My eyebrows pulled down. The sound of chair legs scraping the wooden floor came from the far left of the bar, as someone jumped to their feet. Heads whipped in his direction.
He looked in his late twenties. Some skinny blond who seemed to be strung out on meth. Meister glared at the guy, his lips curling in disgust. The traps in his neck bulged as he seethed on the spot. “You dare to call yourself White Power when you fucked this cunt’s pussy, lived with her for a year?”
Meister’s face was red; he locked eyes on the guy, who began backing to the door. The guard I called Himmler stopped the guy dead and wrapped a hand around the back of his neck. Meister took out a lighter, and making sure the not-so-pure Klansman was watching, set fire to the photo. He spat on the burning sheet as it fell in flames to the ground.
“Get your guns,” Meister commanded us all. The guards began herding us, marching everyone outside.
“What the fuck?” Vike muttered, as we got to our feet and followed the crowd. We were lined up across the width of the empty street. Daylight was fading. Several dimly lit street lights were on, but night was chasing sun. Himmler stood about ten feet away, still holding the terrified-looking Klan fucker by the neck. Meister pushed through the center of the line and stood in front of us.
“Guns!” Meister ordered. Everyone pulled out their guns. I pulled out mine.
Himmler turned the guy to face Meister. Meister folded his thick arms over his chest. “Run.”
The guy’s face blanched.
“No, I swear I didn’t fuck her,” he said, stumbling over his words.
“Run,” an unimpressed Meister repeated.
Himmler stepped away from the guy, standing to the side of our makeshift firing line. The guy’s breathing was labored with fear. He took off at a sprint. Meister held up his arm as the guy gained ground, running fast down Main Street.
“Fire!” Meister yelled. Bullets flew from the guns of the Nazis around me. Most were fucked off their face on drink and fuck knows what else. I held back my fire, watching, as not one bullet hit. The kid gained more ground, and Meister held up his hand again. “Fire!” he called, louder, and another volley of shots rang out.
The guy kept running.
He was approaching the far exit, and with his speed and the fading light, ain’t one of those brothers, not even Vike, Flame or Cowboy, had a chance of hitting that shit.
“For fuck’s sake!” Meister screamed. “Someone hit that traitorous cunt now!”
But no hit came, and Meister turned to face us all, murderous rage in his eyes. I took one step forward, raised my gun and aimed. It was as if everyone else disappeared beside me—my vision became tunneled, and I held my stance until I’d locked on the target. One, two, three breaths. I released the bullet and watched as it sailed through the air with perfect precision, straight into the Klan fucker’s skull.
The body fell to the ground in a heap. Even from this distance, I saw blood spurting from his head as his body twitched in the throes of death.
133 confirmed kills.
I fucking smiled.
I lowered my gun, never taking my eyes off the Klan-sympathizing asshole now wearing my bullet in his skull. I felt fuck all guilt. Even if he had fucked a black chick, that fucker still deserved to die. They all did. One bullet at a time, simply for being in this place.
When I was sure he wasn’t gonna move, I shifted my attention from the corpse and lifted my head . . . to realize that every fucker in the place was staring at me, mouths open and fucking gawking.
I took a deep breath, loathing the attention. And then I saw Meister watching me, his blue eyes locked on mine. Only he wasn’t gawking like the rest of these redneck pricks. He was looking at me like I was the second fucking coming.
He stepped in front of me. “Name?”
I lowered my gun to my side but tightened my hand on its grip. “Carson. Carson Abney.” I rattled the fake name off with ease.
“Sniper?”
“Marines. Special Ops. Iraq.”
“Kills?”
“132,” I replied. “133 . . . now.” I tilted my head in the direction of the slain Klansman.
Meister let out a low whistle. “Impressive.” He held out his arm. There among the Nazi symbols and KKK flag stood a Marine tattoo, an American Eagle clutching the American flag, “Semper Fi” written underneath. One not too dissimilar to my own.
“Tank battalion.” He nodded in approval. My fingers twitched as I fought the urge to raise the barrel of my gun and send a metal nugget through his skull. This fucker weren’t no brother-in-arms of mine. “Iraq and Afghanistan.”
Without another word, Meister turned and walked down Main Street toward the body. He hovered over the corpse, and in the fading light, I saw his expression sour in disgust. Then, raising his heavy black boot, he slammed the heel down, using his full strength to crush the Nazi’s skull. Blood and brains spattered the dusty ground.
Men around us puked; most turned away. But I watched the sadistic fucker as he spat on the body then made his way back toward me, leaving bloodied footprints on the dirt road.
The sight of death didn’t bother me.
I’d seen much worse. Fuck, I’d done much worse.
“Carson.” Meister waved his hand my way. “You and I are going to have a fucking drink.”
My heart beat fast as the adrenaline—of both the kill and the prospect that this fucker was letting me in to his circle—ran through me. I cast a glance behind me to Vike, who was standing close to Flame as our resident psycho eyeballed Meister. Cowboy slipped into step beside them, his blue eyes scanning around us for any sign of trouble.
We followed Meister and Himmler past the still-stunned men and entered the saloon. Meister led us to a table at the front of the bar that I knew only he sat in. It was near the clear spot where he had made his little speech about betrayal not too long ago.
A tray of shots was placed before us. Meister knocked back three in a row. We all did the same. When beers came next, Meister took a long sip without ever moving his eyes from me. “You know Beau Ayers?”
I wasn’t surprised the fucker knew about each of his town’s “guests”.
“Not personally. He got word to us.” I gestured to Flame, Vike and Cowboy. “We were in Louisiana. He wanted us in Texas.”
Meister studied each of us. He nodded knowingly. “The Grand Wizard is calling all his good soldiers down here.” He pointed to himself and to Himmler. “The war is about to begin.” His eyes narrowed. “You have a Texan accent.”
“Plano, Austin, West Virginia and Louisiana,” I said pointing at myself, Viking, Flame and Cowboy in turn. “We were all drifters, brought together by the cause. Now we’re here.”
“All Marines?”
“Not me, just like ripping blacks’ throats,” Vike said, sounding like a perfect fucking Aryan brother.
“Jew fucked my old man over. So I slit his throat. Been slitting throats ever since,” Cowboy drawled, sticking to the backstory Tanner gave him.