I shoot him in the head. Clean shot. Top of the skull. He drops before his gun finishes its arc upward. His body crumples as skull fragments scatter across concrete like shrapnel.
A gunshot explodes up front.
I turn. Diesel.
He's standing, gun drawn, face set in that expression I've seen before—the one that says he made his choice before walking in this room. Takes down the third nomad before anyone processes what's happening. Chest shot. Dead center. The nomad spins from the impact. Falls across a chair. Doesn't get back up.
Another shot—Havoc.
Standing now. Braced against his chair. Fourth nomad drops. Throat shot. Blood sprays in an arterial arc across two rows of seats. Choking sounds. Hands clawing at his neck as he goes down, trying to hold his life inside and failing.
Chains and Ratchet open up simultaneously.
Synchronized like they planned it. Like they talked about this. Like they knew.
Someone tries to run for the exit. Big mistake. It’s a younger guy, younger than me, who doesn’t live here. Only came in for the vote.
Probably another fuckin’ Fed. He makes it three steps before taking a bullet in the shoulder from Chains. It spins him around, then he takes another from Ratchet, it spins him back.
Time is movin’ in fragments now.
Diesel shooting. Havoc shooting. Chains and Ratchet. Nobody hesitating. My people knew. They were ready. They made this choice before the door even opened.
All the rats drop in seconds.
The room goes quiet again. Just for a heartbeat. Just long enough for everyone to realize what just happened. Heavy breathing. Gunsmoke hanging thick in fluorescent light. The chemical taste of burnt powder coating my tongue.
Then Ledger moves.
His chair crashes backward and then he's on his feet, aimin’ at me. His finger’s on the trigger and his face is twistin’ with rage, or fear, or calculation—can't tell which.
Diesel shoots him before he can fire.
Ledger's shoulder explodes. Red mist. Bone fragments. He spins from the impact, gun dropping from nerveless fingers. Goes to his knees. Mouth open. Eyes wide and shocked like he can't believe his own brother just shot him.
"Diesel—" he starts.
Nobody lets him finish.
Roach lunges for cover behind the overturned table.
Scrambling. Desperate. He reaches for a gun on the floor—Brick's gun, dropped when he fell. His fingers are stretching for it when Chains shoots him from the side.
Back of the head. Clean shot. No drama. Roach goes limp mid-reach. Body settling against the table leg like he's just resting. Blood pools under his cheek.
Club members start choosin’ sides in real time.
Some dive behind overturned chairs. Some freeze completely, caught between loyalty and survival. Some raise weapons and fire. The room divides along invisible lines everyone suddenly understands—Brick's people versus Legion's people. Traitors versus loyal. Feds versus Badlands.
The real Badlands.
Bullets fly in every direction.
Muzzle flashes lighting up the dim room like strobe lights. Brass casings hitting concrete with metallic pings, rolling, scattering. Men screamin’—warnings, curses, names. "Get down!" "Behind you!" "Fuck?—"
The sound is overwhelmin’.
A member on Brick's side—I recognize him, rode with him, don't remember his name—shoots at Diesel from behind a chair. Misses. Round punches through the cinderblock wall behind him, showering dust.
