Page 25 of Mercy

His eyes narrow as he slows the truck. "Looks like we might have found our new players."

My heart rate picks up, a mix of anticipation and anger coursing through me.

I've been itching for some action since getting out of the hospital, and it looks like I might just get my wish.

Dad slams on the brakes, the truck screeching to a halt right in front of the taco stand.

He yanks the keys from the ignition and leaps out in one fluid motion.

I'm right behind him, my body thrumming with adrenaline.

"Stay sharp," he growls, his eyes fixed on the group of six thugs beating on the two men.

I nod, pushing aside the twinge in my chest where the bullet wound is still healing.

There's no time for weakness now.

These assholes need to learn who really runs this town.

We charge in, fists flying.

I connect with the jaw of the nearest attacker, feeling the satisfying crunch beneath my knuckles.

The guy staggers back, shock written all over his face.

"What the fu—" he starts, but I don't let him finish.

My knee drives into his stomach, doubling him over.

To my left, my dad is a force of nature, taking on two of them at once.

I’m damn proud of him.

He’s showing these punks what real power looks like.

I duck a wild swing from another thug, countering with a sharp uppercut that sends him reeling.

"That all you got?" I taunt, feeling alive for the first time in weeks.

Suddenly, a group of Latino men join the fray, helping us take down the remaining attackers.

I nod my thanks to one of them as we stand back to back, facing off against the last two fuckers.

"Looks like you picked the wrong taco stand,pendejo," the man beside me spits out before we lunge forward together.

As the fight winds down, I can't help but grin.

This is what I've been missing—the rush, the brotherhood, the feeling of doing something that matters.

It's not just about violence.

It's about protecting our territory, our people.

Dad grabs the last man standing, slamming him against the side of the taco truck.

"Who the fuck sent you here?" he demands, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

The guy, despite his bloodied face, has the audacity to snicker. "My boss is the Patriot," he says, a hint of pride in his voice. "And you just put a target on your back."

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