Page 102 of Jagger's Remorse
For a heartbeat, there's confused laughter—someone thinking it's a prank.
Then the explosions.
The exits blow simultaneously, doors flying off hinges in showers of splinters and twisted metal.
The blast waves hit like punches, knocking people down, shattering windows.
Flash-bangs follow, blinding white light and concussive sound that turns the world into chaos.
My ears ring, vision spotted with afterimages, but I'm already moving.
"Scarlett!"
No response. Or maybe there is, and I can't hear it over the explosions and sudden eruption of gunfire.
In the strobing muzzle flashes, I see them pouring in.
Three Devils cuts. Sombra colors.
United in their hatred.
"Iron Veins! Time to pay for Butcher!" Someone screams.
Bodies slam into me—can't tell friend from foe in the dark.
I strike out, feel cartilage crunch under my fist. Someone screams. Not Scarlett.
I pull my Glock, fire at the muzzle flashes near the main entrance.
Return fire splits the air where I was standing a second ago.
Emergency lighting flickers on—dim red that makes everything look like a horror movie.
Bodies writhe on the floor. Blood looks black in the crimson light.
I scan the crowd, looking for her.
There—by the overturned pool table.
She's herding Raven, Mel, and Tina behind cover, standing between them and four attackers.
Blood already soaks her left shoulder—knife wound from the look of it, deep and ragged.
But she's still moving, still fighting.
One attacker lunges with a machete.
She sidesteps, catches his wrist, and redirects the momentum.
Using his own weight to flip him, driving her knee into his kidney as he goes down.
The machete clatters away.
She scoops it up, buries it in his neck without even hesitating.
Another comes at her with a crowbar.
She ducks under the swing, comes up inside his guard.
