Page 62 of Thunder

Eileen and her family deserve better; they need this risk to pay off. As I blaze down the deserted highway, I envision Antonio Mancini's face contorted in pain when I finally get my hands on him. He’ll beg for mercy that will never come. He’ll scream, he’ll weep, he’ll cower, he’ll piss himself—because I’ve learned from experience exactly where to punch someone to make that miserable little feat happen—and then, once the Steel Reapers have extracted every bit of bloody justice from his mangled body, we’ll end his miserable life.

"Justice is coming, you son of a bitch," I growl under my breath.

Turning onto a gravel road, an industrial area looms ahead, rusted warehouses like skeletal remains of a forgotten time. It's the perfect spot for an ambush—or, if spy movies have taught me anything, a crucial exchange of information.

"Here goes nothing," I mutter, pulling into the bony remains of the warehouse and killing the engine. Eerie silence washes over me.

Empty, dead silence.

I scan my surroundings, over and over again, wondering just what the hell I should be expecting. Is some nerdy guy with glasses, a briefcase, and a conscience going to come up and hand me an encrypted disk? Is a femme fatale going to seduce me and then crush me with her indomitable thighs, like Xenia Onatopp inGoldeneye?All the likely possibilities run through my head as I survey the empty surroundings.

Just as doubt creeps in, a van appears in the distance, headlights casting long shadows across the barren landscape. It parks, the lights shut off, and it sits there, ominously. It is neither a nerdy whistle-blower with a briefcase nor a psycho-killer with fit thighs. It’s something much worse: a Dodge Caravan.

"Showtime," I say, steeling myself for whatever comes next.

I take a deep breath and flick on my bike’s headlight, signaling the mysterious van. It responds almost instantly, flashing its own lights back at me.

I stand there, waiting, wondering.

What comes next?

Do I need to flash my lights again, like some Morse code thing?

So I do.

They flash back, then do nothing. Real helpful.

"Alright, you bastards," I mutter, swinging my leg over the bike and dismounting. My boots crunch on the gravel as I draw my gun, scanning the surroundings for any signs of trouble. The place feels deserted—just me and that damn van.

My heart races as I approach. This could be the break we need—or the end of the line. I cautiously stalk toward the van, every muscle in my body taut and ready to spring into action.

"Come out and play, boys," I whisper under my breath, feeling like a predator stalking its prey. “Because, seriously, even I’m not desperate enough to approach some random van with darkened windows in some deserted parking lot. Especially one that isn’t advertising free candy.”

Just as I get within shooting distance, the van's doors fly open. Men in masks emerge, carrying something heavy between them. It's wrapped in black plastic, and the sight of it sends a shiver down my spine.

"Shit," I hiss, ducking behind some rusted barrels, gripping my gun tightly. My instincts scream at me that I've walked into a trap, but I'm not about to back down now. There are only a few of them, and I can handle a fight. Hell, part of me is even looking forward to it—these men work for my enemies, and I want nothing more than to tear them apart.

This is just damned convenient.

I got in a pleasant ride on the way here, the air was fresh and the landscape beautiful, and now I get to shoot some evil motherfuckers.

Lucky day.

It might even make up for all the shit that happened between me and that knife-wielding psycho in the bar.

"Bring it on," I growl to myself, watching their every move from the shadows. If they want a war, I'll give them one. And if they have information that can help me save Lia and the others, I'll rip it from their cold, lifeless hands.

My finger hovers over the trigger as I watch the men in masks set up in formation. In my head, I plot which one to shoot first, and visualize how the rest of the combat will play out and how good it will feel to turn the concrete floor red with their blood.

Though Rook was right, the floor drainage in this place is amazing, I note, seeing grate after grate, all nicely spaced, all hinting that, even if I make this place into an utter slaughter, whoever the city coroner’s office sends to clean this place up won’t actually have that hard of a job ahead of them.

Just then, my phone vibrates in my pocket, the screen lighting up the darkness around me like a beacon.Shit.

I glance down, my eyes widening as I see Lia's name flash across the screen. "Marcus, where are you? We need to talk NOW."

Damn it.

As much as I want to respond, I can't risk giving away my position. My heart aches at the thought of leaving her hanging, but right now, survival comes first.

---