Toole fired again, executing Duncan with a bullet to the forehead.
It was a shocking turn of events, and yet Conn wasn’t really surprised. He felt supreme contempt for these men. They were utter savages whose only power was their capricious and audacious use of violence.
Otherwise, they were weak and undisciplined fools. When they didn’t have someone to fight, they fought among themselves. There was no camaraderie between them, no loyalty, let alone anything like friendship or respect or love. These men didn’t even know the meaning of such words.
Dog, distracted by the abrupt killing, stared stupidly at Toole.
Conn rushed him.
Before he could reach him, however, Dog jerked around, lifted the gun, and snapped off a shot.
Not at Conn, though.
