Page 71 of Veil of Dust

His body jerks, feet scrambling in the mud, a desperate dance that lasts seconds before he crumples.

Then stills, a heap in the dirt, no longer a threat, no longer anything.

Blood hits the soil, warm and fast, a dark pool soaking into the roots, feeding the swamp’s endless hunger.

I wipe the blade on his shirt, the fabric rough under my hand, blood smearing, but the edge clean again.

Step over him, my boot brushing his arm, no weight to it now, just meat and bone left behind.

No pause.

No remorse. He chose his side, and I’ve got no mercy for those who come for what’s mine.

I’m done running, done letting Alfeo’s dogs circle, done waiting for their next move.

They bleed now, every one who dares to touch my bar, my people, my heart.

The shack creaks ahead, its walls groaning under the weight of secrets, of men who think they’re safe.

And I’m not stopping here, not while there’s breath in me, not while there’s fight left to give.

The swamp’s alive around me, its pulse a chorus of croaks and buzzes, a rhythm that matches my own, fierce and unyielding. Cypress trees loom, their branches heavy with moss,watching, silent witnesses to the blood I’ve spilled, the blood I’ll spill again. The water ripples nearby, a gator’s wake or something else, but I am steady as a rock.

My grip tightens on the machete, the hilt warm now, molded to my palm, a partner in this war I’m waging. The moon’s light shifts, clouds sliding across its face, but I don’t need it to see. I feel the shack, feel the men inside, their arrogance a beacon drawing me closer.

Tomas’s voice echoes in my head, his intel a lifeline, his trust a weight I carry with pride.

You gave me this, and I’m not letting you down, I think, my chest tight with the bond we’ve forged, unspoken but ironclad.

Tiziano’s presence lingers too, his strength a fire in my blood, his loyalty the reason I’m out here, cutting through the dark for our future.

The guard’s blood soaks deeper into the mud, the swamp claiming him, erasing him like he never was. I move toward the shack’s door, its frame warped, barely hanging on, a weak barrier against what I bring. My boots are silent, my breath controlled, every sense sharpened to a blade’s edge.

You thought you could hide out here, didn’t you? I think, my eyes scanning the shack’s cracks, catching flickers of light inside, voices low, unaware. Thought the swamp would keep you safe. It doesn’t. I do.

My heart beats steadily, not with fear but with purpose, a rhythm that drives me forward, into the maw of whatever waits inside. The machete’s ready, my body’s ready, and I’m not the one who’s running anymore.

The shack looms, its shadow swallowing me as I near, the swamp’s warnings fading into a hum of anticipation. I’m here, and whoever’s inside is about to learn what happens when you cross me, when you threaten what’s mine.

I pause at the door, just for a second, feeling the weight of the night, of Tiziano, of Tomas, of the bar that’s my heart. Then I move, ready to carve through the dark, ready to make them bleed, ready to claim the bayou’s heart for my own.

I push into the shack.

The door barely holds on its hinges. It groans as I open it, wood dragging against the warped frame.

Inside, the place stinks of sweat and cheap booze. The floor’s stained. Boots line one wall—mud-caked, some still damp. Crates in the corner overflow with ammo. Spilled shells glitter like teeth under moonlight.

But what stops me is the table.

One map.

Spread wide.

New Orleans.

My bar.

A red circle burned through the center like someone pressed a lit cigarette into it.

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