Page 68 of Hammer

“Twenty-eight.Twenty-nine.Thirty.”Piston mocked, then raised his arm in a sharp gesture.“Fuck you and your countdown.”

The crack of a rifle shot shattered the evening air.A puff of dust erupted at Savior’s feet -- a warning shot, deliberate miss.All bets were off.

Everything happened at once.Brothers reached for weapons.Engines roared to life.The barricade erupted in muzzle flashes as the Minions opened fire.I gunned my Harley’s engine, swerving left as bullets whizzed past, following the pre-arranged plan to flank their position.

The world compressed into a series of snapshots, burned into my retinas by adrenaline and decades of similar situations.Savior and Saint diving behind a concrete barrier.Warden returning fire from behind his bike.Prophet coordinating the left flank’s movement with hand signals.The air filled with the smell of cordite and the deafening percussion of gunfire.

I kept low over my handlebars, weaving between abandoned cars as I circled toward my assigned position.Through the chaos, a flash of movement caught my eye -- Piston, breaking away from the main group, ducking between two buildings with two of his men.Running, the coward.

My blood roared in my ears, drowning out everything but the sight of his retreating back.This was it -- the chance to end his threat permanently.Without conscious thought, I veered sharply, breaking from our formation to follow.

“Hammer!Hold position!”Saint’s voice carried over the gunfire, sharp with command.

I ignored it, throttling harder as I watched Piston disappear between the rusted hulks of abandoned trailers.The fight behind me faded to background noise, irrelevant compared to the singular focus of my pursuit.Behind me, boots pounded on pavement -- brothers trying to follow, to back me up -- but I didn’t slow, didn’t wait.

Piston was mine.

The narrow gap between buildings swallowed me, darkness replacing the bloody sunset as I cut my engine, coasting the last twenty yards in near silence.Ahead, footsteps echoed against corrugated metal -- three sets, moving fast.I dismounted, drawing my Glock as I followed, the weight of the brass knuckles in my pocket a promise of what would happen when I caught up.

The rational part of my brain knew I should wait for backup, knew this could be a trap.But rationality had no place in this moment.This was primal.This was the culmination of everything that had been building since I found his hands on Amelia.He’d threatened my family.Now he would answer for it.

I moved deeper into the shadows, tracking my prey through the labyrinth of abandoned structures.Just me, my weapons, and a debt to collect.

I tracked Piston through the maze of abandoned buildings, my boots silent on the dirt path between rusted trailers and collapsed storage sheds.The gunfire from the main confrontation had faded to distant pops and cracks, like faraway fireworks.Here, in this forgotten corner of town, the only sounds were my own measured breathing and the occasional scuff of footsteps ahead -- Piston and his two shadows, thinking they were being quiet, having no idea how loud fear made a man.I’d been hunting men since before these punks could piss standing up.I knew how to follow, when to move, when to freeze.

The path opened into a small clearing between four derelict warehouses, moonlight spilling through broken skylights to create patches of silver against rust-stained concrete.Gravel crunched under my boots, the sound seeming unnaturally loud in the stillness.The footsteps ahead had stopped.I paused, every sense heightened, my hand drifting to the brass knuckles in my pocket.

A rat scurried across my path, disappearing into the shadows.Somewhere above, metal groaned as wind pushed against weakened structures.I scanned the area -- too many hiding places, too many blind spots.Decades of similar situations had taught me to recognize a killing ground when I saw one.

They were waiting.Watching.

I slid the brass knuckles onto my right hand, feeling the familiar weight settle against my knuckles.My left hand kept the Glock ready, though I hoped I wouldn’t need it.Some debts were better paid up close and personal.

“Come on out, Piston,” I called, my voice echoing against corrugated metal walls.“Just you and me.Let’s finish what we started.”

Silence answered me, heavy and expectant.Then a chuckle -- low, mean -- from somewhere to my left.

“Old man,” Piston’s voice floated from the darkness, “you should’ve stayed home with my whore.”

The slur against Amelia sent a fresh wave of rage through me, but I tamped it down.Anger made men sloppy.I needed cold precision now.“Big talk from a man hiding in the shadows,” I replied, moving slowly toward the sound of his voice.“Guess those bruises I gave you last time taught you something after all.”

Movement flickered in my peripheral vision -- a shadow detaching from darkness, rushing toward me.Not Piston -- one of his goons, thinking to take me from behind while the boss distracted me.Fucking amateur!

I pivoted smoothly, decades of bar fights and club beefs making the movement as natural as breathing.The brass knuckles connected with his jaw in a satisfying crunch of bone and cartilage.His momentum carried him past me, his feet tangling as his brain tried to process the sudden pain.He went down hard, face-first into the gravel.

Before I could press the advantage, Piston emerged from behind a stack of pallets, a tire iron gripped in his fist.Moonlight gleamed off the metal as he swung it in a vicious arc toward my head.

I blocked with my left forearm, pain exploding from wrist to elbow as the iron connected.Better my arm than my skull.I countered with a sharp jab to his ribs, brass knuckles sinking into flesh where I’d broken ribs in our last encounter.His breath left him in a painedwhoosh, but he didn’t go down.

We circled each other, two predators locked in a dance as old as time.Blood trickled down my arm where the tire iron had split skin, but I barely noticed.My focus had narrowed to Piston’s movements, cataloging weaknesses -- the slight favoring of his left side, the way he winced when he breathed too deeply.

“I’m going to enjoy watching you die,” Piston spat, blood flecking his lips from some internal damage I’d done.“Then I’ll take back what’s mine.”

I lifted my hand to land another blow, but I’d fucked up.Forgotten about the other man.Something slammed into the back of my head and black dots swam across my vision.I grunted and swayed but refused to fall.Piston took advantage, landing a few blows.The lackey behind me must have motioned something to him, because he gave me one last glare, then Piston took off.

Before I could follow, another blow took me to my knees.I wondered if I was about to meet my end, then I heard them.My brothers.The man behind me went down, I heard him hit the ground right after the sound of two gunshots.Then my world began to fade.

Chapter Nineteen

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