Page 139 of Dirty Dylan: Dirty Dusters

“Luis? Juan? What the fuck are you going to do?” Ty struggles against his bindings, but there’s no point. He’ll never be able to free himself. His MC isn’t even fully operational, and the grim reaper’s already paid one visit to his door. It looks like he’s about to knock again.

Twice.

It’s the story of the outlaw life.

“What do you think we’re going to do, Mr. Grayson?”

“You’re going to slaughter them in cold blood?”

“Just as they did with Carlos. An eye for an eye. Our instructions are to end both their lives.”

“Jesus Christ. Why?”

Juan shrugs. “It’s simple. If they refuse to be part of our plans, they will get in the way of them.”

My heart pounds in my chest as they approach Dylan. He gives no flicker of emotion. But then he’s a Duster. He won’t give the Colombians the satisfaction.

I watch as Juan points the phone in his direction and Luis walks towards him with the loaded gun.

He’s not fucking dying. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever on my watch. I stand and pretend to smooth down my leathers, smiling innocently when both Colombians glance in the direction of the only-good-for-one-thing cum slut before continuing with what they’re about to do.

Murder Dylan O’Connell in cold blood.

Turning to face the wall, I gently lift down one of the katanas, then, holding it behind my back, I walk slowly towards Dylan and Luis.

The Colombians pay me no mind. To them, I’m no threat. I’m just a fuck toy. A walking, talking trio of holes.

I unsheathe the blade as quietly as I can, swallowing thickly as I do.

Uma, I hope I make you proud.

All eyes are now on me. Well, I’ll fucking take it. Even now. When I’m surely about to die for being a fool with a death wish brandishing what’s likely a toy Samurai sword above my head.

The Colombians are so shocked they don’t even react.

“DIE, YOU MOTHERFUCKER!”

I spin the blade, welcoming the familiar sound as it cuts through the air while silently praying to The Almighty that it’s not a fake and that it won’t immediately snap on contact. Which, let’s face it, given my run of luck, is most likely.

The Lord answers my prayers for once as when it connects with the Colombian’s neck, it slices clean through. It’s followed by an almost slow-motion moment where his head topples to the floor, and his decapitated corpse starts spurting blood like a geyser.

All over me. All over Dylan.

The blood is quickly followed by bodily fluids and the resultant stench of shit fills the air. Adrenaline flows through me, and with the blade held back in position, I spin to take on the other goon. He’s moved. Our friend Juan is now standing behind Eoin, one hand holding a gun to the Irishman’s temple, the other clasping the recording device.

A shot rings out.

We all turn in the direction of where the sound came from to see Molly staring down at the Glock in her hand. Did she fire it? She must have as the Colombian is now flat on his back on the floor with a bullet hole in the center of his forehead, right between two very lifeless eyes.

Well, I’ll be damned—credit where credit’s due. I didn’t think Molly had it in her, but it seems I was wrong.

“The bullet, Jessie.”

Broken from my trance, I turn my attention back to Dylan and frown.

“The bullet,” he hisses at me.

Well, thank you for saving my life, Jessie. You’re more than welcome, Dylan.

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