Page 91 of Bad Luck, Hard Love
Traitors. My brothers. Men who'll die tonight for what they've done.
A scream pierces the air—muffled by the metal walls but unmistakably female. Charlotte's voice, raw with pain. The sound drives into my chest like a blade, twisting with each ragged note.
One of the guards laughs. “Sounds like the boss is having fun with his wife.”
“Too bad we don't get a turn,” the other replies, taking a long drag from his cigarette.
“You couldn’t afford a turn with her if you sold everything you own and your soul to the devil.”
“Bitch ain’t worth that kind of money.”
“That one is.”
Red floods my vision, rage so pure it's almost blinding. My finger tightens on the trigger, body tensing to spring—but a tiny sliver of rationality holds me back.
I force myself to hold position, choking down the murderous rage threatening to consume me. One shot would feel so good. But it would also alert everyone in the hangar to my presence, and I can't risk Charlotte paying the price for my impatience.
A crash echoes from the front of the hangar, followed by shouting and the unmistakable pop of gunfire.
Fuck, Ratchet.
The guards snap to attention, weapons raised as they move away from the cell door toward the commotion. More shots ring out, followed by the sound of breaking glass and men yelling.
I'm torn, frozen in indecision. Charlotte is just yards away, separated from me by nothing but a metal door and two distracted guards. I could take them now, get to her while they're focused on whatever chaos Ratchet has unleashed.
But Ratchet's out there, possibly outgunned and surrounded. He came here for me, for Charlotte. I can't leave him to die.
“Shit,” I mutter, backing away from my position. Every step away from that metal cell feels like I'm ripping out my own heart, but I can't do this alone. Not against these numbers.
I sprint toward the front of the hangar, keeping to the shadows, gun at the ready. The shouting grows louder, punctuated by more gunfire and the sound of shattering glass.
I round the corner just as all hell breaks loose.
The hangar erupts into a war zone—muzzle flashes lighting up the darkness like lightning, bullets ricocheting off metal with ear-splitting pings. Ratchet's pinned down behind anoverturned tool cabinet, returning fire at three Rejects who've taken position behind a stack of shipping crates.
“Thor!” he bellows when he spots me. “Little fucking help here!”
I don't hesitate. I drop to one knee and squeeze the trigger. The weapon bucks against my shoulder as I send a burst into the nearest Reject. He crumples like a marionette with cut strings, blood spraying across the concrete floor.
“Two o'clock!” Ratchet shouts.
I pivot, catch movement in my peripheral vision, and fire again. Another Reject goes down screaming, clutching his shattered knee.
Glass shatters overhead as bullets tear through the high windows, raining shards down like deadly hail. I dive for cover, rolling behind a forklift as a hail of automatic fire chews up the concrete where I'd been standing.
“On your six!” I roar at Ratchet as a Reject emerges from behind the far wall, shotgun raised.
Ratchet spins, emptying his magazine in a single, fluid motion. The Reject's chest erupts in a spray of red mist before he hits the ground.
I’m scanning for more threats when the hangar door explodes inward with a deafening crash. Metal screams as it tears from its hinges, revealing a sleek private jet now partially embedded in the building's entrance.
What the actual fuck?
“That's one way to disable a plane,” Ratchet laughs, the sound borderline maniacal as he reloads.
The jet's engines whine in death throes, smoke billowing from the cockpit as flames lick at the fuselage. Through the fractured windshield, I glimpse the pilot slumped over the controls.
“Did you...?” I gesture at the wreckage, momentarily stunned.
