Diesel doesn't flinch. Returns fire without hesitation. Two shots. Both hit. The member drops, slides down the wall leaving a red smear.
Another traitor tries to run for the door.
Ratchet cuts him down before he's halfway across the room. Three rounds in the back. Tight grouping. The man's momentum carries him forward even as his legs give out. He slides down the door, leaving a red smear on the steel.
Havoc provides cover fire from behind the overturned church table. Kneeling. Braced. Methodical shots. Taking his time. Picking targets. Breathing between rounds like he's at the range teaching prospects. Like this is just another drill.
A bullet catches him in the chest. Right side. I see it hit, watching as his body rocks backward, his face twistin’.
But he keeps shooting. Doesn't go down. Just adjusts his position. Shifts weight. Keeps firing like the bullet was an inconvenience, not a wound.
Another round hits his shoulder. Left side this time. His gun wavers, but doesn't drop. Blood soaking his cut, spreading dark across the leather. Face going pale, but jaw set. Still shooting.
A third bullet strikes him in the neck. It’s over. Blood sprays across the table he's using for cover. Across his hands. Across the floor. His gun falls. He goes down hard, his body hitting the floor with a sound I'll hear forever.
The fighting intensifies after Havoc falls. There’s no reason to be measured or cautious. This is a hunt, and we’re pickin’ off traitors one by one. Bodies dropping every few seconds, blood pooling and spreading as the floor becomes slick with it. Shell casing’s are everywhere.
I empty my gun into a traitor trying to flank until the magazine locks back empty—the slide frozen. Another mag slips in on instinct.
A traitor rushes me while I'm reloading. Close quarters. Desperate. No gun. Just hands reaching for my throat. Eyes wild. Mouth open in a scream I can't hear over the ringing in my ears.
I finish the reload. Bring the gun up. Shoot him in the face. Point-blank. The body drops at my feet. Blood and bone fragments spray across my jeans.
The last traitor standing drops his weapon.
Hands up. Shaking. Mouth open. Eyes wide. About to beg, or bargain, or offer something.
Diesel shoots him anyway.
No hesitation. No mercy. No prisoners.
The gunfire stops abruptly.
Like someone shut off a switch. Like the world ran out of bullets and violence all at once.
Ringing silence. Everyone's ears are screamin’. The gunsmoke’s thick enough to taste.
Someone pounds on the door from outside.
Fists hammering as muffled voices carry through the steel. The prospects, or the women, demandin’ to know what happened.
The door is barred from the inside. They don’t have a chance in hell of gettin’ in.
I count the standing men.
Diesel—cut soaked with someone else's blood, breathing hard. Face spattered with red. Gun still in hand.
Chains—smoking gun still raised. Glass eye reflecting fluorescent light. Real eye tracking the bodies.
Ratchet—reloading methodically. Checking his magazine. Counting rounds like this is just another day.
Four, five, six… twenty-two patched members still breathing, including me.
The body count, on the other hand, is a shit-show of a number. The church looks like a slaughterhouse.
Diesel steps forward into the center of the room, then points at the survivors. "You stand for Badlands or you die with them," he says. "Right fucking now. Not to Legion. Not to me. ToBadlands. The real Badlands. Not Brick's Fed operation. Not some rat deal. The patch. The brotherhood. The life."
He's not asking permission or takin’ a fuckin’ vote.
