Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 99381 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 497(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99381 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 497(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
The security guy steps in front of the door. “You’re not invited,” he says in a low, menacing tone.
“Oh, that’s okay. We often enjoy crashing parties,” Hawke says with the biggest fucking smile as he suddenly grabs the guy, who’s too slow to pull out his weapon, and throws him into the door. The door bursts open, and I walk in after Hawke.
“Well, well, well. Looks like we have fourteen.” Hawke hums approvingly.
“I was closest,” I say as I quickly evaluate the scene. Twelve men and two women. Laurence Tate is sitting in the back with a cigar hanging from his mouth in shock. Everyone is frozen in silence before all hell breaks loose.
A woman screams as Hawke takes the right side and I take the left. I waste no time, swinging the crowbar into the security guy’s head, knocking him out cold. I use the other crowbar I’m holding to knock a gun pointed at my head out of the man’s hand. I plunge the curved end of the crowbar into his stomach, winding him, then smash it across his face, the force of the blow throwing him back against the wall.
Another man grabs one of my crowbars, and I let him as I pull out a gun and shoot him in the head. And when I look up to check on Hawke, I aim for the others who are pointing their guns at him.
Another woman screams, and it’s a bloody mess as Hawke headbutts another man and drives his spiked gloves into some guy’s face. Blood splatters everywhere.
I catch my second crowbar as it slips from the dead man’s hands, holding it by the straight end and swinging it into the back of someone’s knee. The guy’s leg buckles, and I hook him with the curved end of the crowbar, tugging him close enough that I can bring my foot down on his face—red splashes across my jeans.
A man runs at me with a bat, and I quickly switch my grip on the crowbars so I’m holding them together in both hands like a sword. When he swings the bat at me, I block it with the crowbars, the metal clanging together, sending a vibration down my arms. The guy is stunned for a moment, and I take the opportunity to jab my elbow into his face.
Hawke’s maniacal laugh echoes in the room as he grabs Laurence by the dress shirt. “Thought you could try to cheat our mother, huh?” he asks, then headbutts him, blood oozing down his face.
I release one of my crowbars, whipping out my gun and shooting the second to last man standing, who’s bleeding but trying to protect his boss. The man keels over a wooden table that was obviously knocked over in the chaos.
My blood is pumping with adrenaline and pounding in my ears as Hawke lets his bloodlust take over. He punches the man again and again.
A sense of calm takes over me as I see the two women huddled in the corner. It washes away the demand for more blood as I pick up my crowbar and slowly walk toward the busted front door. The women seem confused as I point to it.
I know how I must look. I can feel the hot blood on my face and in my hair, staining my clothes and forcing them to cling to my skin. But one thing I will absolutely not do is kill a woman or child.
It’s a code I’ve lived by from the moment I started taking lives. And if it’s a weakness, then so be it. Hawke has stuck by a similar code, but I wonder what will happen when the day comes that Eli gives us the order.
I hope that day never comes.
The women look in Hawke’s direction, terrified and shaking. I don’t really even see them. The only woman I really notice is Billie, and in their stead, it’s her face looking back at me. The monster within me wants to retreat slightly, hide itself from her fucking lively personality.
She might know of my demons and bloodlust, but knowing and being confronted by it are two very different things.
It appears the women choose to risk moving for the door instead of remaining in the same room as Hawke as he beats the man to death.
They slowly approach me, and I look in the other direction.
Our mother would call us weak and deem it a mistake to let witnesses go. But I refuse to kill them. If it’s the only rule that makes me feel human, then I’ll die because of it.
The first woman sprints out the door, basically leaving her friend behind, but the second lingers for long enough to make me actually look at her.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
My eyebrows furrow in confusion because I’m not someone who should be thanked, even if I’m letting them live. I’m anything but a good man. And certainly not one who should be thanked.