Page 33 of Montana Falls
Monsters in the flesh of men who would hurt anyone who got in their way.
We made our way around the fence, spreading out in silence. My focus sharpened, my muscles tensed, and I felt the adrenaline hum in my veins.
The Vice Kings hadn’t noticed us yet. They were still too busy with whatever the hell they were doing to pay attention to the world closing in around them.
“Move fast and spare nobody,” Beau murmured to his men, his voice calm but laced with authority. I shot a quick glance at him. His face was set in that cold, unflinching mask he always wore when he was about to do something violent. I knew that look well—it was the look of a man who had already decided every life standing against him was about to be forfeited.
It was the Montana look. The one they all shared that promised you were royally fucked when they looked at you.
I raised my gun, the metal cool against my palm. “You ready?” I asked, my voice barely more than a whisper.
Beau’s eyes flicked toward me, a brief glance, but it was enough. “Always.”
And then, without a word, he raised his gun and fired the first shot.
The crack of gunfire shattered the stillness, and the world exploded into chaos.
I ducked low, moving swiftly through the gate and across the airstrip as bullets whizzed past, my feet carrying me toward the nearest cover. The crates the Vice Kings had been unloading provided some cover as I crouched behind them, my gun trained on the men scattered across the tarmac.
Two down. Three more scrambling for cover. I fired again, hitting one in the shoulder, and he dropped like a stone. I almost laughed at the feel of it all. The rush. The fun. The power.
It was addicting being who I was, and I had felt that way since the night I’d stolen my crown from the ashes of my predecessors who had never once been worthy of it.
The smell of gunpowder and blood filled the air, acrid and sharp, mixing with the sound of shouting and the rapid-fire crack of shots exchanged. My men were moving, flanking the Vice Kings, using the shadows and the scattered debris to their advantage. Beau’s men were methodical, their movements crisp, calculated—just like him. It was almost scary seeing how perfectly in sync they all were. And had I been a lesser woman, I would have feared just how much power I could feel emanating from Beau.
I popped up from behind the crates, sighting another Vice King as he tried to duck behind a parked car. He didn’t make it. I squeezed the trigger, and he crumpled, the force of the bullet slamming him back against the asphalt. Beside me, two of my men were laying down cover fire, pushing the gangster’s back as we advanced. But they were still outnumbered. I could see the panic starting to set in, the way they moved slower, more erratically, like they knew they were being hunted.
They fucking feared us and I loved it.
“Move in!” I barked, signaling my men forward. “If you don’t draw blood, you don’t get to call yourself my men!”
I sprinted toward the nearest hangar, keeping low as more gunfire erupted around me. My heart pounded; my mindfocused on one thing. The gangsters were scattered now, no longer holding their ground, but scrambling to get away. I caught sight of one of them ducking behind the hangar door, trying to make a run for it. I broke into a sprint, my boots pounding against the ground as I closed the distance between us.
He never saw me coming.
I grabbed him by the back of his jacket, yanking him to the ground with a grunt of effort. Before he could react, I slammed the butt of my gun into the side of his head, the crack of bone and cartilage echoing in the night. He went limp, his body crumpling beneath me. For good measure, I put three bullets into his head, knowing I would never leave a man alive to come back and haunt me.
I taught all of my soldiers to kill three times. The first kill to get the job done. The second to ensure it actually happened, and you didn’t make a mistake.
The third just for fun and in the case of a zombie apocalypse.
Standing, a little breathless for a moment, my eyes scanned everything, making sure I wasn’t about to be surprised. Bodies littered the airstrip. All Vice Kings; their blood pooling in dark, sticky puddles beneath them.
Beau was on the other side of the tarmac, taking down the last few stragglers with ruthless efficiency. His movements were smooth, precise, like every action had been calculated a thousand times before. He didn’t waste bullets; he used a knife for half of them, slicing throats open with ease.
The last Vice King—a young kid who couldn’t have been older than twenty—dropped his gun and raised his hands, his face pale with fear. Beau didn’t hesitate. He fired his gun once, a clean shot to the chest, and the kid collapsed, his life snuffed out before he hit the ground. Some may have considered it harsh – cruel, even. But it wasn’t.
If he was old enough to join a gang – a gang made of hatred and evil – then he was old enough to deal with the consequences of that.
The air went still again, the only sound the distant crackle of an incoming storm and the heavy breathing of our men as they regrouped. The gunfight was over.
The gangsters were dead.
The Vice Kings really were no more.
I holstered my gun, brushing my dark hair out of my face as I surveyed the aftermath with a wry smile, as each of my men bowed their heads at me, and stood waiting around for their next instruction like the good dogs I’d trained them to be.
Beau strolled over to me, his gun still in hand, his face streaked with sweat and blood. His eyes met mine, and for a moment, we just stood there in silence, the weight of what we’d done hanging between us.
