Page 63 of Gonzo's Grudge
“Fierce,” Burn muttered, shaking his head. “Hell on wheels.”
“Damn right,” she replied before turning and walking out of the space like she was a ghost we never actually saw.
By lunchtime the next day, it was done. Hampton Stanley was stripped of all authority and wearing a set of shiny new cuffs trying to make bail. His wife gone, his name dragged through the mud, and his empire crumbling.
All that was left was the part only we could deliver. So we went to his house once we got the call the next move had been made as expected.
Burn, Tower, Disciple, and me. Four shadows rolling into the lion’s den.
We didn’t kick the door. Didn’t need to. Disciple had it open before I blinked. We made ourselves comfortable in his living room, the place smelling like money and rot, leather chairs too soft, portraits on the walls of a family already gone.
We waited.
When he finally came in, briefcase in hand, tie crooked, face gray from the weight of it all, he froze in the doorway.
His eyes swept over us—four men in cuts sitting in his home like a death squad—yeah, all the blood drained out of him.
“What… what do you want?” he stammered, trying to sound strong.
“This is endgame,” Burn said flatly.
Stanley staggered inside, dropping his briefcase with a thud. “My wife left me. I’m going to prison. What more do you want?”
Burn didn’t answer. He turned to Disciple. “Read him last rites.”
Disciple stood, tall and grim, his cut catching the lamplight. He looked Hampton Stanley in the eye and spoke, voice deep, steady, full of the kind of finality that comes from years in this life. “You crossed the line and spat on what it meant to be a man. You broke trust, shed blood, and hid behind power that was never yours. You sit here now at the end of your road. May your lies choke you, may your greed bury you, and may your name rot when men remember who you were. That’s your last rite.”
He turned without another glance and walked out, boots heavy against the floor.
Tower stood next. He leaned down, his massive shadow swallowing Hampton Stanley whole. “You crossed the wrong ones,” he growled. “We will be the last faces you see. We always held the power.” Then he turned and followed Disciple, heading out front to stand watch.
Burn leaned back in his chair, smirking. “That leaves us.”
Hampton Stanley’s eyes darted to me, desperate. “I didn’t?—”
“Shut your mouth,” I snapped.
He shut it.
I leaned forward, my hands braced on my knees, my voice low, steady, lethal. “You killed Pop Squally. You blamed my son. You threw GJ into a cage and called it justice while you lined your pockets and kept your leash tight around a weak man’s throat.”
Stanley shook his head, tears welling. “It wasn’t me, I?—”
“It was you,” I cut in, sharp enough to slice. “Every step. Every order. Every lie. Pop’s blood is on your hands. My boy’s wasted time is on your hands. And the only way to stop the havoc you’ve unleashed is to end this. Tonight.”
Stanley sagged, broken. “Please,” he whispered. “Please. My wife left me. I have nothing. I’m ruined.”
“You’re still breathing and that’s too much air wasted, if you ask me,” I remarked.
“Not ruined enough,” Burn said, smiling cruel. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Here’s how this works, Hampton Stanley. I can do it for you… or you can do it yourself.”
The words hung heavy in the air, thick with inevitability.
I didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just let him feel the weight of what we’d brought into his house. The Saint’s Outlaws weren’t judges. We weren’t lawyers. We were executioners living life of a different code.
And tonight, the verdict was in.
The silence stretched. The clock ticked on the wall.
