Page 101 of Reaper
“It’s a lot, Tank. I was trying to get myself killed by him and his guys, remember.”
“Unless you’re in the hundreds of thousands, and if you fucking are, holy fuck, you’d be the biggest idiot I’ve ever known, and I once met Rush Limbaugh at a bar in Fort Lauderdale.”
“You did?"
“Punched him right in his malignant fucking face.”
“Good man.”
“Thanks, brother. Felt good. But no time to reminisce. Mayhem and Diesel are deep in the shit, and though Mayhem may be having the time of his life, I’ll bet Diesel at least would like some fucking assistance.”
An answer’s on the tip of my tongue — when another scream stops me short; a familiar scream that just hours ago wailed through the dirty walls of a karaoke dive. “Mrs. Eng’s in there.”
Before I even realize it, I’m heading to the kitchen door. Adriana might be gone, and I hardly know Mrs. Eng beyond knowing she’s fucking fanatical for karaoke and isn’t a half bad singer, but I am sick of dragging every woman in my life into my wars and them paying the consequences; Mrs. Eng isn’t Adriana, but I won’t let her pay for my crimes, even if it’s the last thing I do.
“Reaper, what the fuck are you doing?” Tank hisses.
But I’m already gone, separated from my brother by a few more feet, enough to cross the threshold and step into the gut-churning hell that is the bloody Triad den.
The first Russian I encounter has his back to me, spraying automatic fire into a cluster of overturned tables where Triad soldiers return fire in desperate bursts. His leather jacket is soaked with someone else's blood, and when I put two rounds from my gun into the base of his skull, his head explodes like a rotten melon hit with a sledgehammer. Brain matter and skull fragments paint the wall in a Jackson Pollock of violence.
I don't feel anything. Not satisfaction, not revulsion, not the familiar rush that used to come with killing. There's only the cold, mechanical precision of a man who has nothing left to lose. Adriana is gone, probably forever, and the hollow ache in my chest where my heart used to be drives me forward like a ghost seeking vengeance.
Another Russian pivots toward me, his AK-47 swinging in my direction, but I'm already moving, muscle memory and years of violence guiding my body before my mind catches up. I dive behind a bullet-riddled booth as his burst chews up the vinyl where my head was a heartbeat ago. The acrid smell of cordite and blood fills my nostrils, mixing with the sickly sweet stench of death that hangs in the air like a toxic fog.
Mrs. Eng's scream cuts through the chaos again, high and terrified, somewhere deeper in the den. The second floor, maybe, above this dank, drug and blood stained pit. The sound tears at something primal in my chest, dredging up memories of Vanessa's last moments, her blue lips and glassy eyes as the doctors worked over her lifeless body. I failed her. Let my war with Moretti drag her into the crossfire until that loving, beautiful soul became nothing more than a casualty.
Not again. Not fucking again.
I roll out from cover, firing as I move, each shot deliberate and final. The Russian with the AK takes one in the throat, his windpipe exploding in a spray of crimson that sends him crashing backward into a fish tank. The glass shatters, and dyingcarp flop on the floor amid the spreading pools of blood and water.
A third Russian emerges from behind the bar, pistol raised, but he's young and scared, his hands shaking as he tries to draw a bead on me. I put him down with a double-tap to the chest, watching his eyes go wide with shock as the life bleeds out of them. He can't be more than twenty, probably some kid from the old country looking for easy money in America's criminal underworld.
I should feel something for him. Regret, maybe, or at least acknowledgment of the life I've just snuffed out. But there's nothing inside me except the grim determination to reach Mrs. Eng before Volkov's animals do to her what they've done to everyone else in this blood-soaked tomb.
Death doesn't scare me anymore. How can it, when I've already lost everything that made living worthwhile?
Tank's footfalls pound against the floor behind me as I push deeper into the carnage. "You suicidal bastard!" he shouts over the gunfire, but he's right there with me, his gun barking as he drops another Russian who was trying to flank us from behind an overturned mahjong table.
Mrs. Eng's screams are coming from above us now, echoing down through the ceiling like the wails of the damned. Fuck, she has some damned strong pipes. I spot the narrow staircase tucked behind a beaded curtain, half-hidden by smoke and shadow. The stairs are slick with blood, and I see footprints leading up — several sets of heavy treads that have tracked gore up each step like some sick breadcrumb trail.
"Second floor," I grunt to Tank, reloading as we reach the base of the stairs. "That’s where she’s pinned down. I have to get to her. Then we’ll get to Mayhem and Diesel.”
"After you, brother," Tank says, but there's no humor in it. His face is granite, all business, the way he looks wheneverhe isn’t around Bianca. It’s so fucking passive that it’s almost comforting, as if the hell we’re in isn’t a hell at all, but just another fucking night in Sacramento.
Which is its own kind of hell.
The staircase is a death trap, narrow and exposed, but Mrs. Eng's screams are getting weaker, more desperate. We take the steps two at a time, Tank covering our six while I lead with my pistol raised. The second floor opens up into a hallway lined with small rooms — the kind of place where lonely men would pay for an hour of synthetic intimacy or shoot poison into their veins to forget their failures.
Now it's a war zone.
Three Russians have taken a position at the far end of the hall, using doorframes for cover as they lay down suppressing fire. The floor between us is lined with the bodies of gamblers, addicts, civilians, and a pair of Triad soldiers with gaping holes in their heads.
Tank and I dive into opposite rooms as automatic fire chews up the hallway between us. I'm in what used to be some kind of opium den, complete with stained mattresses and burned spoons scattered across the floor. The sweet, acrid smell of old drugs mixes with fresh cordite and the metallic tang of blood. Old memories surface, filling my head and lungs with a moment of sweet remembrance.
"This is some real fucked-up shit!" Tank yells from across the hall, punctuating his words with controlled bursts from his rifle.
I snap off three rounds at the nearest Russian, catching him in the shoulder and spinning him around like a broken marionette. His return fire goes wide, chewing up the doorframe above my head and sending splinters raining down on the filthy mattresses.
