I grab the shooter’s wrist before he can turn the gun on me. Twist until I feel bone snap. His scream cuts off when I put my own bullet through his skull.
Shouting. Footsteps. I press into the alcove by the door, back against the wall, my gun raised.
Don’t look at him. Don’t look.
But I can see Santino in my peripheral vision. The blood pooling black under what’s left of his head. His tobacco scattered across the floor where it fell from his pocket.
Thirty years. I’ve known him thirty years.
The rage inside me is like a lightning strike in a dry forest.
I peek out. Fire twice. Two men drop. Return fire splinters the doorframe and I pull back, wood chips biting into my cheek.
Not punk kids. Bratva. MC.
A trap.
Four left. Maybe five. I can hear them spreading out, boots on the sticky floor, trying to flank me.
I don’t wait for them.
I come out of the alcove fast, straight at the nearest man. He’s too close to bring his gun up. My fist connects with his jaw and he crumples. I spin, fire, drop another one flanking left. The shot takes him in the throat.
Something burns across my ribs. A knife. The fucker with the blade swings again and I catch his wrist, twist until I feel tendons pop. The knife clatters. I shoot him in the face.
Another from the right. Two shots. First goes wide. Second catches him in the stomach. He folds, gun skittering away.
The guy I punched is struggling up. I kick him in the temple. Hard.
Last one runs for the door.
I catch him before he makes it. We go down together, my weight driving him into concrete. He claws at my face. I grab his head.
Twist.
Silence.
I push myself up. Stand there breathing hard. The bar is quiet now except for the ringing in my ears.
Santino.
I make myself look.
He’s still there. Still dead. Blood pooling beneath him. Eyes open, staring at nothing.
I’ve seen plenty of dead bodies. Made plenty of them myself. It’s never bothered me much.
This is different.
Santino has been part of my life as long as I can remember. He taught me how to clean a gun. Stood next to Lorenzo at my father’s funeral.
Now he’s gone because I trusted the wrong person.
I cross to him. Kneel down. Close his eyes. My hand rests on his shoulder for a moment.
“I’m sorry.”
The words don’t mean anything. Can’t fix this. I say them anyway.
