Page 86 of Property of Fox

Asher and the Hellion grapple on the floor. The Hellion may have size on his side, but Asher fights with the focused rage. His fists rain down on the Hellion's face, each impact punctuated by a sickening crunch.

I force myself to my feet, swaying dangerously as the room spins around me. My eyes lock onto the discarded chain. With trembling steps, I make my way towards it, every movement an exercise in agony.

Just as my fingers close around the cold metal links, I hear a shout of warning. "Fox, behind you!"

I whirl around, chain in hand, to see another Hellion charging at me. Without thinking, I swing the chain in a wide arc. It connects with a satisfying thwack, wrapping around the Hellion's neck. His momentum carries him forward, and I use it against him, yanking hard on the chain.

The Hellion's feet leave the ground as he flips over backward, crashing onto the concrete with a bone-jarring thud. Before he can recover, I'm on him, wrapping the chain around his neck and pulling tight. His eyes bulge as he claws desperately at the metal links cutting into his throat.

"This is for Brea," I snarl, tightening my grip.

The Hellion's struggles grow weaker, his face turning an alarming shade of purple. Just as his eyes start to roll back, a hand clamps down on my shoulder.

"Fox, it's over," Azrael's voice cuts through the red haze of my rage. "Let him go. We need him alive for questioning."

I blink, coming back to myself. With trembling hands, I release the chain. The Hellion gasps and coughs, gulping in huge lungfuls of air. Azrael quickly zip-ties his hands behind his back.

As the adrenaline fades, exhaustion crashes over me like a tidal wave. My knees buckle, and I would have hit the floor if not for Azrael's steadying grip.

"Easy, brother," he murmurs, supporting me. "It's over. We've got you."

I look around the room, taking in the aftermath of the battle. Bodies litter the floor, most wearing Hellion colors. The surviving enemies are being rounded up by our guys. I lean heavily against Azrael, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The room spins around me. The acrid scent of gunpowder mingles with the metallic tang of blood, creating a nauseating cocktail that threatens to overwhelm me.

Azrael's grip on my arm tightens, his eyes scanning my battered form with barely concealed concern. "Fox," he says, his voice low and urgent, "where's Brea?"

I swallow hard, my throat raw and aching. "Van," I manage to croak out. "Van got her out. She's safe." The words taste like relief on my tongue, a balm to the terror that's been gripping my heart.

Azrael nods, a flicker of relief passing over his usually stoic features. "Good," he says. "We'll get you both checked out as soon as we're clear."

From across the room, Asher approaches, his eyes blazing with a cold fury I've rarely seen. Blood spatters his cut, a grim testament to the violence we've just endured. He looks from me to the subdued Hellions, his jaw clenching.

"I want my shot," he presses, his voice low and dangerous. "I've waited long enough for this."

Azrael regards his brother for a long moment, then nods. "The floor is yours.”

I watch as Asher stalks towards the captured Hellions, his eyes burning with a fury I've never seen before. The room fallssilent, the air thick with tension as he approaches. Even the other Bastard Boilers step back, giving him a wide berth.

"Which one of you fuckers killed Kennedy?" Asher's voice is low and dangerous. It sends a chill down my spine despite the sweltering heat of the room.

The Hellions exchange glances, their faces a mixture of fear and defiance. No one speaks. The silence stretches on, broken only by the distant wail of sirens and the crackle of flames from somewhere in the building.

Asher's patience snaps like a frayed wire. In one fluid motion, he draws his gun and levels it at the head of the nearest Hellion. The man's eyes widen, fear replacing the bravado that had been there moments before.

"I'll ask one more time," Asher demands. "Who killed Kennedy?"

Still, no one speaks. I can see the muscles in Asher's jaw working, the tendons in his neck standing out like cords. His finger tightens on the trigger.

The gunshot is deafening in the enclosed space. I flinch involuntarily, my ears ringing as the Hellion's body slumps to the floor, a neat hole in his forehead. Blood and other matter splatter the wall behind him, a macabre scene.

I watch in stunned silence as Asher's rage unfolds before me. The gun in his hand seems to have a life of its own, an extension of his fury. Two more shots ring out in rapid succession, each one punctuated by a spray of crimson and the dull thud of a body hitting the floor.

The remaining Hellions shrink back, their bravado crumbling in the face of Asher's cold, methodical vengeance. I can see the fear in their eyes, smell it in the air, mingling with the acrid stench of gunpowder and blood. My own heart pounds in my chest, a primal part of me recognizing the predator in our midst.

Asher's eyes are chips of ice as he surveys the remaining captives. His gun, still smoking, tracks from one face to another. The silence stretches, taut as a wire, ready to snap at any moment.

Then, like a dam breaking, one of the Hellions cracks.

"It was Tank!" he blurts out, his voice high and reedy with terror. "Tank ordered the hit on Kennedy!"

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