Why gangsters have to treat every piece of information like a bedtime story, I’ll never understand. I’ve been clawing around for facts, but no one knows shit.
All I do know is that some guys have died mysteriously in a fucking bloodbath down in Oklahoma City this past week. Some were Banna, some were not, and no one knows who was behind it. Padraig, my boss who only just left Possum Hollow to go home and left me in charge in the process, is fucking pissed about it.
He told me to figure out what the hell is going on and who this guy is. And if he’s the one who’s behind the mysterious murders to take him out.
I can’t do any of that while I’m tied to this chair, though. If I get my throat slit and my balls cut off by this white power piece of shit salivating in front of me, I never will.
Fucking frustrating. I really like my balls. I’d have a hard time concentrating without them.
I’m calculating my options for the millionth time when the atmosphere in the room shifts.
I don’t think my captors sense it, but my spidey-sense starts tingling.
Before I have the chance to make a real assessment, I see a shadow. Behind the guy with the knife to my neck, there’s a doorframe with no door. It’s a hallway leading to the exit, I think, and the two other guys are standing on either side of it, guns in hand but relaxed as all hell. Clearly, they’re confident that we’re in the middle of ass nowhere, and no one is coming to find me.
In a fraction of a second, one of the two guards goes from standing and smirking at me to lying on the floor. His neck is cut, just like mine, except this cut was not fucking around. Theleft side of his neck is sawed open nearly down to the bone, spurting blood in a dark spray halfway across the room while he gurgles and thrashes on the dirty floorboards.
The person who did it moved like a shadow. They slid in, wrapped their arms around the guard and damn near decapitated him with what must be a very fucking sharp knife before releasing him, all in an instant. By the time I’m able to get my eyes to focus on them, they’re reaching for the other guard.
Who has about enough awareness to turn and widen his eyes, but not much else. This one stands there, his gun half-raised, while the intruder lodges their knife in the underside of his jaw.
The intruder is… Something. A man, athletic looking but not bulky. He’s wearing an oversized faded black Nirvana tee that’s hanging off him and ripped, pale denim jeans, along with some brown work boots with the laces untied that have clearly seen better days.
He almost looks like a drifter. A very sexy, lethal drifter with just the right amount of stubble to accentuate a sharp jawline, dark, narrow eyes, and dark, straight hair that’s long enough to part and fall around his eyes.
Focus, Colm.
What he looks like doesn’t fucking matter. Neither does the fact that he’s slowly wiggling the knife as it’s lodged in that man’s jaw, a teasing grin spreading over his face as the guy paws at him ineffectively.
What matters is that hopefully, if there are any gods of the fucking mafia, he’s here to rescue me.
It takes the one who was busy with me a few seconds to really clock what’s happening, and a few more to stop staring in shock at his buddy who’s still Pollocking the wall with arterial spray. But once he does, he makes a play for the intruder.
He’s taller and looks stronger. He has a gun on him somewhere, but between the fact that there’s barely two feetbetween them and he already had the knife in his hand, he seems to forget that. Instead, he charges the man, swinging wildly into the air between them.
The man looks more bemused than anything else. He lets go of his own knife, while the guy it’s lodged in acts like a stand for it. His attacker swings a few more times, but he’s able to lean back and dodge each one, looking as casual as someone avoiding a bumblebee the entire time. Then the Aryan grabs the front of his shirt, fisting it in one hand while he swings the knife again with the other.
The intruder’s expression changes like a switch has been flipped. His entire body tenses and fury sweeps over his face.
Just as quickly as when he first entered, he stops toying with the Aryan and attacks. The heel of his hand meets the man’s nose in a swift, sharp jab that knocks his head back, then he sweeps his legs out from under him, sending him to the floor in a limp pile.
He turns just long enough to grab his knife and rip it out of the henchman’s jaw, earning an agonizing, ear-splitting shriek before the man collapses on the floor like his buddy.
Knife in hand, the intruder moves like a flash toward the Aryan who’s still struggling to see straight after getting his nose busted. He crouches over his victim, all of his movements smooth and leonine, every single thing about him predatory. He doesn’t touch him though, only crouches, dangling his blood-slick blade over his victim’s face.
I’m kind of enjoying this, I’m not gonna lie. If plays were more like this, I might have some culture in my life.
The intruder is something truly incredible to behold. His confidence, his control, his economy of movement. Even the way he so obviously enjoys every minute of his work. It’s sadistic, sure, but at least he gives a shit.
Not like these losers who are practically too high to function and get off on the power of violence but don’t care about the prowess.
Well, now they’ve learned their lesson. And I get to watch this mysterious new master at work. He still hasn’t spoken, but he seems content to take in his prey from where he’s crouched overhead.
The Aryan makes an attempt to throw a fist, but the intruder bats him away easily. He cocks his head, obviously considering something, and I can’t decide if I want to watch him torture this asshole to death, or get it over with so I can—hopefully—get my ass rescued and out of these ropes.
I think the intruder is making the same decision, and it’s clear when his mind is made up. His victim must sense it too, because I can see his eyes go wide as true fear hits him for the first time. He makes a brief, pathetic attempt to scramble backward, but he’s cut off by the tip of the stranger’s blade plunging through his eye and into his brain.
This one takes a while to die. I’m never really surprised by what kills a person quickly and what kills them slowly. It’s always a dice roll.
