TW: This chapter contains descriptions of gambling and graphic violence.

— Chapter 71 —
Charnel House

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N O A H

"So, how was your overnight stay in the lockup?"

I caught Chief's question to Chains only a foot or two from their booth. It wasn't a busy night—but there hadn't really been busy nights at all since that Councilman's ban came into play. Chief's booth was the only one that seemed to have anything interesting going on.

Caught in a game of poker, I counted four bikers sitting around a mess of cards and cash on the table: Chief, Chains, Shooter and Jaws. By their table stood Angela and her friend Lucille, if I remembered her name right. They hadn't stopped by Joe's in a while. Hell, it felt like I rarely saw Angela at all since our breakup.

Strangely enough... that didn't bother me as much as I thought it would. I'd been so busy in the last few weeks that I hadn't afforded myself the time to think of her. I didn't really care to.

Off to the side and out of earshot, I messed with my collar, too warm in my own clothes. A headache pulsed through my temples. My throat was sore, and my voice remained hoarse whenever I spoke—I had a cold to thank for that. If Elliot was here, he'd be chewing me out for exerting myself so much.

Twice in two months I'd been this unwell. I couldn't decipher why. Growing up, I was the only one in my family never to suffer a cold. Not even once. I never got sick, nothing more than a sniffle on a bad day. Hell, maybe my systems were starting to go out of whack.

Just what I need right now.

"Fucking hell," Chains griped, fiddling with the silver piercing in his eyebrow. "The place smelled like piss and day-old vomit. Spent the night on the floor after the bastard cops threatened to cavity search me—you do not want to know how I got out of that one."

"Jesus," said Jaws. "Did the pot brownie do you any good, at least?"

"Nah. Worst high of my life. I'm just glad I don't remember half of it." Chains slapped a hand against the edge of the table. "Oh, but you know who I saw? Fucking Randy. Can you believe it?"

"You mean the crackhead always sitting outside the bar asking us for ciggies?"

Shooter frowned, peering up from his hand of cards. "I thought his name was Rick."

I watched Chains shrug. "It's something with an R. Whatever." Shaking his head, he continued, "Anyway, I haven't seen his ass in months. Poor guy's missing a few more teeth now, actually. The two of us had a nice chat. Then he fell asleep and drooled on himself for half an hour. But hey, at least he's not dead! That's always a plus, right?"

The bikers laughed at his words as Chief, Shooter, and Jaws unveiled their card hands. A smirk pulled on my uncle's lips.

"Full house."

A series of groans and bitter remarks broke out around the table.

"What?" Shooter complained. "How the fu—"

Chief reached for the pot of cash in the middle of the table, sweeping it all towards him. "Looks like I still got it, huh?" he chuckled, collecting the notes. "Thanks, boys."

"Un-fucking-believable," breathed Shooter, collapsing back in his seat. "Tell you what—you must be bathing in luck, Chief. That was outrageous."

"It's all in the bluff, Shooter." The older biker made sure to joke, "Helps to be surrounded by piss-poor liars."

"Ha-ha," Shooter deadpanned. He reached to collect the cards. "We're going again."

Chains puffed his lips. "Oof. Really think you can afford that, Big Man?"

"I got it."

"You sure? You're down nearly half a bag, dude. Can't play for shit when you're drunk."

"I said I got it, Chains. Lay off."

Chains, eyes widened for emphasis, muttered, "Oo-kay."

While they started shuffling their cards, I adjusted the links to my cuffs and stopped by Lucille and Angela to get a better look at the game. Looking over Chains' shoulder, I said to Angela, "Table's not looking too good. How bad is it?"

She shook her head in disappointment and gestured to Shooter with the beer in her hands. "He's been taking losses all night."

It certainly looked like it. I'd never seen Shooter so quiet—or so focused. He was sweating slightly at the brow, and his lips had been pulled into a thin line that tugged down in dissatisfaction. He wasn't going to bluff his way out of the pit he was in, that was for sure.

"Yikes," I muttered.

Chains, having caught onto my presence, did a double take at the sight of me. "Hey, hold on a damn minute—what's all this?"

The bikers looked up my way, eager to see what the silver-haired biker's fuss was about. It wasn't long before a symphony of wolf whistles broke out around the table.

Alright... maybe I'd gotten a little dressed up.

I was picking Elliot up from a wedding full of high-class socialites, after all. I couldn't let myself show up looking like a biker thug. Slightly oversized, a sleek, deep-black blazer rested over my chain and a dark suit shirt, which had been unbuttoned past my collarbones. Black leather Chelsea boots, ankle-length pants and a silver watch came to match.

"Fucking hell, Edge!" Jaws cackled, amazed. "Why don't you leave some women for the rest of us, yeah?"

"Where do you think you're going looking like this?" said Chains. He wiggled a brow. "Hot date or something?"

Something like that.

"Man, this is a nice suit," Shooter raved, reaching over to examine the fabric of the blazer. "Where'd you get this?"

"Had it lying around. What do you think?"

He tilted his head and nodded in approval. "I'll be honest; doesn't look half bad on you. Very Brad Pitt-esque."

Chains covered his mouth and chuckled.

"Yeah," he teased, "nice ass you got there, boss."

I gave him a look. "Why're you looking at my fucking ass, Chains?"

"Jealousy, mostly."

Chief sighed and rubbed his temples. "Why do you say these things?"

More laughter echoed around the booth, louder this time. A sharp pang shot to the front of my head with all the noise, blurring the edges of my vision for a brief moment. Stupid fucking headache. It's too loud here.

"Alright, alright. Enough." Messing with the watch at my wrist, I glared at nothing in particular and said bitterly, "Christ's sake. I'm just picking Elliot up from the reception."

My uncle scoffed lightly and remarked, "So you got this dressed up? Last I remember, you wouldn't even wear a suit to your senior prom. Trying to impress somebody?"

"Well I couldn't exactly show up to a wedding in my fucking work overalls."

Chains asked me, "Who pissed in your cereal this morning? You sound grumpy. Which is odd, because I'm the one who slept next to a urinal."

I sighed. "You're never gonna let that go, huh?"

"Not a chance," he said, mussing his hair. "You owe me two grand."

Rubbing my eyelids as if it would do something to ease my aching eyestrain, I muttered absently to myself, "I'm starting to think that my mood directly correlates to the surrounding levels of stupidity."

Chief grinned from his end of the booth, picking up the cards he'd been dealt.

"Hah," he said. "You and me both."

Angela took a sip of her beer and tugged gently on the lapel of my blazer. Analyzing me with her deep, chocolate-brown eyes, she bit the side of her lower lip and nodded firmly.

"You look great," she said truthfully, brushing off a speck of lint. "But would it have killed you to do something with your hair? Look at this. It's a mess. Hold still."

She reached up to run her fingers through the dark tresses at the side of my forehead, but I took hold of her wrist and stopped her before she got the chance.

"I'm good. No need to mother me." Letting her go, I sniffed slightly and coughed into my elbow. Stupid fucking cold.

Angela paused, nostrils flaring whilst her brows pressed together. Concern invaded her expression, her neck craning to get a better look at me.

"Wait," she spoke in realization, "hold on a second. Are you running a fever? You look like death." Her thumb brushed softly against the side of my right eye.

I stepped out of her arm's length.

"It's just a little cold," I snapped under my breath. "All the noise is giving me a goddamn headache. Look, I'm not dying, alright?"

"Let me see." She tried to feel my forehead, but Chief stepped out of the booth between us.

"He'll be fine," he told her. His attention turned to me. "Now stand up straight—let me get a good look at you."

My uncle inspected my outfit, then turned up to my hair. He licked his thumb and swept a lock of hair from my eyebrow, dusting off my shoulders once he was satisfied. His piercing gaze locked with mine—the only thing I could see in his irises was a sense of compassionate pride.

"Better," he declared, as gently as he could within the limits of his gruff voice. That compassion of his, though rare to see, bled into his words. "You look just like your father when he was young. I see him in your eyes, you know, even in the way you walk. He'd have been proud of you."

It wasn't often that I felt a warmth like the one spreading through the chest. Flattery usually meant nothing to me—but when it came from people like Elliot or my uncle, the words tended to carry more weight.

He'd have been proud of you.

My mind lingered on the thought. Part of me wished my old man could've been here to tell me that himself. But... I didn't think I'd believe him.

There's nothing to be proud of.

Chains caught my attention, nodding to something behind me. "Hate to interrupt—but isn't that your boy?"

The question had me turning on my heels to face the front doors of the bar. When my focus caught on a familiar head of light-brown hair, my headache just about disappeared—even for a few moments.

Elliot.

My breathing came to a slow stop. Walking in with a tuxedo-clad James behind him, Elliot was busy rubbing his wrist, his lips puffed out to make the face he usually made when he was deep in thought. He hadn't spotted me yet, but it felt like I'd been looking at him for an eternity.

Irresistible wasn't a strong enough descriptor.

He looked like a goddamn miracle.

Shining locks of pale hair were brushed loosely into his typical half-up-half-down style, held together by what looked like an emerald-green ribbon. Silver earrings—the ones I'd gifted him for his birthday—glittered as they fell in chains past the cut of his jawline. Free from baggy clothes, he'd dressed in a suit without a blazer, instead opting for a slim-fitting black vest that cinched the sides of his waist. The puffy sleeves of a beige-white suit shirt ran down his arms, collar held together with a sleek tie and its silver clip.

I learned to love that emerald ribbon as Elliot's eyes, big and hazel and painted by innocence, met my own.

"Elliot," I stammered, his name like honey and sweet on my lips.

Surprised etched itself into his expression as I closed the distance between us.

"You're in a suit," he spoke.

I had to cut myself out of the daze I was in, just to make sure I was capable of forming coherent sentences in his presence.

"Yeah," I said. "I was just about to go and pick you up."

"But you're sick," he told me, putting a hand to my forehead. "Really sick. You really didn't have to go to this much trouble. Did you take your painkillers?"

A breathy chuckle left my lips at his question. The two of us were standing in a bar after all, with bottles of liquor spanning the walls and littering the booths. "I'm surrounded by painkillers, baby."

Any other day, Elliot probably would have laughed. But as James' scowl hardened behind the brown-haired bartender, who was looking at me with urgency in his troubled eyes, it dawned on me that something wasn't entirely right.

"Wait," I said, "why are you here?"

Elliot turned his gaze from me to the rest of the bar, searching for something in the small crowd of drinkers. He pulled something from the pocket of his suit pants, and I stepped out of his way as he approached the booth full of poker-playing Stray Dogs.

He stopped by Chains' feet, hesitant in his movements. The chatter in the booth died down. The biker looked up at him, slightly confused, putting his hand out to receive whatever Elliot had to give him.

Chains frowned at the set of silver in his pale hands.

"My keys," he said.

The two syllables had Elliot taking a step back and shrinking into himself. There was about as much fear on his face as perplexity on mine. The questions wouldn't end. Why did he have Chains' keys? Why was he so scared?

Chains met Elliot's stare. "Where did you get these?"

But before the well-dressed bartender could answer, James interrupted the situation, taking Chains by the collar. Sweeping the cards, drinks and cash out of the way, he hoisted the biker up onto the table like it was nothing. The wood groaned beneath his weight. The other Stray Dogs leaned back out of the way, invigorated by the prospect of a fight.

"Hey, hey, what the hell do you think you're—" Chains struggled in James' iron grip, snarling with bared teeth. "Edge, you better tell this fuck to get his hands off me!"

"Why'd you do it?" Elliot breathed. His voice was small, quiet, nothing like the chaos unfolding around him.

"Do what?" snapped Chains, thrashing against the table. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"You gave them the keys." Elliot choked, "You told them. You told them where the apartment was, and they... they..."

The intensity of the situation finally became apparent.

Drawing the conclusions, I found myself remembering the words Lieutenant Kessler said to me the night I went to find Elliot in the apartment. No signs of forced entry.

Fucking keys.

Of course. Why the fuck didn't I think of that earlier?

No forced entry meant that the intruders had a key to the front door. Chains was the only one with the spare set. And if Elliot was holding the keys now, ready to confront him... then that meant only one thing.

Chains was the traitor we'd been searching for.

My question emerged slowly, calculated.

"Where'd you get the keys, Elliot?"

His chin trembled. He wrapped his arms around himself, refusing to meet my eyes. When I got his reply, which escaped his pillowy lips as no more than a trembling whisper, it became clear why.

"Midas."

My fists clenched by my sides. My nostrils flared. That bastard. He got to Elliot, I realised, the thought of Elliot facing him making me infinitely more pissed off.

James growled and shoved Chains back to stop him from fighting. "For god's sake. Midas put a rat right in front of you."

"Rat? What fucking rat?" The silver-haired biker searched desperately for some kind of understanding from the bikers around him. "I swear to god, man, I had nothing to do with this shit!"

I countered, "You were the only one with a key to the apartment."

"Yeah, and I fucking lost it, shithead! Don't you remember?" Chains elaborated, "Lucille's party, I told you I couldn't find my damn keys. I spent a week trying to get them replaced! It's fucking expensive too, Edge. I don't got the time to deal with that shit!"

My pensive silence didn't instill him with much hope.

Chief, who'd gotten out of the booth with Shooter and Jaws, spoke up from over my shoulder. "Chains, tell the truth."

"Come on!" the biker shouted back. He met my cold glare. "I swear it wasn't me. You know me, man. You've known me since fucking middle school. Why the hell would I do this?"

Whether I believed him or not, he was making good points. My focus flicked briefly to Elliot, hoping that he was wrong. That maybe, just maybe, we'd all jumped to the wrong conclusion.

"He's lying," James decided. "Of course he's lying."

Chains flared his nostrils and gritted out, "What the hell do you know, fuckface?"

"Midas is playing a game with all of you. You're obstacles for him, and having you fools cast doubt on each other is just his form of entertainment." A sharp exhale escaped James between heavy breaths. "If it's a traitor you're after, here he is. The evidence is right there in his hands."

Chief raised a brow, surprisingly calm given the situation. "How do you expect us to believe it isn't you? All due respect, outsider, but aside from your old man running for mayor, none of us have a damn clue who you are."

"And you seem to know a lot fucking more than you're letting on," I added. "You still haven't explained how you know Midas in the first place. Five years is a long time—who knows what you've been getting up to."

Chains mentioned to James, "Hell, if I remember correctly, you were at Lucille's party too!"

"So were half the people in this room!" James shoved Chains again, frustrated with the biker's squirming. "I don't have to explain myself to you. If you want to waste time pointing your fingers at me, go ahead. All of this is a waste of my time."

"Wasn't your brother the one who came around here telling us to clear out?" asked Jaws from off to the side. "That's the reason we disbanded, after all. Tell you what—you being here certainly hasn't done us any good."

"I'm not responsible for the actions of my family!"

"Stop it," Elliot pleaded to us.

"Why would I want to go against a group of bikers I've never met before?" James scoffed, livid. "I had no way of knowing about those keys and from the looks of it, Midas won't have any trouble bringing down this empire you think you have. He'll chew you all up and spit you right back out. I'm here trying to do you people a favor."

Chief picked at his Stray Dogs vest and sighed.

"The way I see it, one of us is lying." He put it simply. "There's a traitor here, and nobody's leaving until someone comes clean."

"Stop."

"It's not fucking me!" yelled Chains to the group, finally managing to pry James' hand from his collar. Straightening to his feet, he huffed, "Besides, I was getting drunk with Shooter all night at Lucille's party before we booked that cab home, there's no way—"

The blast of a gunshot cut him off.

Screams broke out through the bar. Bikers ducked and covered their heads. Angela shrieked as she dived behind the barrier of a booth behind us. Patrons were bolting for the doors, desperate to escape the chaos. My stomach lurched to my throat. My hands went to cover my ears. My mind raced too fast for my pulsing heartbeat to keep up.

"Nobody move or I'll blow his damn head off!"

Trailing my unsteady gaze off the bar floor, I found my attention slowly coming to focus on a red-faced, sweating Shooter standing across the Chief, Chains and me. He'd shot out the only CCTV camera. Elliot was in his grasp—caught between a chokehold and the smoking gun that was now pointing upwards beneath his jaw.

I wasn't sure I was breathing. Any breaths through my lips were light, drawn out, not entirely there. My legs felt like they were being dragged down by weights. Panic spiked through my system. The room was spinning, but just like that, I was aware of everything.

My trembling hands, which I observed with double vision. Elliot's eyes, filled with fear in it's purest form, distant yet so clearly quivering. The exact position of each and every person in the room: James, hidden out of sight with Angela behind the barrier of the nearest booth. The Chief, a statue in the middle of the bar. Chains, a few feet ahead on my left, closest to Shooter. They were the only Stray Dogs with guns to draw. Chains and the Chief held their weapons firm, cocked in the direction of the unfolding hostage situation.

With a rigid stance, the Chief bellowed, "Shooter, let him go!"

A shrill laugh cut cleanly through the tense air.

"Well, that was fun!" Midas mused, announcing his presence with the slow clap of his hands. He stood in a silver-grey suit, grinning from ear to ear. "Elliot, James—nice to see you beat us here. Let's not do anything too hasty, now."

The doors swung shut behind the men he'd brought in with him. Tall, outfitted in black, and strapped with assault rifles, they stood unwavering against the sight of Stray Dogs pointing at them with handguns. But it was Han who stood out most. Covering Shooter from behind, his arms were up and his wrists were interlocked, support arm gripping a silver blade while the other pointed a gun Chief's way. His flat glare through the sight of his weapon was nothing short of calculative.

He's just a fucking kid.

Midas gestured indifferently to one of his bodyguards. "Get them out of here."

The stocky soldier didn't wait. He held up his assault rifle and stomped his way to Jaws, who'd already been leading others through to the back doors. The biker had no choice but to follow behind, metal rifle prodding him forward at his shoulder.

"Whatever you came here for," snarled the Chief to Midas, "I suggest you pick your next moves real carefully."

The gangster scoffed lightly and made a show of looking around the bar.

"Making threats, hm? I like the confidence. Especially when it's all of us against... well, just the three of you, really." Midas shrugged. "Maybe four, if you count the one currently standing with the barrel of a revolver at his throat." He grinned at the brown-haired biker in Shooter's grasp. "Hiya, Elliot. Told you we'd be seeing each other soon."

Elliot's raspy voice was a whisper that barely carried. "Shooter, I don't know why you're doing this, but you don't have to hurt anyone. Let me go."

"Keep quiet," Shooter hissed, forcing his gun brutishly. Elliot's jaw tilted upwards against the pain, lips trembling and eyes tightly shut.

"Please. I don't know anything."

Midas tsked from off to the side. "You know, it's sad just how right you are."

A low snarl escaped me.

"Shooter... let him go."

"You fucking bastard," Chains growled at the biker. "You were going to let me take the fall for all the shit that you did. You throw away a decade of club loyalty, all for what? For this creepy bastard? I... I thought..."

Shooter's lip curled. "Don't you fucking dare. I'm doing this for the club, Chains. The Stray Dogs can't keep living the shadow of who we used to be. Someone has to take control before we lose whatever respect we have left. The Chief had his chance."

This doesn't make any fucking sense. Shooter never once doubted the Chief's judgments. He may not have liked them, but he always trusted that things would eventually turn out for the better. When did he start losing faith?

What changed?

"That's right," sneered Midas. "It's a new age we're living in, after all. Nobody survives without an open mind. Boston needs people like Shooter—leaders willing to do whatever's necessary to keep themselves in power."

"The Chief gave you everything you have, Shooter!" spit Chains. "How dare you turn your back after all he's done for you?"

Han, slowly inching down the rows of booths, was coming dangerously close to finding James and Angela hidden behind the barrier. With both hands clamped over her mouth, Angela's eyes were wide with shock. James gripped the edge of the table whilst pressing them both flat against their seat. His fiery stare locked on mine—and I couldn't explain how, but it was like he knew. He knew he'd have to do something to defend them both.

James had the element of surprise; all he needed now was help.

"See, you boys really ticked me off bringing your nasty little guns into Boston," Midas explained. "Especially considering how courteous I've been so far."

I hissed, "You call this courteous?"

"It was your actions that led to this, son." His piercing eyes ignited with a psychotic ruthlessness. "I could've killed all of you the same night I came to this city. Instead, I offered the Stray Dogs a generous deal out of the kindness of my own heart, hoping we could coexist—but you refused." He decided, "This city doesn't have the room for us both. I can't run my races with you fools standing in my way."

My uncle shook his head and let out a sharp exhale.

"There's a better way to do this," he warned. "Let Elliot go."

I watched the dry sobs puff through the bartender's lips—he was preparing for the worst. Shooter's nostrils flared. For a moment, I dared to have hope that he'd see reason. But as his thumb clamped down on the hammer of the revolver, the bitter truth came with the heavy click of his gun being cocked towards Elliot's head.

"Sorry, Chief..." the biker murmured, "but I'm done taking orders from you."

Chaos ensued. A hundred things happened at once.

Han stepped far enough in front of the booth for James to slam his feet into the side of the gunman's legs. Stumbling forward, Han lowered his gun for a split second, enough time for me to grab one of his wrists and collide my fist against his unguarded face.

The violence distracted Shooter, who didn't get the chance to process his surprise before Chains ran up to remedy the situation. He pulled Shooter by his hair and knocked the revolver out of his grasp, giving Elliot enough leeway to coil out and escape. Once the bartender was free, Chains and Shooter went at it—old friends now thirsty for each other's blood.

Chains threw the first blow, knuckles cracking against the curve of Shooter's cheek. Using the resulting shock to his advantage, Chains gripped Shooter's left wrist and kicked against his chest, launching the bigger man into the wall. But what Shooter lacked in agility, he made up for in pure muscle—it wasn't long before he had Chains by the hair, slamming the silver-haired biker's nose repeatedly against the bar counter. Garnet blood trickled down Chains' lips and eyebrow. He reached out aimlessly, finding purchase on an empty beer bottle. To nobody's surprise, that beer bottle smashed against Shooter's head only an instant later.

That was the extent of what I saw. Han had gathered his balance now, a vengeful glint in his eye and a smear of blood gleaming across his cheek.

Come on. Let's go.

With a gleaming blade in one hand and a gun in the other, the scales were tipped in Han's favor. And from the look on his face, he knew that too.

Which made it all the more surprising when he tossed his dagger to me.

I caught it swiftly. It was heavy in my hand, yet perfectly balanced as it twirled around my fingers and caught under the lights of the bar. He was toying with me—offering me a knife to defend myself when his bullet could finish the job in a second.

"Tch." I peered back up at him through dark lashes. "Don't get cocky."

He shrugged, and we lunged for each other.

In a sequence of ducks, blocks and blows, I felt the teeth-clenching impact of every one of his fists against my arms or stomach. Most I got the chance to counter. He didn't have the room to raise his gun. Landing a heavy blow against his face, I flipped the knife in my grasp and went to cut him while he was disoriented. The point of my blade bit the skin of his jaw.

Angela lent me a hand, squealing as she smashed a beer glass over Han's head from behind. He staggered forward, giving me the legroom to force my knee through his face. His head lurched back from the force.

Midas mused from somewhere by the doors. "Han, baby—stop playing with your food."

A low growl left Han's lips. He ducked himself out of my way, latched onto my wrist, and kicked me back to put space between us. Angela squealed in the booth behind him. Tripping on my own ankles, I felt his fist uppercut me through the ribcage, and another fist against my jaw, until I was stumbling back onto the side of the bar counter. Swept off my feet, I sank against the wood before Han kicked the knife out of my grasp.

I went to yank him down with me, but Han stomped the heel of his boot into my side—the same one he'd grazed with a bullet only a few weeks earlier. A strained sound escaped me. Blood rushed straight to my head.

He stood tall across my collapsed figure. Eyes never once detaching from mine, he raised his gun. Its muzzle waited only a foot from my face. An order—stay down.

James, having weaved a path through the mayhem, had snatched Elliot by the wrist before he could collapse. He'd tugged them both out of the line of fire, rushing the bartender towards the backroom—but as another gunshot sliced through the air, Elliot screamed, and the two of them ducked for cover behind the corner of the bar counter.

James protected Elliot's head and enveloped him in his hold. Only one thought filled my mind—They're safe.

But I couldn't say the same for Chains.

"No!" Angela cried out, watching with terror as the silver-haired biker collapsed slowly against the wall. Shooter had shot him—right in the middle of the thigh, where an onslaught of blood was already dripping down his leg. Paling in the face, Chains let out a guttural groan, his attacker backing away in dread of what he himself had done.

The room stopped. My stomach sank to my feet. I could feel my heart beating in my throat. With blurry eyes, I watched Angela run towards an injured Chains. Being shot in the thigh was no good. She knew.

Chains would bleed himself to death.

"No, no, no," she begged, tearing the flannel off her back. "No, Chains. Stay with me."

Panic radiated off her in waves. Breaking into sobs, Angela bundled the fabric over his hemorrhaging wound, buried her knee in, and leaned her full weight on his thigh to stop the bleeding. Midas sighed and shrugged his shoulders. Boredom polluted his expression.

"Well," he stated, "it's a dog-eat-dog world."

Chief snarled, rage tensing every muscle of his neck and arms. He let go of the bodyguard he'd been pummelling, snatching away the assault rifle and pistol-whipping the man to the floor. My eyes widened. No. Han was forcing his foot down on my chest. I wanted to scream out at my uncle, but there was no air in my lungs. Don't.

I tried to fight Han. My arms flayed desperately to pry his leg off, but he kicked down harder to subdue me.

Storming for Midas, the Chief held up the rifle, blinded by his own anger. Anger over Chains—the closest thing my uncle had to a son, now bleeding himself unconscious in the corner of the bar.

But Han was faster.

He kept his brown eyes trained on mine. In one movement, silent and unwavering, he raised an arm and lined the barrel of his gun with Chief's unsuspecting figure.

The roar that escaped my uncle was quickly silenced by the ear-splitting explosion of Han's gun.

He'd shot him in the back.

Horror was acid in the marrow of my bones. Chief staggered forward from the velocity of the bullet striking his Stray Dogs vest. The assault rifle he'd been holding clattered to the ground at Chains' feet. Colliding with the wall by the front doors to the bar, Chief's body sank down the splintered wood until it collapsed in a heap of blood and flesh on polished flooring.

Dead.

Dead, dead, dead.

Elliot's muffled screams resonated from behind the bar. Angela cried with her hands soaked in the blood of a barely-there Chains, who was staring right at the Chief's unblinking corpse. Shooter was standing rigid in his place, pale from the body lying before him.

Han hadn't once lifted his gaze off me. Not even as he'd fired his weapon, or as he took the life of an innocent man. His only movement stemmed from the recoil of his weapon. He didn't flinch otherwise. He didn't even look at his victim after prying the life from their limbs. His eyes stayed perfectly still, daring to expose a subtle remorse in his expression.

He's dead.

Han finally let his foot off me, but my will to fight had already been broken. Paralyzing shock devoured me. It numbed my muscles and fractured my thoughts. I could only lay there on that polished flooring, watching in grief as the puddle of crimson blood grew larger around my uncle's lifeless body.

Midas' chest deflated with a sharp exhale.

"Well, that's a shame. I really didn't want to end like this," the gangster muttered. "You brought this on yourselves."

He stepped towards the bleeding corpse. I begged myself to scream, for Midas to leave my uncle's body alone—but as he kneeled down beside him, pulled a pocketknife from his pants, and tilted his head to the side, I quickly realized what he was after.

"Don't," I pleaded, but the syllable didn't carry.

Too late. Midas dug the pocketknife beneath a row of stitching in the shoulder of my uncle's vest. Tearing it apart, he used the disconnect to pull the entirety of the vest off the Chief's heavy limbs with one merciless tug.

My vision began to wither into darkness as Midas got to his feet. He tossed the vest to a frozen Shooter, who barely managed to catch the leather in his state. Rage coursed through my veins, wasted in my self-induced incapacitation.

"Enjoy your new crown," said Midas to Shooter. "There's blood on it."

Leaving behind the charnel house they'd made of the bar, Han and the beat-up bodyguards walked out through the front doors.

Midas was next. He paused momentarily before he left, only to warn, "That's two Blacks down, Edge. Don't be the third."

Shooter lingered behind to take in the full sight of what he'd done. Chief's corpse. Chains' fatal wound, with its bleeding starting to slow beneath the pressure of a sobbing Angela's weight. Elliot, still hidden behind the bar with James, his muffled cries faint from where I laid broken.

The biker didn't dare to speak. Swallowing whatever guilt he felt, Shooter gripped the Chief's bloody vest with a brutish hand and hesitated before moving towards the doors—turning his back on all of us for the second time.

=||A/N||=

five

...

?