Page 134 of Shattered In Darkness

Marcus.

I bury myself harder against Brody’s heart, and wait for the end.

46

BRODY

Black pulls up slowly. A monster’s SUV, paint still wet from the last job. Gravel splits under the tires, crackling out a warning. Snow thickens the air, white under the headlights, the world howling cold.

Marcus steps out first, striking the ground like he owns it. No coat, just a tailored suit, charcoal and cutting. His eyes scan the dark, hungry for a show. Two slabs of muscle follow. His loyal men, thick necks, cut knuckles, heat and hunger leaking from their fists.

Breath mists. Flash-freezes. It’s bright in the cone of headlights, but beyond that? Black as a dying vein.

He yells for me, not bothering to hide his voice. I hear my name, drawn out, twisted: “Come out, Brody. Let’s not waste time.” He’s laughing, almost.

Smug bastard believes the world will bend when he says so.

I count footsteps, watching from the broken edge of the ruined building, shadow on shadow, invisible unless you know where to look.

Lola. She’s huddled in the dark, far back, eyes wide and hollow. She’s not supposed to watch, but she can’t look away, either. I can feel her heartbeat from here.

Mine’s a bomb; hers is a trapped bird.

They’re moving forward, Marcus leading, the dogs flanking. Arrogant, sloppy. I slip left, behind a pillar. Safety off, finger on the silencer’s trigger. The world shrinks to the point of contact: my hands, their bodies.

The first dog never sees me. Suppressor coughs. A wet pop. Skull and bone burst open, red misting the snow. He hits the ground, face first, blood pooling fast and black against white.

The second guy jerks, stunned. Training kicks in, but I’m faster. I run towards him, slamming my elbow into his throat, crushing cartilage, then knife to the gut. He grabs for me, desperate; I twist. Steel rips soft meat. His belly opens, steaming pink in the cold.

He drops, twitching. Red everywhere. Hot, slippery, and stinking of iron and shit. I step back, surveying what’s left. Marcus stands alone, outgunned, and out of moves.

He tries to bolt, maybe fight. I close the gap, hands on him before he finishes turning. Driving my knee into his gut, he folds, gasping. My fist cracks his jaw sideways, teeth snap, blood spurts. I catch him by the hair, slamming his skull into the SUV’s fender. Once. Twice. He sags, drops like wet trash to my boots.

He’s out, a pathetic heap. I spit, wipe blood from my glove. Lola is still watching. I feel her in the periphery, shaking, hiding, wanting. I drag Marcus’s dead weight up and over my shoulder. and into the abandoned building. Hollow, decrepit, windows broken. No witnesses. The concrete floor is as cold as death.

I prop Marcus on a bent metal pipe, arms behind his back, duct tape, zip ties, thick plastic bites into his flesh. Ankles bound. Blood drips from his mouth down his shirt, pools on the frozen slab under him. He’s still limp, head lolled sideways, breathing shallow.

Leaving him to move the dead bodies outside, I drag the first guard past the edge of the lot, toss him behind a dumpster, then pack snow over his face. Second one follows, leaking blood, limp as a doll. The shed door groans but I wedge him inside, out of sight.

I circle the building, checking for headlights, engines, any sound. Nothing. The night is still, except for my lungs burning and the wind screaming at the door. Lola hasn’t moved. She’s broken from what she saw, but curiosity wires her nerves, pins her in place. She stares at the carnage, at me. A fucking monster.

I exhale and step back inside.

Marcus is groaning now, blood peppers his lips. He tries to lift his head, but I palm his hair and force him upright. His eyes flicker open. The look—ha. I’ve seen real fear before. He tries to spit at me, words, blood, anything. All that comes out is a wheeze.

“You don’t get to own her anymore.”

“She’s mine,” he rasps, choking. “You’re dead, you twisted fuck.”

I hit him before he finishes; fist cracks his nose. Cartilage squelches, blood jets out, fountains down his chin. He gags. I hit him again, breaking the jaw this time, hot snap, teeth scattering like gravel on steel.

“This is for everything you did to her,” I say. I mean it. All of it. Nothing left unclaimed.

I go for his ribs next. Precision. Two, three, four punches. Cracking sounds, he tries to scream but his mouth is already a red pit, filling with blood. The knife comes easy. I drag the blade down his arm. Then deeper. Through fat, through muscle. I want him to feel every inch. Blood wells up, thick and dark, spills onto the floor.

He thrashes, shrieking. The echo bounces off the tin roof, wild terror. I don’t stop. I cut again, perpendicular, carving lines. A crosshatch, like cattle marked for slaughter. He howls, voice shredding.

“Look at that,” I murmur. “Not so fucking tough now.”