Page 113 of Manic

I take a deep breath, centering myself.

This is it.

There’s no turning back now.

We round the corner, and the dilapidated house comes into view.

A collection of beat-up cars and rusty bicycles litter the overgrown lawn.

This is definitely the place.

"All right, brothers," Runes, my father, barks through the comm. "Let's make this quick and dirty. No prisoners, no mercy. We’re sendin’ a whole damn message to the world that "

"Fuck," I mutter under my breath, my mind drifting to Rio.

I told him to stay behind, to keep safe, but now I'm second-guessing that decision.

What if keeping him away just puts a bigger target on his back?

The Patriot might not know he's Colombian yet, but it's only a matter of time.

The house is a dump, paint peeling and shutters hanging crooked.

It's exactly the kind of place you'd expect to find the scum of the earth.

As we dismount our bikes, a surge of adrenaline washes over me.

This is what we've been waiting for, a chance to finally deal with the Patriot once and for all.

With a nod, we move toward the house, weapons at the ready.

We all know how much rides on this, and I can feel my heart pounding in my chest.

Whatever happens next, there's no going back now.

My heart pounds as we rush the house, kicking in the flimsy door.

The stench of stale beer and cigarettes hits me like a wall.

"Raiders!" someone inside shouts, and all hell breaks loose.

Gunshots explode around us, deafening in the cramped space.

I stay close to my father, watching his back as we push deeper into the chaos.

My finger finds the trigger, squeezing off rounds at any threat that moves.

"Get down!" I yell, shoving my father behind an overturned table as bullets whiz past.

He grunts, "Good eye, son," before popping up to return fire.

My eyes scan the room frantically, searching for our target.

That's when I spot him—an older white male with a shaved head, wearing a shirt emblazoned with the American flag.

The Patriot.

"There!" I shout, but my voice is lost in the mayhem.