“You have a lot of nerve showing up here again,” said taller of the two. They were both fully patched Dead Angels, so they needed to die.
“Just came for a drink.”
“Bullshit.” The man began to circle him, but Killian refused to move. All eyes in the bar were fixed on him, none of them welcoming. Luckily, he was used to dealing with this type of lowlife prick. His childhood was full of them.
“What happened to your face?” said the other man. “Someone teach you a lesson?”
Killian licked his fucked-up lips. No one ever mentioned the deformity, and he tried to forget about it—until he looked in a mirror.
Instead of getting angry, because he was way past feeling sorry for himself, he shrugged. “Actually, yes. The man who did this to me tried to teach me to mind my business, but I showed him what I was made of when I gutted the bastard.”
Killian had only been fourteen. One of his mother’s johns got his kicks from beating the shit out of her. Killian pulled the asshole off his mother, and the john held the hunting knife he kept on his belt to Killian’s lips. The man demanded an apology for being disturbed. When Killian kept silent thanks to his stubborn Irish pride, the john sliced down through his lips.
Instead of running or crying, the darkness grew, the seed germinating in the fourteen years of bullshit that was supposed to be his childhood. Killian grabbed the knife from the john and plunged it low in his gut, using both hands to slice up through his stomach, disemboweling him. When his mother looked at him from the bed, horror in her eyes, he’d felt a crippling mix of hate and love for the woman.
“I’d like to see you try that on me,” said the old man.
“Don’t need to,” said Killian. “See, I’m not crazy about getting my hands dirty.” He opened both sides of his jacket, exposing the custom holster Boss had made for him. It held three handguns on each side, several pockets for extra clips.
“Holy shit!”
The murmurs started, the shock traveling through the crowd like a wave. Some people backed away, some ran or ducked behind tables, others prepared to fight. He noted several guys around his age sitting at the bar, facing them. They didn’t appear intimidated or eager to fight, not even setting down their glasses. Right now, Killian had to deal with the immediate threats.
He reached each hand into the opposite holster near his waist, pulling out two guns. From the second he walked into the bar, he’d done a visual sweep, noting the crowd, the threats, the exits, and had begun planning out his first move. He’d give the locals a chance to run, but whoever stuck around was fair game.
“I wanted to leave well enough alone, but since you decided to get personal I have to take care of business.” He aimed at the taller man’s kneecap and fired off a round. The man screamed and dropped to the ground. “No one messes with my family.”
The surge of volatile energy in the bar was fuel to him. He breathed it in as adrenaline spiked through his veins. The darkness he kept under lock and key fought to be unleashed.
Before the second old guy could pull the trigger, Killian shot him between the eyes, and then kept going, killing every man taking an aggressive stance.
The back and forth firing was deafening, the music grinding to a halt. Tables were overturned, women screamed, and glass shattered. By the time he stopped for a breather, the ground was covered in bodies. Some fresh recruits came running in from the back, stopping in their tracks when they witnessed the carnage. Killian was done. He stepped aside when Shadow walked in.
“You were supposed to lure them outside,” said Shadow. “This isn’t weeding them out.”
“It’s better this way.”
The new heat drew their weapons, one taking a quick shot, the bullet whizzing by Killian’s head. Shadow reached to his side and came up with a fully automatic rifle. He positioned it in the crook of his shoulder and rained down hot lead, the men dropping like broken marionettes.
“You think we’ll still have the element of surprise?” asked Shadow, stepping over the bodies on his way to the bar. He grabbed a clean shot glass from under the counter and poured himself a hit of whiskey. The entire bar was a write-off, most of the bottles behind the bar in various state of destruction, raining amber. “This is the good stuff.” He set the glass back down and ran a hand through his hair.
“There were four guys with cuts sitting at the bar. I didn’t get a good look, but they’re gone,” said Killian.
“They’re probably in the body count.” Shadow looked around. “The clean-up crew’s going to love this.”
“No, they’re not here. They looked like trouble.”
“Were they Dead Angels?”
Killian couldn’t see far enough to know their colors, but they sure as hell didn’t act like the old-school bikers who’d dropped like flies. They were a next level threat, so maybe there was more to the Dead Angels MC than he’d bargained for. Killian wondered if they were off to warn the prez. “Don’t know.”
“If they were, they’re pussies to leave their members behind for slaughter,” said Shadow.
“Whatever. Let’s get to our target.”
They reloaded and drove out to the prez’s house. It would be heavily fortified, no doubt. Killian was expecting something out of a trailer park, not the modern mansion across the street. They parked out of the way and took the rest of the way on foot. This entire hit was surreal, bringing Killian back in time. He still remembered the teenager and woman he’d let live. The kid had stayed crouched behind a small sofa with his mother. Killian had looked them both in the eyes, hesitating when his initial reaction was to end them. A little piece of him was still back in Ireland, a street kid being raised by whores. He didn’t want to be one of those assholes who beat him or his mother. In this case, that weakness had led to today.
He’d have to end that kid with the big, dark eyes. Only he wasn’t a kid any longer, but the leader of the Dead Angels MC, eager to claim vengeance for his father’s death. Too bad he didn’t know what a prick his father was in life.