Page 27 of Total Carnage
I let out a low whistle, my mind racing faster than a souped-up Harley barreling down black asphalt. I couldn't deny the weirdness I'd noticed in myself, things I chalked up to gut instincts or lucky guesses. Now, though, the pieces clicked together like a puzzle from hell.
"Okay," I said, my resolve hardening like forged steel. "Let's say I'm on board with this supernatural trip. How do we use it to send Stansfield to meet his maker?"
"Carefully," Canon chimed in, his voice steady as a sniper's hand. "We ain't invincible, Vin. This stuff has a cost."
"Cost?" I shrugged, feeling that old familiar itch for action. "Everything has a price. If it means protecting our own and taking down that piece of trash, I'll pay it."
"Damn right," Shivs added, a feral grin spreading across his face. "We've got the upper hand now. Time to show Stansfield what happens when you corner a pack of wolves."
"More like a bunch of rabid dogs," I corrected with a smirk. The room's energy shifted, charged with a newfound purpose. Whatever doubts I had were shoved aside. This was about survival, about the brotherhood. And if using these freaky deaky talents gave us an edge, then hell, I was all in.
"Alright, brothers," I stood up, pushing off the wall with a newfound determination. "Let's put these gifts to good use. We ride at dawn, and by nightfall, Stansfield's gonna wish he never crossed the Royal Bastards."
Their nods were solemn, a silent vow exchanged in the dim light. We were outlaws, renegades, and now, something more. Bound by blood, leather, and a touch of the otherworldly, we were ready to turn the tide in a war we never saw coming.
The clubhouse was quiet, a graveyard hush that hung thick like exhaust fumes in the air. I leaned against the bar, a bottle of whiskey forgotten in my grip, as the weight of everything we'd just unearthed pressed down on me like a bike pinning you to the pavement.
"Damn," I muttered to myself, thumb running over the label, peeling at the edges. "This shit's heavier than a semi-truck."
It wasn't just about riding and surviving anymore. It was about protecting Raven, the brothers, and hell, probably the whole damned world from Stansfield's twisted games. An ex-president’s daughter or not, Raven had the fire of a warrior, and she was one of us now. The thought of her in danger twisted up my insides worse than a wreck on the highway.
"Live hard and die free," I whispered, the club's new motto echoing like a ghost through the empty room. But freedom had a cost, and I reckoned we were all about to pay up in spades.
I knocked back the last of the whiskey, feeling the burn trail down my throat like the exhaust of my Harley on an open road. The boys, my brothers-in-arms, were counting on me. And I wasn't about to let the shadow of death that loomed over us snuff out our light. Not without a fight.
Vin
The night was a cloak, and we were its shadow, a silent procession of ghosts on two wheels. My crew and I approached the horse farm, our bikes' engines dialed down to a purr before cutting out entirely, coasting to a stop with only the crunch of road under tires like a whispered threat. We dismounted in unison, a choreographed dance of dark figures moving with purpose. Since sharing our unique powers, we decided to leave behind the few Prospects we thought useful to watch the club and continue cleaning and prepping. We thought it best to keep our uniqueness under wraps, though eventually, they’d find out through rumors on the streets.
I checked my piece, the cool metal against my palm a familiar comfort. Around me, each member of my crew mirrored the action, gears clinking softly, leather creaking as they armed themselves for what lay ahead. The air was thick with the promise of violence, a silent symphony of impending chaos thatset my blood to simmer. I fucking missed the feeling of a coming war.
With a flick of my wrist, I sent them slithering into the darkness. They knew the drill; no words were needed when you could communicate silently. We were parts of a whole, and tonight, the mission was clear: infiltrate, extract, and exfiltrate without a trace—except for the memories we'd leave seared into the minds of any poor bastard who got in our way.
Moving through the shadows, I could feel the adrenaline pumping through my veins like high-octane fuel. Every sense sharpened, every muscle coiled tight and ready to spring. We wove between pools of light cast by the security floodlights, as elusive as smoke on the wind. My hand signals cut through the night, guiding my crew to fan out and encircle the place like predators staking their claim. I could feel Raven’s presence, not sure if it were part of my supernatural abilities or the fact I missed her so fucking much.
This wasn't just another run-of-the-mill raid. No, this was personal—justice mixed with a shot of revenge served cold and hard. I had scores to settle and demons to face, and tonight, the devil himself wouldn't dare stand in my way.
"Stay sharp," I muttered under my breath, though I knew they couldn't hear me. We were all too focused on the task at hand. The gap in the fence loomed ahead, a breach in the fortress we were about to storm. It was a tight squeeze, but we managed, slipping past that first line of security like shadows stealing through the night.
We regrouped on the other side, and it didn't take long for us to find what we were searching for—a hidden entrance camouflaged by overgrown brush as if the earth itself conspired to keep its secrets. It was almost too easy, but then again, nothing ever was.
"Canon, you're up," I said, gesturing to the opening. His eyes flickered with that familiar steel resolve, the one that made him the deadliest shot I'd ever known. He nodded once, his movements deliberate as he stepped forward to assess the path ahead.
"Moab, Shivs," I continued, nodding toward the rear, "keep our asses covered." They acknowledged with quick, grim smiles. Moab's imposing frame was a reassuring presence, while Shivs had a knack for spotting trouble before it even knew it was trouble.
The compound was a viper's nest, festering in the belly of opulence. We slunk through the bowels, where the air tasted like dirt and smelled of greed. The place was rigged with the spoils of sin; stacks of cash lay haphazardly on tables, bundles spilling out like the guts of some exotic animal that died for sport. Crates of contraband were stacked to the ceiling, their contents shadowed but no less damning—weapons, drugs, the kind of shit that fuels wars and ruins lives. Stansfield was involved in the very thing Jameson was trying to stop.
"Damn," I muttered under my breath, my eyes scanning every inch of that filthy lucre. Each dollar is a story of suffering. Each crate is a promise of pain. The silence hung thick around us, punctuated only by the soft shuffle of our boots, the click of a safety catch disengaged, or the rustle of Canon reloading, ever vigilant.
And then it hit me—the sound that sliced through the murk, a voice frail yet fierce. Raven.
"Vin," her voice cracked over the distance, a siren's call woven with desperation and fury. "Vin!"
My heart kicked against my ribs like it wanted out. My name on her lips was both a plea and a battle cry. In an instant, the mission shifted, took on a new weight, and became something else entirely.
"Move," I hissed, signaling with a sharp cut of my hand. No more stealth, no more careful plotting. This was a charge, a race against the devil's own clock.
We tore through the corridors, the very walls seeming to pulse with the beat of my heart. Every corner we rounded, every door we burst through brought us closer, the echo of her voice a beacon in the chaos. The crew trailed behind me, shadows cast in my wake, united by the bond we shared—one that would see us through hell or high water.
