Page 64 of Gonzo's Grudge
Hampton Stanley, the man who’d lived like he owned a county, who’d thought himself untouchable, sat trembling in his own living room with outlaws waiting for him to decide how he’d meet his end.
I thought of Pop. Of GJ. Of the futures stolen. And I knew one thing:
This was justice.
And I was ready to see it through.
Stanley shook like a wet dog in winter. His hands twitched on his knees, his eyes glassy. He looked from me to Burn like a man waiting for a miracle he knew wasn’t coming.
“My wife’s gone. My career’s gone. I’ll spend the rest of my life in prison,” he stammered. “What more do you want from me?”
“You keep saying the same shit over and over,” Burn stated, slow and sharp. “Blood. Always blood. That’s what we want. Yours.”
I didn’t move. My jaw ached from clenching. “You should’ve thought about this when you killed Pop. When you framed my son. When you sold this county to the highest bidder and laughed while spending money meant for families who lost everything.”
He swallowed hard. “I?—”
“Don’t.” I cut him off with a snarl. “You don’t get excuses. You don’t get speeches. You had every chance to walk a cleaner road, and you pissed on all of them. You chose this end the day you crossed us.”
His face sagged, hopeless. “Then… at least let me?—”
Burn was already on his feet, gun in hand.
Stanley froze, his words choking out. “Wait?—”
Burn tilted his head, grinning like a wolf. “Here’s the thing, Stanley. You don’t get to pick your ending. We do. I offered you the choice to do it yourself or me to do it, but you don’t get to pick another method.”
For a moment, the only sound in that house was the tick of the wall clock and the faint whistle of Stanley’s breath. He shook his head, tears streaking his face.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “She loved him. She loved him and hated me. He didn’t care. I’m sorry. I was hurt.”
I stared straight into his eyes. “Not sorry enough.”
Burn raised the pistol, steady as steel. “Time’s up, Mayor.”
The shot cracked like thunder in the living room.
Stanley’s head snapped back, blood spraying the expensive wallpaper behind him. He crumpled sideways in the chair, lifeless before his body hit the floor.
Silence followed, heavy and absolute.
Burn lowered the pistol, exhaled like he’d just finished a job and nothing more. “There it is,” he muttered. “Debt settled.”
I stood, the smell of gunpowder mixing with the copper tang of blood. I looked down at Hampton Stanley, the man who thought he owned us all, now lying in a pool of his own failure.
“Pop’s avenged,” I said, voice flat. “GJ’s free. This chapter’s closed.”
Burn holstered his gun, smirking again. “On to the next one, brother.”
Tower stepped back inside, gave the scene a single glance, then nodded. “Street’s clear. Nobody heard a damn thing.”
Disciple crossed himself out of habit, murmured low, “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. May his name rot with the worms.”
We filed out, boots heavy, leather creaking. No one looked back.
The house stayed behind us, silent except for the tick of that damn clock. Hampton Stanley had thought himself untouchable. Tonight, he found out there’s always someone who can reach you.
And when it’s the Saint’s Outlaws, there’s no mercy.
