He didn’t get far.
The shot rang out like a whip, ricocheting toward my victim. The bullet hit its target, halting him into death.
The moment he turned from running to face-planting into the toxic dirt, I forgot about him.
I didn’t check if he was dead.
Mo.
He was much more important.
Hurrying back inside, I ripped aside a few shirts from the indoor washing line and ducked to my haunches beside Grasshopper. “How is he?”
Hopper’s blue eyes glittered with rage. “Did you get him?”
I nodded.
Resting my hand on Mo’s head, I muttered, “You okay, man?”
Mo winced, sucking air through his teeth. “Been … bet-ter.” Black blood sopped his cut, puddling around Hopper like a morbid lake. “Ah, fuck it hurts.”
Shit.
The bastard had got him good. Liver or gut … either way … Mo had a date with a motherfucking angel tonight.
Silent rage battled with grief. “He’s dead, Mo. Got him for you.”
He flinched, blood leaving his skin a ghostly white. “Go—good.”
Trying to keep the knowledge that he was a goner hidden, I smiled softly. “You’re all right. Don’t stress, okay?”
Hopper met my eyes. I shook my head slightly.
His arms tightened around his brother, his mohawk quaking as he sucked in a breath.
Mo sighed heavily. “J-just my shitty l-luck.”
I grabbed his hand. “Don’t talk. We’ve got ya.”
He smiled, fading fast. “You were a g-good prez, Kill. B-been a plea-pleasure …”
My heart fisted as his eyes suddenly lost their wicked loyalty and intelligence and turned to vacant film.
“Ah, shit …,” Hopper choked.
Unfolding from my crouch, I looked down on the two men who’d helped me become someone better than a lost convict. “Keep watch over him. I’ll go finish this.”
Fisting my hands, I left before I gave in to the fucking fury building inside. Mo’s death was my fault. His life stained mine.
I didn’t feel worthy. Why did he have to die for me? What made me so fucking special?
Drawing my weapon, I sought enemies on which to take out my rage.
I craved something worthwhile—to prove he hadn’t died for nothing.
Entering a bedroom, I didn’t find what I wanted.
Instead of eradication of filth, I witnessed another murder. Only this one wasn’t a Dagger or Crusader; it was a kid who was far too young to go.
“No!”
My vision stuttered as Beetle gasped, slamming to his knees before a man I recognized.
“Little twerp. I’ll show you—” Sycamore laughed as a hole appeared where Beetle’s heart used to be.
“Fuck!” I couldn’t move as the youngest prospect’s eyes shot blank, his body slithering into death.
It happened so fast. One second he was alive … the next gone. Just like Mo.
The cock-sucking-tobacco-chewing asshole who’d been there the day I was carted off in a police wagon giggled like a drugged-up slut.
Bastard!
“You fucking—”
Sycamore spun to face me, his arm raised to shoot. “You!”
He didn’t get a chance to fire. I’d hated this fucking bastard all my life. My father’s wingman. A devil within the ranks. He’d undermined Thorn and taunted Cleo constantly.
My gun swung up—so much lighter than my semi—and exploded in a spark of sulfur.
Sycamore stumbled backward, clutching his throat. The bullet tore out his windpipe, leaving him mute and gurgling as he smashed into a pile of worthless body parts.
My ears rang with injustice. I’d wanted him dead—but killing him wasn’t nearly enough for the life he’d just taken.
Shit!
I turned to check Beetle’s pulse. Poor kid. He was far too young to die. I’m fucking responsible. Two deaths now on my conscience.
A shadow appeared to my right.
I spun around, gun raised.
I was too late.
A sharp blade sliced through my side.
I bellowed, dropping my gun as a flash of agony scrambled my thoughts.
I staggered sideways.
Instantly, sticky wetness drenched my side. I flinched in excruciation. What the hell—
Then my eyes landed on him.
Thin lips, greasy skin, rampant greed, and diabolical ambition.
The one man I wanted dead above all others.
My father.
He smirked, darkness swarming in his green eyes. “Fancy that … you actually killed someone. After years of disappointment, I finally rubbed off on you.” He came closer, weapon raised. “Any last words, son? Because I’m about to fucking slaughter you.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Cleo
I’d found a dying bird today.
Its nest-mates had kicked it from its home, leaving it to die at the bottom of the tree. I’d wanted to tear apart the nest and see how the other chicks liked it—being bullied and left to wither alone. Instead, I’d scooped up the baby bird and took it home.
It was so easy to help. So gratifying to save another who needed saving. If I could change the life of a baby bird, perhaps I could change Arthur’s life, too. After all, he’d been fighting to leave the nest for years. —Cleo, diary entry, age twelve