Page 43 of Victorious: Part 3
“Nickel?Nickel!Luc, you motherfucker, don’t you fucking quit on me. You have an Old Lady to go home to.” Chains shakes Nickel violently. “You wakethe fuck up, brother!”
I grip his shoulder tightly, my own grief hitting me. “Chains… he’s gone.”
Chains snaps his head around at me, his eyes harsh, almost violent. “No! No…fuuuck!”Chains throws his head back and lets out a roar so intense it rips straight through my spine. It’s not just grief, it’s devastation.
Rage.
Soul-deep heartbreak unleashed like a storm that’s been waiting for the right moment to destroy everything in its path. He doesn’t just stand, he erupts, springing to his feet like he’sno longer bound by pain or logic. His shotgun comes up fast, mechanical and familiar in his hands, and in the next breath, all hell breaks loose.
He fires point-blank at the closest Cartel soldier, blowing the bastard off his feet and into the glass wall behind him with a sickening crunch. The glass shatters, raining down in a cascade of chaos.
Chains doesn’t stop.
He pivots with a vicious snarl, eyes wild, teeth bared, and pumps another round straight through the chest of a second soldier who’s entering and diving for cover. Blood sprays, splattering across the boardroom table and walls like violent artwork.
“You don’tfuckingget to takehim,”he roars, voice cracking with fury.
Another figure tries to flank him from the right, but Chains spins, shotgun roaring again. The impact lifts the soldier off the floor, his body hitting a filing cabinet hard enough to dent the metal before slumping in a heap.
Smoke fills the air, water raining from the ceiling, steam curling around Chains like some avenging demon dragged straight from hell. His movements are primal, raw muscle and rage as he wades through the chaos like a force of nature, reloading without even looking, pure instinct guiding every brutal move.
He dives behind a toppled conference table, flanks left, and comes out the other side like the fucking Grim Reaper. Another soldier goes down with a scream and a hole in his chest the size of a softball.
I can barely keep my eyes on him. He’s everywhere at once, cutting through the last of them like they’re nothing but shadows in his storm.
And then it’s quiet.
The room is a graveyard.
Smoke, blood, and the stench of gunpowder burn my nose.
Chains stands in the center of it all, soaked, heaving, his shotgun hanging limp at his side, his eyes locked on Nickel’s still form. His chest rises and falls with ragged breaths, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak.
He just stands there, in the ruin of his own making, broken wide open.
And I know, he didn’t just lose his brother, he lost the last piece of himself that still believed they’d both make it out of their own hell alive.
I glance down at Nickel, feeling the heavy burden of presidential guilt weighing me down.
I should have protected him.
I’m sorry, brother.
Finding my strength, I race through the room, grabbing Wraith, who’s bleeding but on his feet. “Can you move?”
“I can damn well try.”
“Then let’s fuckin’ finish this.”
Texas bursts through the stairwell door, carrying multiple sets of turnout gear already soaked and heavy. “I left two sets in the stairwell for Slick and Scout. I’ve already told them through comms to meet us at the vans.”
“Great fuckin’ job, Texas. Let’s get the hell outta Dodge!” I announce, signaling to my men.
Chains hesitates, and I step up to him. “We gotta go, brother. You good to take Nickel?”
Chains curls his lip and rolls his shoulders. “We all get out of here, Pres. Let’s get him home.”
With a quick pace, we all step into the fireman’s gear, passing out helmets and jackets as smoke fills the hall. The roar of sirens grows louder, while firefighters pour into the lower levels. Once kitted up, Chains hoists Nickel into his arms, in that very typicalfirefighter rescue pose, and with our gear on, Wraith and Fox grab the duffels, and we take off, blending in with the chaos.
