Page 29 of Tank
I charge through the window, glass shattering, my gun blazing.
“Wolf Riders, now!” I shout, and the others follow, a storm of leather and steel.
The fight’s chaos—gunfire, fists, blood spraying across the concrete floor. I take down a Fury rider with a shot to the leg, my eyes locked on Rocco.
He’s fighting back, his movements quick, precise, but he’s not aiming at us.
Rocco is actually taking on his own father’s men, his face a mask of determination. A Fury lunges at him, and I fire, dropping the guy before he can touch Rocco.
“Stay with me, kid!” I yell, grabbing his arm and pulling him behind a crate.
“I’m sorry,” Rocco gasps, his eyes wild. “I didn’t want this. I tried to leave, but he forced me here. I choose you, Tank. Iswear.”
I want to believe him, but there’s no time.
A Fury rider comes at us, and Rocco tackles him, his fists flying.
We’re back-to-back now, fighting side by side, our bodies moving like we’ve done this forever.
The boy’s fierce, fearless, and fuck if it doesn’t make me proud. He’s not just Marco’s son any longer—he’s my boy too, in a way that runs deeper than blood.
The Wolf Riders are relentless, Clay’s voice barking orders like a military general, Arch and Kash mowing down anyone who gets close.
The Fury’s numbers dwindle, their men falling or fleeing into the night.
Marco’s still in the center, his pistol empty, his face a mask of hate as he watches his plan collapse.
When the last Fury rider drops, the factory goes quiet, just the sound of heavy breathing and the groan of the wounded.
Clay steps forward, his gun trained on Marco.
“You’re done,” Clay says, his voice cold. “The Fury’s finished.Again. But this time, it’s forever.”
Marco spits, his eyes blazing.
“You think this ends it?” Marco screeches. “I’ll come for you, Clay. For all of you. You just see if I don’t.”
I step in front of Clay, my gun aimed at Marco’s chest.
Rocco’s at my side, his breath ragged, his eyes on his father.
“Tank, don’t,” Clay says, his voice low. “He’s not worth it.”
I look at Marco, the man I crippled fifteen years ago, the man who sent his son to kill me.
I could end him now, wipe the slate clean.
But I see Rocco’s face, the pain in his eyes, and I know I can’t.
Not like this.
I lower my gun, my voice steady.
“You live, Marco,” I say. “But you come for us again, I won’t hold back. But if you come for Rocco, I rip your head clean off with my own hands.”
Marco’s face twists, but he says nothing, just wheels himself toward the door, his battered, bloody men dragging themselves after him.
Rocco watches, his shoulders tense, his eyes wet.
