Page 62 of Tangled In Vengeance

A few more strides and the answer slams into me with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. My men are splayed across the concrete. Their stillness is unnatural and profound. Someone killed them. I don’t think it was Jose because he seemed content with our agreement. He wouldn’t just attack, especially knowing that I would retaliate tenfold. He doesn’t have the manpower or army that I have. It doesn’t make the Valdezs any less of a threat. They are a force to be reckoned with, but he’ll think twice before attacking me.

"What the fuck?" Victor murmurs, his voice catching on a whisper of disbelief. My hand unconsciously edges towards the steel security of the gun at my side. This isn't just an infraction. It's sabotage. A blaring, bloodied declaration that someone is out to get me.

The acute sound of shattering glass yanks my attention toward the ceiling as an explosion of movement erupts throughout the warehouse. Men in dark tactical gear cascade down from above, guns already blazing a relentless hail of lead. Instinctually, Victor and I draw our weapons.

“Down!" I bark to Victor, shoving him towards the safety of the shipping crates as bullets kiss the concrete where our bodies stood moments before. Rounds pierce the air with piercing howls in a chaotic symphony of destruction that threatens to swallow us whole.

"Motherfucker! This is an ambush!" Victor seethes, his eyes blazing with fury as he returns fire systematically, trying to make every shot count.

I can't help but agree, feeling the adrenaline surge through my veins like wildfire. "No shit, Sherlock! Cover me!" I shout, slipping out of our cover to fire back. My movements are sharp and calculated under the rush of danger. Each thunderous burst from my gun syncs with my racing heartbeat.

As I duck back into cover, metal shards and wood splinters rain around us, splintering off the crates that barely shield us from the onslaught.

"Who the hell tipped them off?" I growl, glancing at Victor. His face is a mask of concentrated aggression, but I can see the wheels turning behind his glare.

"I don't know, boss. But we're sitting ducks if we don't move!" he yells, ejecting a spent magazine and slamming in a fresh one with practiced ease.

I nod, mapping out a path to a back exit in my mind. "On three, we make a break for the door. Lay down some cover. Then bolt for it. Follow my lead." My resolve steels as I set my jaw, preparing for the sprint through the ballet of bullets.

"Got it. Three, two, one. Now!" Victor shouts, and we leap from cover, weapons blazing as we weave our way to survival, our fate penned by the pull of triggers and the speed of our stride.

Bullets whiz by, shredding the air with their lethal song. Victor and I manage just a few short, desperate dashes before we're forced to duck behind a new line of crates. My ears are ringing, but it's William Hawthorn's voice that cuts through the chaos.

"Damien Blackhart," Hawthorn bellows over the relentless gunfire. "You thought you could take my son and torture him without repercussions?"

"Fuck you!" I scream back, defiance raising the hairs on the back of my neck. I rise barely enough to glimpse my targets and fire off a few more rounds with my heart hammering against my chest.

I can almost hear the smirk in Hawthorn's voice as he replies. "I’ll give my thanks to your informant. It seems they always have accurate information."

I'm seething as the anger pulses through me with every beat of my heart.

"I'm going to enjoy inflicting pain on you," he promises, but it's a promise I intend to turn back on him.

Suddenly, Victor taps my shoulder, pulling me back to the grim reality. "We don’t have enough bullets to take them on. We’re not prepared for this," he whispers with irritation in his eyes.

Exhaling a shaky breath, I survey the weapon-littered warehouse. "We have a whole fucking warehouse full of guns, Victor. Grab one and fucking kill them," I snarl, willing my mind to stay sharp despite the racing of my pulse. With a nod, we both focus on surviving. No planning, just instinct and the glint of metal in our hands.

Bullets zip past, leaving trails of deadly intentions in the air. My hand is steady, even as the rest of me is a coiled spring, ready to react. We're outnumbered but not outgunned. Not yet. I glance at Victor, exchanging a nod that speaks volumes. We've been through hell together, but this, this is a situation that will burn away everything but our raw resolve to survive.

I squeeze the trigger and my gun answers with a bark that's almost reassuring. I can't afford the luxury of fear, can't indulge in the bitter taste of doubt. Instead, I aim and fire, aim and fire, a relentless determination driving each movement. I count the shots, calculating the odds with each exchange. The air thickens with the scent of gunpowder.

I duck behind a crate just as it splinters under a spray of bullets. Bits of wood and metal embed themselves in the walls. Death lingers close. I can almost feel its breath on the nape of my neck. I push it back, as I always do, forcing it to wait for another who might be less vigilant, less desperate to live.

We move like shadows, from cover to cover is a deadly choreography set to the rhythm of gunfire. Each breath comes short and fast, matching the tempo of our desperate defense. With every glance, every flickering thought, I'm searching for an escape, a way out. All I see are closed doors. All I hear is the music of warfare, a dirge that I refuse to be the crescendo of.

I hurl my emptied gun to the ground with a vow for retribution echoing in my mind. My arms coil, striking out like vipers. A fist crashes into the first attacker's jaw, and the impact vibrates through my arm. I feel his bone give, but there's no time to contemplate; I pivot.

An elbow meets another's temple, a dull thud over the sound of gunfire. He stumbles, but I'm already moving, lashing out a leg that hooks an assailant's knees. He falls, and I’m on him, driving my knee into his ribs. Each hit is a statement, an exclamation of my refusal to die.

Twisting, I block a punch, wincing as the force vibrates up my forearm, and retaliate with a head butt. Blood, theirs or mine, it doesn't matter, spatters. I'm an avatar of violence, channeling years of honed aggression with every strike, every bone-crushing connection between flesh and bone. A brief lull in the gunfire tells me it's time.

Lunging to the nearest crate, I flip open the top, fingers skimming over cold steel until they wrap around the grip of a semi-automatic. The magazine slams home. Chamber, round’s ready. It's heavier than my handgun, promising a different kind of dance. I peek over the crate and squeeze the trigger. Bullets spit out, my controlled bursts of retaliation.

William's orders slice through the mayhem, each word dropping like cannon fire. "Don’t stop! Take down, Victor. I want Blackhart alive!"

I bark out a cold laugh with adrenaline surging through my veins. "Good luck with that, Hawthorn!" I shout back, defiance fueling my resolve. My voice is rough, serrated with wrath as I unleash my challenge. "I’ll put every last one of your men in the ground, and then, I’m coming for you!”

Gunfire punctuates my vow. I can almost feel the sinister weight of Hawthorn's gaze, but it doesn’t slow me down. It ignites a fire inside me. This is more than survival now. It's the crushing weight of inevitability, and I am its relentless harbinger.

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