“Four that I counted. Sounds like more, though,” I reply.
“Mmm.” The room quietens a little, feet scuffling around us as they probably creep up closer. “Plan?” he asks. Plan? We’re backed up under a table, no fucking hope of escaping, and he wants a plan? I shake my head and lift my guns, as bored with all this shit as he should be.
“All fucking in,” I snarl out, turning and raising my body, both arms out ready to obliterate whatever is left.
Fuck this shit. Fuck all of it.
He comes up with me as I let the first round go, eyes fixed on the men in front of us. Everything moves in slow motion then. Smoke. Shots and shouts in the haze of blood and violence. Quinn braces beside me as I climb over the table and keep moving forward into oncoming fire. I don’t give a damn anymore. Death and black is all I can see, my father’s eyes taunting me with his words all those years ago. More shots pulse through my fingers, a rally of Quinn’s coming at the same time. Three guys tumble to the floor, their lungs bellowing out in pain and finality as they land. Fate lives here. This is the shit that happens when you land your ass on my doorstep and try for more than you’ve been offered.
I swerve left, dodging incoming, and then press forward as the three others begin to falter backwards at the continued onslaught coming from the pair of us. One fucker comes out of nowhere, though, and moves right, two guns aimed as he starts to throw himself behind a cupboard for protection. Quinn blanches and heads for him, separating us as he throws one of his own guns and grabs at the guy, knife in his hand. My fingers pull again without any thought, sending two more to the floor as bullets keep coming at me. This is it now. All fucking in. One left. I pull again.
Empty fucking chambers.
My hands launch both weapons and I run at the cunt, eyes wide and teeth bared. I’m riled beyond anything I’ve felt for years, enough so that the impact of me hitting him in the stomach sends him crashing back into the wall. He grunts at the strength, a wheeze of air coming from his mouth. Dick. A riot of hate spits out of me, fists punching at his jaw and fingers reaching for his eyes to rid him of his stupidity. He strikes back at first, his fist pummeling the side of my mouth and splitting my goddamn lip. I feel my ribs crack at one point under the pounding, which incenses me beyond sanity. My own lungs claw for more air, dragging his carcass around to kick and stamp on anything available until I don’t even care for that anymore. I suck a load in, rallying all my muscles to destroy the face that begins to stare blankly up at me, and beat the fuck out of it.
Over and over again I go at him. Bones break, blood splatters back at me, teeth dislodging and jaws crumbling. It’s all just fucking black, a mist and murk of hate and anger, leaving nothing but belligerence and volatility in its wake. I feel myself sink to my knees and carry on delivering more, teeth going down to the blood pouring from his empty gaze. More hate. More justice. More fucking revenge aimed solely at this one fuck who decided to try killing me.
A hand lands on my shoulder, grabbing at me. I spin to stand and launch at that too, fingers flaring. Death and viciousness now—that’s all I want or need. The guy backs away, hands raised. Running? Fuck that. All I can see is threat. They’re all here in this room, coming for me and trying to obliterate everything I’ve made safe. I grab at a can of something, hurling it at the fucker to blindside him before he attacks, my body rushing him at the same time.
“VICO!” rings out from somewhere. I half stop, searching for Quinn’s voice in the gloom, and turn back behind me. There’s nothing there but blood and guts, a crumpled body lying where I left it. My eyes scan again, counting the mortality rate in here to find him. “Yeah, fuck’s sake,” his voice spits out. What? I spin again, looking for him in the room, and find him staring at me, hands braced out in between us. The fuck is he doing there? “It’s me, you cunt. You back with me yet?” The hell is he talking about? “I think he's dead, Vico.”
My lip curls in disdain as I stare at him, eyes still flicking around. Death is all that’s left now. A smile curves my mouth, tongue licking over my lips at the smell of it as I back away from him and survey the goods. There's a taste on my lips–blood. Not mine, though. I spit and wipe my wrist across my mouth to rid my skin of it. Japanese tastes like shit. Still, ten dead, one still squirming, his hands covering a stomach wound. I cross to him, fingers knocking his away so I can get inside the cunt and get information. Fucking Yakuza.
“Where’s the bitch?” I snarl out, getting close in to his face. He shakes his head at me, fearful eyes not giving me anything but loyalty to her. That’s not gonna work for me.
“Damn hierarchy,” Quinn says somewhere. “Might as well put a bullet to his skull.”
I smile at that and dig into the blood beneath my hand, pushing my hand into his guts. I grasp his entrails in my fingers, the slippery sensation of them tugging through my grip.
Warm. Slippery. Wet.
Old times.
“You gonna tell me?” I ask, squeezing down on something. Again, a fucking head shake as his face squirms up at the pain that’s coming. “Stupid.” It doesn’t matter now anyway. This shit here should be warning enough to back the hell off me, and out of my goddamn city. I start pulling and stand, bringing his guts with me as I walk backwards and zone out his shouts of agony. My feet wander from man to man, flicking jackets out of the way to get ID.
“You know any of these?” I ask Quinn, searching through a wallet I’ve found.
“That could be her chief. You’ve fucked up his face, though.” I look at what’s left of the guy's face, taking the other one’s entrails with me. My fingers grip then release them,grip then release. It feels good, like the devil’s come home into me. I smile, amused. “The fuck are you doing with those in your hand?” he asks.
“Remembering.” A spluttered cough and wheeze sound behind me, the pained echo of years gone by coming with it. “Search that. I want to know we’ve killed the right ones,” I mutter out, pointing at the faceless cunt, and turning back for the only one still breathing. Just.
“And you call me a maniac,” Quinn chuckles in the background.
Yeah. Maniac. Psycho. That's what comes of living my life. At least I know I can trust this one now, that he's got my back covered if I need it. My fingers reach into my pocket, producing four tickets and handing them back to him.
“What's this?”
“Party. You're welcome.” He is. Very welcome in my life.
I crick my neck and stare down at near lifelessness, amused at the splutters and coughs, the fear of death.
Two minutes it takes to rip the heart out of the fucker. Two minutes to hold something barely beating in my hands and watch it come to a stop.
I still feel the same about it as I did all those years ago.
Hollow.
Eighteen
