Page 38 of Mayflower

I learned early in life that fists can solve a lot of problems. Where I came from, they ensured your reputation. The streets aren’t kind to you unless you make a home there. And you do that by breaking everything wrong and building your own vision. It might be dark, but it’s yours. If fists don’t work, you use teeth. If that fails, you resort to weapons. Violence is something that grows exponentially.

But there is senseless violence, and there is a deliberate brutal force. The difference is that the first is chaotic and often fails. The second is a control weapon and a winner.

Tonight, I have a purpose. When I see the familiar face inside the room, it’s not hate that spikes my adrenalin but determination.

It’s Skiba, his scowl unmistakable. He is shirtless, his arm in a sling, his shoulder bandaged up, and so is his nose. But the fucker looks happy, tilting the beer into his throat and burping in satisfaction.

I want to tell him that he doesn’t deserve to breathe. I want to smash all his teeth, shoot off his dick, cut off his fucking tongue so he can never speak obscenities or fuck another woman.

But he doesn’t deserve me speaking to him. I don’t want to waste another single minute on him. So, I push the door open and shoot him first.

Bang.

One shot. Between his eyes.

I don’t care that he never saw me coming, didn’t get a chance to know who was taking his useless life away. I would’ve enjoyed watching him plead for his life, but I don’t want to waste my time.

Without words, I shoot the guy next to him. Then another. Then the fourth one. All of them are guilty by association.

I turn around and walk into the hallway when the sound of the front door of the mansion bursting open echoes through the house.

Shit.

Suddenly, yells are coming from everywhere. The ceiling bangs with the stomping feet upstairs.

For a second, I think it might be Butcher. If I could get to him right now and shoot the fucker, this nightmare for Port Mrei could be over.

But that means jeopardizing my life. That means possible death.

And I can’t die. I have to get back to Maddy.

For the first time, I let go of the grudge, turn on my heel, and start backing away down the hall.

Men run into the front of the hallway. They shoot first. I duck.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

Fuck.

They hide around the corner, but inevitably a shot comes at me. Then another. My bulletproof vest won’t save me if there is a bullet in my head.

Suddenly, the back door bursts open, and more men run in.

I’m forty feet away from the exit, but I drop to the floor by the wall. I’m way outnumbered. My game is to get minimum damage.

Whoever picked this house for the headquarters was a dumb fuck. It’s giant, but the ground floor is designed like those old-school shotgun houses. The corridor connects the front and back hallways in one straight shot, splitting the mansion into two wings.

So, when I shoot the random shot, and the thugs at the front peek around the corner and start shooting again, they shoot at their own men who come from the back door.

“Fuckers!”

“Drop the weapons!”

More shouts come. Men drop to the floor. It’s too dim for them to see who the attackers are as they are pitted against each other.

When the back entrance is cleared, I crawl toward it. I shoot the two injured guys on the floor before they have a chance to load their guns again, and I slip out the back door.

Bullets rain inside the house, because the men shoot at everyone who doesn’t look like their own. I trot toward the back gate. One last thing—I was supposed to blow a grenade inside the house. I wish I could. If Butcher is inside, I’d love to see his brain explode into a thousand pieces. But there are women inside, too. They will get hurt. So, instead, I throw the grenade in the air above the backyard, lunge behind the metal gates, and duck.

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