With that, Mickey left the room and began to make his way back upstairs. He could hear the old floors creaking with passing footsteps, and he guessed there were around six men. He took a deep breath, the familiar flow of adrenaline washing over him and drowning out his pain.
He would take his time to mourn Pops, but not now.
First, he had six men to kill.
As he came up to the open doorway that led into the hall, he got a glimpse of a figure waiting for him on the other side. He immediately ducked down, hissing as a barrage of gunfire blasted by him. He shielded himself behind some of the old file boxes, and he waited for the shooting to stop.
He came around from the boxes, aimed, and fired twice.
The man dropped dead.
Mickey stepped over his body and then the nurse’s, heading into the sanctuary. There were three men clustered by the front doors, one sitting in a pew, and another standing next to the pulpit, lazily flipping through one of the old Bibles.
A million possibilities flashed before his eyes, his mind calculating all the different ways this could go, and every single scenario ended with all of these men dying.
“Mickey,” one of the men spoke up from the doorway. It was Salvatore Luchesi, that bastard, and he was standing right there, smiling nastily. “How’s your grandfather? Oh, right. He’s dead. Don’t worry. We’re gonna send you along to see him.”
Shit.
Mickey’s rising fury made him hesitate, and the men began to fire upon him. He ducked back through the doorway, cursing at himself for being so foolish. He never let his emotions interfere when he was working, and he struggled to rein them in.
It didn’t matter.
This was still going to end the same way.
Taking a deep breath, he waited for a break in the onslaught of bullets before diving back into the sanctuary. He took out the man at the pulpit with two quick headshots and kicked his body out of his way, ducking behind the thick wooden structure to shield himself.
“You’re dead, Mickey!” Salvatore screamed. “You and the rest of your little fuckin’ Gentlemen friends are fuckin’ dead!”
Mickey ignored the threat, waiting patiently before popping out to return fire. Salvatore and the other men took refuge behind the pews, and Mickey boldly strolled out from the pulpit and down the aisle, his guns at the ready.
Oh, this was too easy.
Every time one of the Luchesi men popped their head up, Mickey shot them. Even when two tried jumping up at the same time, he nailed them both. It was eerily beautiful to hunt in the glow from the old stained-glass windows, and the streetlights from the open doors created all sorts of fractured shadows and shapes.
As he advanced closer to the door and out of the darkness, he gave each fallen man a few more shots to make sure they were dead. After all, by his mental calculation, he had ammo to spare.
The last man begged, but Mickey barely heard him. It was all a nagging fuzz in his ears, and he emptied both of his guns into him.
As he reloaded, he forced himself to refocus and look around the church. Everyone was dead, but he didn’t feel any better. He was angry, sick, and his chest ached. He heard the sound of tires squealing outside, and he then realized Salvatore Luchesi wasn’t here among the dead.
That son of a bitch!
He must have snuck out while Mickey was pinned down behind the pulpit.
Mickey holstered his guns and sighed heavily. None of the carnage he’d left behind would bring his grandfather back, and there was now a painful emptiness burrowing its way deep inside of his chest.
“Hey!” Roger was calling out to him, tentatively creeping into the sanctuary. He looked all around with wide eyes, and he walked the aisle, seeing the dead bodies Mickey had left in the pews. “Holy shit balls.”
“What did Cold say?”
“He said to blow. To get the fuck outta here.” Roger surged toward Mickey and reached for his arm. “We gotta go. Now. I know this isn’t the best neighborhood, but someone had to have heard all that. They’re gonna call the cops.”
“Right.”
“Okay, yes. Let’s go. Why aren’t we moving? Why are you just standing there?” Roger frowned. “Mickey, are you fuckin’ listening to me?”
“I should have been here,” Mickey said quietly, ignoring Roger and looking up at the stained glass windows. The glow was beautiful, but it was also suffocating. The emptiness inside of him was twisting into an agonizing void. “This was… a mistake.”
