Page 32 of Massacre
“Where you from?”
“South Carolina,” I lied.
“Long way from home, Nomad.”
“Like I said, just needed a drink.”
“You affiliated?”
“If you mean to the open road, then yes.”
The man smirked. “That your ride out there? The Harley Low Rider?”
I nodded as the door flew open and in walked a face I hadn’t seen in years.
Shit. Shit. Shit. This was not fucking good.
What the fuck was he doing here?
I hunkered low as the man beside me stood and greeted the man. “Where the fuck have you been? Skinner’s been waitin’ on you.”
“Where is he?”
“Office,” the man said, thumbing his finger behind him as the familiar face walked off, the man following.
Chugging the rest of my beer, I nodded to the bartender, gave him a two-finger salute, before I quietly left. Getting back on my bike, I rode out of the compound and headed down the road as if I didn’t have a care in the world. My pulse hammered in my ears, each mile marker a reminder that trouble had a way of sticking, even when I did my best to shake it. The wind cut sharp against my face, carrying the familiar scent of diesel and pine. I took the first turn off the main drag, easing into the tree-shadowed back roads, letting the engine rumble low beneath me.
A flicker of headlights appeared in my mirrors—one, then two, then three.
Unfriendly, too steady to be coincidence.
I gunned my throttle, tires spitting gravel as I leaned hard into a curve. Every instinct screamed for distance, for silence, but the ghosts of old adversaries never gave up easily. Whatever The Death Dogs were into, it was nothing good. And now, just like that, the road ahead was no longer mine alone. I was being followed.
I dropped a gear and pressed on, heart climbing in my throat, as I tried not to glance too often at those persistent lights. Maybe they’d peel off. Maybe I’d just let my paranoia clutch me for nothing. But every instinct in my body said otherwise.
I killed my headlight, letting the moon carve silver patterns across my handlebars, and guided my bike deeper into the woods, gravel spitting from my tires.
I could hear the distant growl of engines now, closing the space between us. Whoever was back there wasn’t in a hurry,but they weren’t backing off, either. I kept to the shadows, every sense straining. The road twisted, a forgotten service lane I barely knew, and I took it, hoping I could outpace my pursuers.
Up ahead, the pines thickened, and I cut my engine, rolling to a silent stop beneath the boughs. Breath held, I watched the distant beams slow almost as if they were sniffing out my scent. Slowly getting off my bike, I reached for my guns when I heard them approach.
Shaking my head, I waited for them to step off their bikes.
When they didn’t, I sighed.
The tension hung in the air, thick as oil, and I tried to read their silhouettes in the moonlight. Three shapes, leather cut patches catching just enough glow to tell me exactly who I was dealing with. Death Dogs, alright—faces shuttered, eyes cold as river stones.
I kept my hands loose, fingers steady, guns still holstered but ready. The smallest movement might set them off, but stillness was its own kind of defiance.
“Look,” I said, keeping my voice low, even. “I’m just passing through. No business, no beef.”
The tallest one laughed, a short, ragged sound that made my skin crawl. “Nobody just passes through these parts. This is Death Dog territory.”
A fourth bike rumbled up behind them, idling with a low, menacing thrum. A woman stepped out this time—braids swinging, knife glinting in her fist—and her glare pinned me like a moth on a card as she sighed, shaking her head. “Well, fuck a duck. This is unfortunate.”
Before another syllable could escape their lips, she unleashed a whirlwind. The air itself crackled with the sudden, brutal arc of the shuriken—lethal, spinning stars of polished steel, glinting cruelly in the fading light. The screams, raw and strangled, were swallowed by the sickening thwack of metal finding flesh.The stench of blood filled my nostrils as the men, their faces contorted in silent agony, clutched their throats, crimson fountains erupting from the gaping wounds. Their bodies—each a meticulously honed instrument of violence, now rendered useless—crumpled like rag dolls, tumbling from their roaring machines in a grotesque domino effect. The ground, once slick with rain, now mirrored the carnage, a macabre tapestry woven with the threads of their lives. I stood rooted, a cold sweat slicking my skin, the taste of terror bitter on my tongue, mesmerized by the chilling grace of her execution, the dazzling beauty of her deadly dance.
Taking a deep breath, she turned toward me and glared. “What the fuck are you doing here, Massacre?”
