Bart caught my eye and grinned, mouth all teeth and zero humor. “The Reverend sends his regards,” he said, and the next thing I knew, he was in my space, hammering a forearm into my throat.
We hit the steps together, a tangle of denim, leather, and synthetic church carpet. The first punch rocked my jaw sideways, lights sparking behind my eyes. I jammed an elbow into his ribs—felt the hollow thunk but no give. Bart was bigger, faster, but I was angrier. He tried to throw me, but I hooked his arm and used his momentum to drag us both onto the slate landing. My shoulder took the brunt of the landing, pain lightning up my neck.
The world narrowed to three things: the pain in my body, the crowd’s gasps, and Bart’s eyes—blue, cold, calculating every move before I even made it.
He went for my nose, telegraphed as hell, and I blocked with my forearm. I threw a quick jab to his solar plexus, but he barely flinched, just smirked and headbutted me. The smell of his aftershave, sharp and antiseptic, mingled with the metallic tang of my own blood. I tried to shout something clever, but my mouth was already filling with copper.
“Gentlemen!” Maple’s voice boomed behind us, the perfect blend of concern and command. “Let’s be civil in the Lord’s house!”
Bart laughed. “You heard the man,” and drove a knee into my thigh so hard I saw white.
The fight rolled down the steps, crowd scattering, some old ladies screaming, the dads hustling their kids to the minivans. I caught a glimpse of Darla through the open doors, her face pale, mouth frozen in a silent “O.” She half-stood, as if to run toward me, but then dropped back to the pew, hands shaking so hard she nearly dropped the hymnal. I don’t know if she was scared for me or for Bart, and in that moment, I didn’t care. I just needed to make it to her alive.
Sarge closed in, less elegant than Bart but twice as mean. He tried to blindside me with a baton, but I pivoted and caught him in the knee with my boot. He went down hard, but Bart was already back on top of me, driving my head into the grass.
I spat blood and grabbed a fistful of dirt, flinging it into Bart’s eyes. He roared, swiping at his face, and I used the opening to land a punch right on his chin. He staggered back, cursing, and I lurched to my feet, hands shaking. Around us, Vin and the others were holding the line, Red pulling Sarge off me and clocking him with a full can of Monster.
“Go, Axel!” she yelled, voice pure adrenaline. “Finish it!”
I turned just in time to see Bart charge, arms wide, aiming to tackle me straight through the doors. I ducked, grabbed his jacket, and spun him around so we hit the doors together. They slammed open with a bang, sending a dozen churchgoers scrambling back.
Inside, the sanctuary was chaos—people standing on pews, cell phones recording, a few brave souls trying to play peacemaker and getting shoved for their trouble. Bart slammed me into the nearest support pillar, drywall and old paint dust raining down. I ripped free and countered with an uppercut, catching him square in the jaw. His teeth snapped shut, and for the first time, I saw a flash of real pain cross his face.
He retaliated by grabbing me around the waist and hurling us both at the altar. We crashed through the communion rail, splinters and hymnals scattering. The altar teetered, then toppled, taking out a pair of flower arrangements and a memorial candle that hissed and smoked on the carpet.
I rolled, gasping, and came up on one knee. Bart tried to tackle me again, but I sidestepped, grabbed a broken kneeler, and swung it like a bat. It shattered against his shoulder, but he kept coming, grabbing my shirt and dragging me into a chokehold. My vision tunneled, the edges going gray, but I managed to stomp his foot and rake my boot down his shin. He grunted, the grip loosening just enough for me to twist and slam my forehead into his nose.
He stumbled, blood gushing, and for a second I thought he might go down. But Bart wasn’t built to lose. He wiped the blood away with the back of his hand, then smiled, eyes blazing with a kind of religious fury I’d only seen in people about to die—or kill.
“You think this ends with you?” he spat, voice thick. “You’re just a means to an end, Axel. The Shepherd always wins.”
“Then let’s see how the sheep handle a little truth,” I said, and shoved him back into the center aisle, right in front of the whole damn church.
For a heartbeat, everything stopped. The choir had gone silent, and even the cell phones were still. I could feel the eyes of every parishioner on us, waiting to see which side God would take.
Bart straightened his jacket, then pointed at me. “He’s a criminal! An addict! Everything he says is a lie!”
I wiped my mouth, spat blood on the marble. “I might be an addict, but I’m not the one trafficking kids.”
A collective gasp, the words hanging in the air like a curse.
Bart rushed me, but I was ready. I dropped low and let him go over my shoulder, slamming him into the first row of pews. The wood cracked, and the nearest church ladies scattered, some shrieking, some just clutching their pearls harder. I stood over him, panting, waiting for him to get up.
He didn’t.
Instead, Sarge came in from the side, catching me in the ribs with a baton. Pain exploded through my side, but I kept my feet, turned, and clocked him across the jaw with the heel of my hand. He went down, groaning.
Vin and Canon burst through the doors, backing me up, fists raised, faces split with matching grins. Behind them, I heard the distant wail of sirens—Lexington’s finest, late as always.
Red slipped inside, phone still recording, and panned the chaos with a flourish. “Smile for the camera, motherfuckers. TMZ is gonna eat this up.”
I looked up to the altar. Darla was still there, halfway between standing and sitting, eyes locked on mine. For a split second, the rest of the world faded out—no blood, no rage, just the two of us and the quiet knowledge that we’d burned every bridge worth crossing. She mouthed something—I couldn’t tell if it was “run” or “stay”—but either way, I knew what I had to do.
Vin grabbed my arm. “Cops’ll be here in thirty. Time to bail.”
“Not yet,” I said, turning back to Bart. He was still on the ground, dazed but conscious. I crouched over him, voice low. “Tell Maple I’m not finished. Not by a long shot.”
He blinked, face a ruin, and nodded once. “I’ll tell him.”
