Page 33 of Massacre
“I could ask you the same thing, woman,” I challenged.
The woman, her braids now seemingly dancing with the shadows, took a step forward, her knife still glinting in the moonlight. I knew that look, that stance. She was assessing me, deciding if I was worth the steel in her hand. I didn’t flinch, didn’t back down. I’d faced off with enough killers to know when to hold my ground.
“I’m here for the same reason as you, I reckon. Reaper sent me to check things out, and I found more than I bargained for.” I kept my voice steady, my gaze locked on hers. “Seems we’ve both stumbled into something bigger than we expected.”
A flicker of recognition passed over her face, and she lowered her weapon, just a fraction. “Reaper, huh? He’s got eyes and ears everywhere, that one. Always playing his games.” A ghost of a smile played at the corners of her mouth. “And here I thought Val was the only big dog in this fight.”
“Val sent you in? Why?”
Slyce shrugged. “That’s my business.”
“Come on, Slyce. Give me something.”
“The Death Dogs are the least of your worries. Because Skinner has been talking with an old friend of yours. Yuri Nikitin. Ring any bells?”
“MOTHERFUCKER!” I growled, rubbing the back of my neck.
“Yeah, thought you’d react that way. I’d watch my back, Massacre. I don’t know what you did, but that fucker has a hard-on for you. Says he found a way to bring you out in the open.”
“You know where I can find him?” I asked, my voice steady despite the storm of emotions raging within me. Yuri Nikitin was a sick, twisted motherfucker, the kind of guy who left a trail of bodies in his wake. And if he was involved with the Death Dogs, it meant this situation was about to get a whole lot more dangerous.
Slyce shook her head, her braids swaying with the motion. “He’s a ghost, Massacre. You know that. But I heard he’s got his fingers in a few pies around here. Gunrunning, drug trafficking, the usual. If anyone can find him, it’s you. You know him best.” She paused, her gaze flicking to the bodies of the fallen Death Dogs. “You should probably get rid of those. I don’t want to attract any more attention.”
I nodded, a weight settling on my shoulders. This was turning into more than I’d bargained for. “Yeah, I’ll take care of it. Just so you know, Val is in Diamond Creek.”
“Yeah,” she replied, a hint of reluctance in her voice. “I know. Kytten got word to me.” She glanced at me, a silent message passing between us. “Watch your back, Massacre. The Death Dogs are rotten to the core, and Yuri Nikitin is the kind of snake that strikes when you least expect it.”
The sun crested the horizon as I kicked the last fucker into the hole. Walking over to my bike, I grabbed a gallon of gasoline, then poured it all over the bodies, soaking them real good. When the plastic gallon was empty, I threw it in with the bodies and walked over to my bike. Leaning against it, I reached into my pocket and removed a pack of smokes. I rarely smoked and tried many times to quit, but in the end, I kept a pack on me just in case I needed one.
And I fucking needed one now. Reaching into the pack, I took out a cigarette and placed it between my lips. Pulling out a book of matches, I flicked the black nub, watching the sulfur ignite and burn red hot at the end of my smoke. Inhaling deeply, I let the smoke fill my lungs as I flicked the match into the hole, watching as the flame caught, engulfing the bodies.
As the sun rose above the horizon, casting long shadows across the land, I knew it was time to move. I couldn’t stay put any longer, not with Yuri Nikitin’s name hanging over me like a death sentence. Slyce’s warning echoed in my mind—this wasn’t a game, and the Death Dogs were the least of my worries. I had to find Nikitin before he found me, and that meant going back to the beginning, to the one person who might know where he was.
I rode hard, the wind a constant companion as I left the charred remains of the Death Dogs behind and headed north. The road was a blur, a rush of asphalt and darkness, the growl of my engine the only sound as the miles melted away, each one bringing me closer to my destination—a rundown bar on the outskirts of a town called Deadwood, a place where deals were made and secrets traded. It was a hive of scum and villainy, the perfect place to start my search.
Stepping into the bar, I was hit by the familiar wall of smoke and alcohol. It was a different kind of animal to the Death Dogs’ lair, a place where information was currency, and everyone had their price. I kept to the shadows, my eyes scanning the room.It was a den of thieves and cutthroats, but somewhere in this mess of humanity was the person I sought—a man who knew too much, a man named Firestride.
Chapter Twelve
Massacre
The Dead Stop was on the outskirts of Deadwood, South Dakota, just north of Rapid City. The Dead Stop was a relic from another time, a relic that seemed to have been forgotten by the world. It stood alone, a weathered and worn-down building that had once been a bustling hub for travelers and traders. Now, it was a mere shadow of its former self, with peeling paint and a creaking porch that seemed ready to give way. But despite its dilapidated state, there was an air of intrigue about the place. The town of Deadwood itself had seen better days; the gold rush that had brought life to these parts had long since passed, leaving behind empty streets and abandoned buildings. Yet, The Dead Stop remained, a stubborn reminder of the town’s glory days.
Stepping inside the bar was like stepping back in time. The musty scent of aged wood and stale beer hung in the air, and the floorboards creaked with every step. The bar itself was a long, polished affair, scarred with countless nicks and scratches, bearing the marks of countless patrons over the years. Behind it, a collection of dusty bottles stood sentinel, their labels faded and illegible. The place seemed to be stuck in a bygone era, a testament to a wilder, more lawless time.
But despite its rundown appearance, The Dead Stop still held a certain allure. It was a place of secrets and stories, a place where the past refused to stay buried. Locals whispered of ghostly figures that haunted its halls, of outlaws whose spiritslingered, refusing to accept the town’s quiet demise, and in the heart of this town, sat the one and only thing that kept it alive.
The Brotherhood of Bastards.
Patrons froze mid-drink, their conversations dying on their lips as they turned when I walked through the door. While some returned to their drinks, most fled as the bartender, a burly man named Jack, wiped his hands on a rag, his eyes narrowing as he slowly shook his head.
“Got a lot of nerve coming back here, asshole.”
“Hey, Jack. He here?”
“Sitting in the back. He ain’t in a good mood, Mass. Just got back from Rapid City, if you catch my drift.”
Shit.
