Page 84 of Vengeful Rotten Casualties

I agree. This is going to be a goddamn fucking blast. Just not for him. Not for any of them.

“One more question,” I say as I rotate my hands, closing my fingers over the single line of chain I’m hanging from. It’s a wonder it hasn’t snapped by now, but the links are big thick ones—like the kind that pull massive trailers behind trucks.

“What’s that?” Scarface asks as he twists the blade in my side slightly. Fire races up my side and a curse threatens to spill out of my mouth.

“Where’s my father now?” I spit through gritted teeth.

Cooney steps up next to his friend and uses the blade of his axe to lift the hair hanging in my face. “You wanna know?” he asks. “He’s taking care of your pretty girlfriend. Poor bitch is gonna wish she never made such a powerful man so angry.”

My hair drops back into place as he laughs and takes another step back. “Move, Felder. It's my turn to hurt the bastard.”

Oh, it’s his turn alright. “Thanks,” I say. “That’s all I needed to know.”

Those are the last words that fall from my lips because in the next moment, I close my eyes and I retreat back into my mind. I let all of my rage take control. All of the pent-up darkness. All of the building hatred I’ve held back for so long. I’m tired and I’m done.

If this is how my old man wants to play shit, then I’ll play his game. I’ll play and I’ll win.

Every. Fucking. Time.

34

LUC

Snick. Snick. Snick.“Fuck!”I curse and toss the useless lighter onto the ground at my feet as the cigarette in my hand snaps in half. Another curse slips out and I crush the remainder in my fist before dropping that as well. Nothing is going the way I need it to today.

The sound of rain patters against the rooftop of the garage. I step around the bodies on the floor, the sole of the stolen shoes I slipped off of one of them scuffing through the rivers of blood that run towards the indents in the concrete where a drain is placed. Predictive of their plans? Or coincidence? Nah, probably something left over from the garage’s golden days. Washing cars, oil runs. Either way, the drains are full of blood now.

I move towards the metal closing door and slap a palm against the button alongside it. The bulb on the wall glows red as the alarm starts up again, piercing through the quiet darkness, and the door slides upward. Rain pours down outside and a wave of cold air hits me in the face. I stand back, letting it wash over my sweat and blood dampened skin. I inhale the fresh scent. It does nothing to alleviate my need for a goddamn cigarette.

A groan echoes through the garage and I glance back, turning and following the sound until I find the source. Jones, I distantly recall the man being called, is hunched over, gripping his hand and the three fingers missing. Cooney’s axe lays forgotten, the handle broken, several feet away. If he didn’t want to lose his fingers, he shouldn’t have come after me. If the rest of them didn’t want to lose their lives, they should’ve gone into different professions.

“Hey.” I slowly crouch next to him. At the sound of my voice, his groan turns into a whimper and he slams back, his spine hitting the work bench against the wall. “You got any smokes on you?”

Through his whimpering and crying, he manages to shake his head and I curse again. I don’t always crave a cigarette, but when I do, it’s a violent need. After the night I’ve had, the desire has turned past the point of violence and into all out rampage.

I turn away from Jones, ignoring his gasps and sobs of pain, and start to go through his friends’ clothes—some of their bodies are already cooling, their hearts long since stopped, while others are just unconscious. I find a pack on none other than Scarface himself, and shake my head as I withdraw them, along with a new lighter too. Thank fuck.

Straightening, I move towards the open garage door and open the pack, growling in frustration. More than half are soaked in the bastard’s blood. I pilfer through the remainder until I find one mostly clean cig and then put it between my lips.

Nicotine. Man, I need the hit. The lighter blossoms at the first click of its trigger and I sigh as the damn tobacco burns on the end, the warmth illuminating my face in the otherwise dark interior of the garage.

More than a few of the fluorescent fixtures overhead were burst in the fight—flying bullets, bodies, and all—but the glowing bulb on the wall sets the whole scene behind me in an eerie crimson light. I adjust the shirt I’m wearing—not my own—and grimace as a bit of blood on the hem smudges onto my fingers. At least with so many men to fight off, I had my pick of replacements. Too bad it’s a cheap material, old and stained and slightly too big for me, but it does the trick.

My blood floods with the effects of the nicotine. Outside, the rain pounds harder against the pavement, wave after wave coming down. Jones’ whimpers continue to scratch against my nerve endings and with a sigh, I reach back, grabbing ahold of the gun I tucked into the waistband of my pants, another stolen item from my assailants.

I turn and pull the trigger and, finally, the whimpering ceases. Somewhere in the room, a phone starts to ring. It’s been going off at regular intervals for the last several minutes. I tip my head back and laugh. No doubt it’s either my father or one of his lackies trying to make sure that I’ve beentaught a lesson.

I wait until I finish my nicotine hit, letting the damn thing ring again and again—someone obviously wanting an answer—before I curse and drop the last bit of my cigarette onto the ground and roll it out of the open garage door onto the rain-soaked pavement, effectively dousing the last of the burning red embers.

I lick my lips and wince at the cut on my lower lip, tasting more blood.

Outside, the rainstorm picks up its fervor. Thomas Kincaid never saw this coming, I bet.

He never saw me. He never sawher.

The reminder of Micki gets me moving. Ignoring the aches and pains in my bones, the torn and bruised flesh beneath the muddied and bloodied stolen outfit I’m wearing, I follow the sound of the ringing phone.

With shock, I find it not attached to any of the men lying on the blood-soaked floor of the garage, but in a small sack on the workbench. I reach inside to pull it free, finding my own damn cell and Dean’s name on the screen.

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