Page 77 of Tortured Eyes
Twenty-Seven
The sound of gunfire ricochets around the burnt-out building. I check my watch and keep moving. I don't have time for this crap, not now I know she's out here trying to be a hero. Maybe I hoped that just the whispers of us arriving would be enough to calm this shit down, but if anything, it’s ramped up the tension between these playboy cartels, leaving the city a mess and every goddamn dick trying for power.
My feet skirt around the outside of the derelict low-rise, eyes taking in the look of the streets Cane has long since abandoned. I glance at four of my team through the dark, all of them readying themselves for more action. The others are over on the south side, scissoring to keep us tight and aimed into the centre. It's rough as fuck here. It's my kind of game. Dirty, dishonest. Corrupt and full of everything middle-class civilization ignores. But the time for pissing around with games is done, especially with the thought of her in my head.
I glare into the barren wasteland, waiting for Arch to make a move. Gangland shit. It’s annoying that he hasn’t respected the word that’s been ghosted over Chicago that I’m coming. Perhaps he thought I wasn’t Vico enough for him to worry about. Dick.
I nod at the Consetti brothers, sending them forward into the kicked-up dust, and then roll my shoulders. One side of this play for power has already been brought to heel, their main guy left headless in a spillway by my hand. It was quick and simple, but this cunt is going all out for war. Buildings are burning. People running and rioting. At least the cops are staying the fuck out of the way to give me a chance. Just this last show of strength and then I’ll go find her and get her out of harm’s way. Out on the streets? I told her to stay inside, out of the goddamned way.
My gun kicks a few rounds out, legs picking up speed as I cross through open ground. Shots come from the right, my own boys backing up the pace we’re keeping. I just need to find Arch in this noise. He’ll sure as shit be here somewhere. He’s too fucked up most of the time to think logically about anything, let alone keep himself safe.
I dodge the oncoming volley of more shots and head down a side street, watching the last few cars speed out of the area. My mind’s not even here anymore; it’s worrying about what the fuck she’s doing. What the hell is that? I shouldn’t give a damn. I told her to get inside. I shake my head and press out into the open again, gun firing into the smoke coming from a burnt-out car.
No time.
I whistle to the right to close the two teams in and keep stalking, gaze flipping left and right for where the fuck Arch is. Shouts of oncoming death ring loud and clear, letting me know we’re getting to the heart of the matter, as shots keep firing. He’s here. Where, though? A bike bursts through the smoke suddenly, engine revving like the fucking world’s gonna end, countless bullets coming out of a gun. Two shots from me and the machine goes spinning to the left, metal grating over the ground until it hits the sidewalk. Useful. I run for it and haul the dead fuck off it, my hands heaving the bike up to get on.
The engine screams under me, wheels spinning as I turn and head straight into the smoke. All hell is let loose as I speed into the noise and let off more rounds. I don’t care now. This needs to end so I can get to the thing I really care about. My name is shouted behind me, curses and hollers being thrown my way as my own guys try to keep up. Fuck it. I work best alone, always have.
The second I’m out of the billowing smoke, I see six men with their weapons up. I rev hard and take two of them out with the back end of the bike, my aim pointed at three of the others. They drop as hard and as fast as anyone does when I’m in this mood, head shots taking them down. And then all that’s left is a dick called Arch covered in gangland tattoos, his feet running for an alley. I aim and shoot again—empty goddamned chamber.
I dump the bike and run for him, grabbing hold of a dead guy’s weapon on the way. I’m done with playing. Running? Dick needs to learn a thing or two about standing in front of me if he thinks he can control a city. The Cane at the end of my name should have warned him enough, let alone the whispers of what I’ve done for Vico and New York.
“ARCH!” I holler, pushing through yet more fucking smoke. My footsteps echo around the walls, water splashing up around my feet. “Goddamn, you always were a stupid fuck.” Stupid and high as a kite most of the time. Carter should have put him down years ago.
A bullet bites into my shoulder, sending me flying back towards a wall, stumbling. I push off it and start firing round after round again from within the smoke, eyes sweeping for anything that dares move. He does eventually as I press deeper into the alley. One dumb-ass move that opens him up in the low gleam of a streetlight. It’s enough that I can send a round into his leg for fun and watch his body hit the deck. I don’t wait, don’t have the time to even think about waiting. I get in real close and give him a half-second to look at me, another half-second to see my eyes, and then loose a round straight between his eyes. Done.
Finished.
Logan's home.
I spin and run for the bike again, the gun stowed in the back of my waistband. Rico Consetti emerges from the shadows as I pick it up and swing my leg over.
“Arch is down. Get the guys out of here and back to the club,” I grate out. “Anyone dead?”
“No, we’re all fine. Alvero’s been hit, but he’ll survive.”
“Good. I’ll meet you there and deal with the rest of this crap later.” I peel my leather jacket back, looking my shoulder wound over, then rev and start moving. I haven’t got time for my own clean up either. Nor do I give a fuck at the moment. “Ask for Becca when you get there. She’ll deal with him,” I call back.
The wheels spin hard and fast under me, and I screech off down the almost deserted roads for Fore Street, until I start getting closer to the EL ringing the city. I swerve off through the suburbs, about ready to kill her for interfering with my head while I was back there dealing with shit. I don’t need that kind of worry distracting me when I’m neck-deep in violence. Not that she should, but she does. It’s fucking infuriating. At least a priest doesn’t get involved with this side of my life. Easier. Much fucking easier. Now what? I’m gonna spend my life concerned about a cop stalking the streets?
Jesus Christ. I need some fucking sense beating into this head of mine.
I slow as I round into the area and quietly slip into the shadows, feet landing on the ground to stabilise me. Where is she? I kick off again and travel the streets, eyes glancing down every block to find her. Nothing. Not a goddamn thing but other people and cars irritating my view. I end up pulling over again and digging out my phone to call her. It rings out. No fucking answer.
Two more minutes circling and I eventually see a van parked up on a kerb down by the garbage bins. I ease off half a block out and watch the guys around the back of it loitering with intent. They're talking, one of them on the phone getting irate about something. I kill the ignition, swinging my leg over the bike, and I walk the shadows down to the action. The faint outline of a Ducati on the floor makes me quicken slightly and chase the distance down. It's only when I see a body banged up on the floor with red hair curling out of the helmet that I start losing all sense of cool.
Eight more silent, sprinted strides and I’ve delivered a knock-out punch to one of them and wrapped the other into my hold so I can cut off airflow to his windpipe. He struggles and tries heaving in breaths, his hands grabbing for my arm on him. I’m too busy looking at Bryce, seemingly out cold on the sidewalk, to give a damn about his life. Her helmet’s all fucked up, her body at an awkward angle. I squeeze tighter at the sight of it and then snap the neck, letting his body fall to the ground.
A quick glance round for more of them and I slide to the floor beside her, hands hovering, unsure what to do next. My fingers press on her wrist, searching for a pulse. She’s got one thankfully, and the feel of someone touching her must bring her out of her knocked out state. She twitches and tries moving, a groan falling from her lips under the helmet.
“You’re okay,” I murmur, for her benefit or mine, I’m not sure. I don’t care either way as I reach for her helmet. “Anything hurt?”
She mumbles something and tries to move again, her own hands reaching for mine shakily. “I’m gonna take this off. Neck alright?” Another mumble as I unlatch the visor and crank the front up. “Bryce, it’s Logan. Is your neck okay?”
“Yeah,” she grumbles. I lever the rest of the helmet off and look at her face, a smile coming as that hair tumbles out. “My leg hurts like a bitch, though.”
I glance down. Doesn’t seem broken. Straight enough.
