Page 102 of Wicked Deceit
Another black-robed bastard tries to grab me from behind to stop my fists from finding Oscar again. Their hands wrap around my waist, giving me the best opportunity ever. Stars dance in my eyes after I ram the back of my skull into their face. Again and again, my head connects with their nose or cheek or whatever the fuck it is. It crunches. Satisfaction roars through my veins at the sound of her sissy ass shriek. I grunt, once again ramming my fist into Oscar’s bloodied face.
“I fucking said enough!” Cushing roars, having enough of our defiance. A gun sounds, stopping all the commotions. The roughed up, black-robed dickbags stand rigid, watching their leader and awaiting further instructions.
As they’re distracted, I fall to my knees, checking Kaycee’s injuries. The paramedic said she was in critical condition before, and now it looks dire. She’s barely taking in breaths, and her shirt has more blood sticking to her. If she doesn’t get help now, she’ll die on this miserable ground.
My heart drops when my head snaps up to the familiar grunt of my brother. He stumbles back in confusion, bringing his hand to his shoulder. His eyes widen, his face growing pale when his fingers return painted in red. He looks at me, and I fucking lose it. I swear my soul fucking fissures. Jumping to my feet, I take a few steps toward him, holding him up by his waist.
“I’ll be fine,” he grits. I swallow hard, eyeing the blood bubbling out of his bicep with panic in his tone. He doesn’t want me to hear it, but I fucking hear it loud and clear. I don’t think my brother could hide a damn thing from me.
“Motherfucker!” I shout, glaring daggers at Cushing’s smug as fuck face.
He smirks, tilting his head at my reaction with glee. He fucking loves the tears falling from my face as I hold on to Zepp and drag him back to Kaycee. We sit beside her, guarding her body against the fuckers surrounding us again.
“You shot him!” I shout for all to hear, a crack of panic spearing through my voice. “You shot my fucking brother! You piece of unholy shit! I will beat you bloody. I will—”
I rear back as another gunshot rings through the air, and my instincts kick in. Throwing Zepp to the ground, I protect him with my entire body on top of his and Kaycee’s. It might not be fucking effective, but I have to protect them both. He gasps as my weight presses in, but I’ll be fucked on Sunday if I don’t defend them both from crazies with guns. I can’t have him getting fucking shot again.
Zepp grunts, pushing me into the sitting position and glaring at me. My eyes check him over, fingers brushing against his face and down his arms. But the only blood I see is from the wound on his arm. He bats me away, grabbing my wrist to stop my frantic search.
“I wasn’t hit again, you psycho,” he breathes in a shaky voice.
Massive amounts of sweat pours down his face, and his skin pales with every wince he gives. His left arm hangs limp by his side, a small hole visible straight through his arm. I whip my shirt off, pressing into his wound and using as much pressure as possible to stop the blood pooling into the grass. I tie it around him, letting my shirt soak up the blood. Looking down at Kaycee, I swallow hard when her breath grows dangerously slow. Maybe I should have fucking done this for her and stopped the bleeding with my shirt. But I don’t….I don’t fucking know. Guilt eats away at me, and hopelessness fills me up. I know fucking Veritas is here somewhere. So, where the fuck are their incompetent asses?
“Then who was shot?” I bark in desperation, checking Kaycee over again. But no new wounds pop up, thank fuck.
I sit up, whipping my head back and forth, checking the stiffened black-robes’ postures. Not them. Kaycee’s still passed out from her wounds. So yeah, not fucking good, but she didn’t get shot. My breaths stall in my chest, eyes widening at the sight of the fucking ghost stumbling forward from behind the crazy assholes pointing guns in our direction. His knees wobble with every step, but determination sits in his dark eyes.
Every inch of him is pale except for the blood pouring from multiple holes in his chest. Sweat clings to his blonde hair, sticking to his scalp. A pained scowl etches onto his face with every staggering step he takes. But Carter Cunningham doesn’t fucking care. He doesn’t give a flying fuck. If this is his last breath, he’ll do it fighting for us—for her. Carter propels himself forward on shaky feet, pointing his gun in Crowe’s direction.
“Surprise, bitch,” he growls, pulling the trigger before Crowe can defend himself. “I don’t go down that easily,” he slurs, slumping to his knees in the grass the moment the bullet fires from the barrel and hurls toward its target.
Vomit churns in my stomach, coming halfway up my throat at the carnage. Blood explodes from the gaping wound, taking half of Crowe's fucking face off, until his body falls forward without a sound. The only thing heard is the heavy thump of his body and the pathetic little gurgle bubbling from his throat. Death claims Crowe faster than I can let out a breath. It swoops in, grabs hold of his shirt, and drags his ass to Hell, where he belongs. I hope the devil pokes holes in every inch of his worthless soul to pay for his multitude of sins. He has a lot to atone for, and a lifetime in Hell won’t amount to the lives he’s taken in the name of greed.
Shit, I might hurl. Fuck. Clutching my stomach, I try to hold back the burning bile knocking against my teeth. I take a deep breath. Who knew getting shot could be so gruesome? Human matter splatters around Crowe. Shit—Carter killed Crowe. Fuck yes! I’d whoop for joy if the moment wasn’t so stressful. And if I moved an inch, I’d throw up my empty stomach.
Looking around, I finally see where the first bullet went, and my eyes widen. Shit! My heart stalls in my chest, squeezing the air from my lungs. Cushing lies face down on the ground, convulsing with full-body movements from his toes to his head, knocking against the hard ground. Blood pours from the back of his head. Fuck. Carter. Jesus. He killed him, too.
“You slimy, traitorous fucker!” Shaw shrieks, jumping on Carter in the blink of an eye. “You killed my brothers, you limp-dicked, grimy noodle!” Shaw shrieks one last time, raising my eyebrows at the weird name-calling. Huh. Maybe ole Piper got it from her uncles. And, uh—gross. That’s just fucking disgusting. I grunt, climbing to my feet when the others scatter, screeching at the sight of their precious leaders dead on the ground.
Shaw wrestles Carter to the ground without a fight, pounding fist after fist into Carter’s face. Carter’s body jumps with every hit, but he doesn’t fight back. In fact, he doesn’t make a fucking move to defend himself. Worry takes hold when Shaw gets more punches in, and I stumble in their direction, ready to help shake him off. I can’t stand to see Carter get hurt any worse than he was when he was the one who had obviously received the gunshots from before.
“Move! Move!” a voice shouts from behind us, and I stop in my tracks at the authoritative tone.
My eyes widen as a tactical team dressed entirely in black approaches the epic shitshow happening. They move like fucking shadows in the night, toeing through the dark like they belong, making hand movements to each other. Two of them circle Shaw like sharks, baring their teeth and pointing their huge and terrifying guns directly into his temples, stopping him from throwing more punches.
I slink back, dropping next to Zepp and Kaycee, mentally begging for an ambulance to come and save them all. Frantically, my eyes dart around, trying to find their fucking rescue.
“Now, now, I suggest you stop right now before I blow your brains out,” the guy says, pushing the tip of his long AR into Shaw’s temple.
Shaw heaves breath after breath, putting his hands in the air. Damn, I kind of wish he’d try to run or fight, but he’s too much of a fucking ballsack. Shaw looks above him with fury twisting his expression and takes in the face of the smiling guy, pointing his gun at him.
“You crazy-ass fucking psychos are done for,” the man beside him says, pressing the tip of his AR into his other temple. “Get up, put your hands on your head, or Jordy here will blast your dick away in a freak accident.” The blonde man beside him smiles, blue eyes twinkling with mischief.
“Hell yes, I will. These accidents happen all the time,” Jordy says with a shrug, lowering his gun to Shaw’s crotch. I swear, Shaw fucking squeaks like a little bitch at the thought of his dick getting blasted off. Not like he’ll need it where he’s going.
“Nice and easy now,” the other guy says, helping Shaw’s hands to his head, where he handcuffs them together and forces Shaw to stand. They eye Shaw like the piece of shit he is, wrinkling their noses at him. Jordy nods his head, ordering the other guy to take Shaw to the Hell he belongs in. He takes off with Shaw into the shadows where more figures lurk, pointing their guns at the other sick fucks crowding us.
Jordy waltzes toward Crowe and Cushing and kicks them with his boot. Rolling them to their backs, he grunts something to himself. Leaning down, he checks their pulses with his fingers and nods. Once he stands up, he straightens his back and grins at the carnage around him. All I can do is gape at the Veritas members hustling around and collecting the black-robed bastards and throwing them to the ground.
