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Chapter Twenty-Four
Thunder
The dive bar's dank ambiance is shattered by the sudden flash of cold steel. Patrons freeze mid-drink, eyes drawn to the confrontation playing out between two determined souls—a knife-wielding assailant and me. It feels like we're in another dimension, the background noise of old-school rock from the jukebox fading into insignificance against the pounding of my heartbeat.
Then someone screams and all hell breaks loose.
I barely see the blade glinting under the neon sign until it's slicing through the air, aimed straight for my heart with skill that tells me this isn’t the first time this man’s stabbed someone in the heart.
Why the fuck did I have to bump into this guy?
Reflexively, I dodge, the blade biting into the backrest of a wooden chair instead. The room is a dangerous dance of shadows and deadly, neon-lit possibilities. I grab the nearest barstool, and with all the force I can muster, swing it toward the man's legs. He moves with trained agility, evading a direct hit, but it still clips him, causing him to stagger slightly.
An opening.
Adrenaline surges, I seize on it.
I snatch a heavy beer mug from the counter, sending it flying in his direction. It shatters on impact, casting a spray of amber liquid and jagged shards. Blood sprays, mixing with beer to form the world’s nastiest cocktail. He spits crimson and foamy beer at me and laughs, his icy gaze never leaving mine.
“That all you got?” He says.
Suddenly, he moves—the sound of bottles being brushed off the bar draws my attention. A cascade of glass and alcohol fills the air. I curse inwardly as the sharp sting of liquor meets the fresh gash on my forearm.
He charges. Knife ready.
Fuck this guy. He sucks.
My hand reaches out, gripping a pool cue, using it as a makeshift weapon. The pointed tip is aimed at his face. He slices at me with his knife and I retaliate with a strike that knocks the blade from his hand. Our fierce exchange takes us from one end of the bar to the other, every item becoming a potential weapon—pool balls, cues, even an old dartboard that he hurls at my head like a dart-filled Frisbee. Failing to kill me with the murder-Frisbee, he grabs a beer bottle, shatters it, and lunges at me, the sight of him—bloody, smiling, holding a knife in one hand and a bottle in the other—pure nightmare fuel.
I dodge, the jagged glass missing me by mere inches.
Without warning, he overpowers me, pinning me against the bar's polished counter, glass digging into my back. His breath is hot and rancid, cheap whiskey and blood, his eyes filled with malice. Desperation fuels my next move as I fold a coaster and jam it into his eye. A scream rips from his throat, and I take that chance to free myself,
Fire ignites in my belly. I’m ending this.
Grabbing a fork from a table, I snatch it up and jam it into his throat. Blood sprays in three elegant arcs across the room as his life leaves him. Sputtering, mewling, he clutches at his bleeding throat, a look of confusion and hatred in his eyes.
No, scratch that, confusion and hate in hiseye.
Then he hits the ground, dead.
Breathing hard, I survey the aftermath—overturned tables, shattered glass, the scent of spilled alcohol permeating the air. And the smell of a freshly dead man, a smell that confirms what they say about you when you die and everything your body releases in that unfortunate event.
I pull out my phone, intending to send a warning to Lia. That these assholes working for the resort would escalate their tactics like this means we are close to total war.
There’s a message for me waiting on the screen. She needs me.
* * * * *
The comforting familiarity of home is a stark contrast to the night's chaos. Everything hurts after that fight in the bar; every step feels like a lifetime, every bruise a painful reminder. I sink into a chair, exhaustion evident in every line of my body. I'm still trying to process the reality of it all when the front door slams open, announcing Lia's arrival.
Her silhouette is framed in the doorway, concern etched across her features.
“Marcus!” Her voice is frantic, eyes scanning every cut, bruise, and abrasion. She rushes to my side, her fingers softly tracing the most prominent gash on my forearm. "What happened?"
Tears brim in her eyes as she takes in my state; she's strong, but I can see the cracks in her facade, the terror at seeing me hurt.
"I had to find answers," I confess, voice raw, "but I walked into more than I bargained for."
