Page 40 of Tank

Santiago aims his gun, but Tank is faster. He closes the distance in a heartbeat, his hand wrapping around Santiago's wrist, twisting viciously. The gun clatters to the ground, lost in the chaos.

And then they're locked in a deadly embrace, trading blows with bone-shattering force. Tank's fists slam into Santiago's face, his knuckles splitting open, blood splattering across the asphalt.

Santiago retaliates, his own blows fueled by desperation and rage. But Tank absorbs the hits, his resolve unwavering. He pushes through the pain, his eyes never leaving Santiago's.

"You're finished," Tank growls, his voice raw and guttural. "It ends here."

Santiago sneers, spitting blood. "Fuck you, asshole. I'll kill you and take what's mine."

Tank's lips curl into a feral grin. "Not on my watch, you won't."

They clash again, a whirlwind of fists and fury. Each impact echoes through the night, a brutal symphony of violence and retribution.

I watch, my heart in my throat, as Tank pours every ounce of his strength into the fight. His muscles strain, sweat and blood mingling on his skin. But he doesn't falter, doesn't back down.

Because this is what he was born for, what he's trained for. To protect, to defend, to bring justice to those who prey on the innocent.

And in this moment, as the world burns around us, I've never been more certain of anything in my life.

Tank will win. He has to. Because he's fighting for something greater than himself, greater than all of us.

He's fighting for the chance to build a future, to create a world where monsters like Santiago no longer hold sway.

And I'll be damned if I let him face that future alone.

The fight rages on, a brutal dance of blood and brutality. Around me, the Iron Reapers are locked in their own battles, their faces twisted with pain and determination.

Ripper takes a vicious blow to the jaw, his head snapping back. But he doesn't go down. Instead, he spits out a mouthful of blood and charges forward, a roar tearing from his throat.

Maverick and Jax fight back to back, their movements fluid and synchronized. They're a well-oiled machine, anticipating each other's every step, every strike.

But even they aren't invincible. Jax stumbles, his leg buckling beneath him. Maverick is there in an instant, covering his brother's back, taking on the onslaught alone.

My heart aches as I witness their sacrifices, their unwavering loyalty. These men, these warriors, are laying their lives on the line for me. For a chance at a future I'm not even sure I deserve.

Guilt twists in my gut, a searing knot of anguish and self-loathing. If it wasn't for me, they wouldn't be here. They wouldn't be bleeding and broken, fighting a battle that was never theirs to begin with.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, the words lost in the chaos. "I'm so fucking sorry."

But there's no time for apologies, no time for regrets. Because the fight is far from over.

Tank and Santiago are still locked in their deadly embrace, trading blows with the kind of savagery that speaks of a lifetime of hatred and vengeance.

I watch, my breath trapped in my lungs, as Tank takes a brutal hit to the ribs. I hear the crack, see the flash of pain across his face.

But he doesn't falter. He doesn't back down.

Instead, he surges forward, his fist connecting with Santiago's jaw in a sickening crunch. The trafficker staggers, his eyes glazing over.

And in that moment, I see the end. I see the victory that's been so hard-fought, so desperately earned.

Tank draws back his arm, his muscles coiled with deadly intent. This is it. The final blow. The one that will end it all.

My heart pounds in my chest, hope and terror warring within me. This is the moment we've been waiting for, the moment we've sacrificed everything for.

And as Tank's fist connects, as Santiago crumples to the ground, I feel a wave of something indescribable wash over me.

Relief. Triumph. And beneath it all, the stirrings of something I never thought I'd feel again.

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