Page 1 of Victorious: Part 2
Chapter One
CLOVER
Screams tear through the darkness, the hoarse sound raw, frenzied, building like continuous gunfire.
First, the pain.
Second, the rage.
And then, it doesn’t end. It’s ripped from them, spine-deep, as if their throats are being carved open.
I just can’t tell if the screams are coming from them or me.
Gunfire pops in stuttering bursts, bullets zipping through muscle, splintering bone. The metallic clink of ricocheting bullets is drowned out by the thud of bodies hitting concrete. Liquor ignites where bottles shatter, fire blooming across the floor as if hell itself has opened beneath the clubhouse.
Alpha’s arm is snapped backward, elbow bending the wrong damn way, while a Rojas soldier laughs.
Haven’s screams splinter into sobs as they drag her by the hair, glass embedding in her back. Maverick’s face is a mask of rage until they crush his kneecap with a crowbar. The sound, oh God, the sound, it makes me gag.
They’re not just being killed.
They’re being unmade.
Fingernails peeled off.
Skin carved into.
Eyes swollen shut from repeated blows.
Loki is nailed to the wall by his palms, the blood dripping slowly and steadily, resembling a clock ticking down, his bloodied and pummeled face trying hard to stay conscious.
To fight.
But the Cartel soldier slams another fist into Loki’s face,forcing his body to fall limp and hang by his confined palms.
It’s a warning.
A promise as a Cartel soldier rips at Bea’s clothing in front of him, pinning her to the floor. Her screams pierce through the clubhouse as she fights frantically to get him off her.
The smell of scorched flesh churns my stomach as a blowtorch hisses to life, and the unmistakable sizzling sound makes me gag.
And the begging turns to silence.
The kind that means another member of my family has just stopped breathing.
And still it rages on.
The Rojas don’t rush their art…
They perfect it.
I run, hearing Maverick scream, my feet taking off as fast as I can up the stairs of the Chapel.
But the Chapel walls aren’t walls anymore.
They’re canvases.
Blood smeared like fucking artwork, dripping, Jackson Pollock style.
