Damnable Grace (Hades Hangmen 5)

“In the north, X.”

“Devin,” I said and stared out of the window. Sand stretched for miles. Sand and fucking derelict buildings.

Bones’s hand came down on my shoulder. “We’ll get there. He’ll be good. He’s a fucking good solider, X.”

But Bones’s words meant shit.

The sound of gunfire and RPGs led us to the ambush. “Go, go, go!” our sergeant screamed as we fled from the truck. “X, Bones, get me some fucking eyes from above. Need to see what we’re dealing with.”

I let my feet follow Bones as we darted behind the crumbling buildings, searching for one where we could get some height. “Here!” Bones said, and we climbed the stone stairs that led to a rooftop. Bombs screamed around us, sand and debris spraying into my face in the hot breeze.

Devin. Where the fuck are you.

I dove to my stomach next to Bones. I propped up my rifle and looked through the lens. Bones searched through his binoculars. “Fuck,” he said. “Fuckers are everywhere.”

One soldier, then another, fell to the ground as they were hit. Blood poured from their arms and legs, and I felt myself fucking burning with anger. “Bones, get me a fucking kill,” I snarled and focused through my lens.

I saw the men on the ground, and my anger burned even brighter when I saw they were two of Devin’s men. “Oorah!” Bones shouted, the cry of the Marines and ducked down beside me.

“North,” Bones said. I switched my gun in that direction. “West, two clicks.” My nostrils flared when I saw the prick with the RPG come into focus. The world fell away.

I lined up my shot with the fucker’s skull. “Target on.” The hot wind blew against my face, the sun burning the skin. And I waited. I waited until . . .

“Now!”

I pulled the trigger.

Shouts went up around him as he dropped off the post he held and smashed to the ground.

“Direct hit,” Bones said, then, “Shit! Incoming!” He reached for his radio to warn the sergeant of the two trucks coming from the east, but it was too late. I scrambled to turn my rifle, and as I did, I caught sight of a familiar face, hunkering down behind a building with three of his men. “Devin,” I called, grabbing Bones’s arm. But the trucks opened fire, raining bullets and RPGs from the back. Explosions burst around the buildings, and the smoke clouded my vision of my brother.

“Get me a fucking visual!” I demanded.

Bones searched through his binoculars and steadied his out-of-control breath. “Northwest, three clicks.”

A flash of a body came across my lens. “Sighted.”

“Wait . . . wait . . . now!” Bones called, and I fired. I fired shot after shot, but the fucking bombs kept coming. And I lost sight of Devin. Through the smoke and blood and heat, Devin disappeared . . .

My eyes snapped open. I was drenched with sweat. I stared at the end of my bed and the ghosts that fucking came every night. They ain’t real, I told myself. They ain’t fucking real.

But they never left.

Closing my eyes, blocking them out, I pulled Phebe’s face into my mind’s eye and focused on her pale skin, spattered with freckles. I envisioned saving her from this hellhole and taking her back to Lilah. I pictured her free from drugs and smiling. I held on to that image, to the stone-cold fact that she would be safe.

She fucking had to be.

*****

“You see anything useful from the barber shack?” Viking asked as we walked toward the saloon.

I flicked my eyes around us to make sure no one was near. “All quiet. Couldn’t see in. But there was no movement in or out. I got the guard schedule figured out though. That’s something.” And I’d watched the dentist shack all night from my window. I’d slept on and off for a grand total of two hours. Night terrors, they were clinically called; at least that’s what the Marines’ shrink had said. The dead, staring at me with black empty eyes, watching the man who’d sent them to their deaths. They crowded in on me, taunting me with their gaunt, drawn faces. I sat and watched them from my spot on the bed. Frozen, paralyzed by the pain their images brought. Guilt’s claws digging deeply into my chest and ripping open my ribs to gnaw on my exposed heart.

I tried to convince myself they weren’t there, night after night. But when you see the blood seeping from their wounds—fresh and hot—leaking to the floor . . . when you smell the cloying scent of death lingering in the air . . . hear their ragged breathing . . . knowing they aren’t real falls to shit. When every one of your senses tells you that your victims are here to make you pay, you fucking believe them and just let the torture begin.

Flame grunted beside me as the four of us walked into the saloon. It was full of Klansmen, white-power band music spitting from the crackling speakers. No one even glanced our way as we walked up to the bar. Four American beers followed by four whiskeys were slammed onto the bar top without us even ordering. The bartender glared at us; I got the message quick. These American and European drinks were the only drinks that were served here.

Nothing outside of the Klan’s particular WASP agenda.

We took our drinks to a far corner, out of sight and in the shadows. The spot offered me the perfect location to view my surroundings. I’d been right about the exits. Two guards kept vigil around the room, while drunk-as-fuck Klansmen talked and laughed loudly, drunk on liquor and high from fucking the drugged sluts in the barn.

Forty minutes later, Meister entered the bar with the same guard I’d seen him with before. The Himmler to his Hitler, no doubt. Men darted out of their way as Meister strutted through the crowd, his swastika and Totenkopf skull tattoos flexing in the dim light. He took a drink from the bar. When he turned, holding what looked like a file in his hand, I saw claw marks etched on his face.

My hand tightened on my beer. Was that the work of Phebe? I pictured the red-haired bitch fighting the fucker off, the image making my fingers twitch with pride. Then the asshole was moving toward the jukebox. He snapped the wire from the socket and stared out over the crowd. Every man fell deathly quiet.

I’d give the prick his dues, he was an intimidating fucker. Intimidating to everyone but us Hangmen.

The room was quiet enough that you could hear a pin drop. Meister held up his hand. “Heil Hitler!” he yelled, and we all echoed it back.

His right-hand man brought a whiskey to him. Meister knocked it back in one. He was dressed in black camo pants tucked into black boots and a tight wife-beater. Tank and Tanner could stand side by side with this cunt and not look out of place.

He took a step forward and held up the file. “You’re all here because we serve the great cause.” His voice was low and his movements

measured. My eyes narrowed as I studied every inch of this bastard.

“You are all here because somebody recommended you, or thought you deserved to fuck pussy for a service well done.” The fucker let his blue eyes run over every one of us in the room, then he smiled, showing a mixture of white and gold teeth. “The pussy here belongs to the Brotherhood and the Klan. Good, all-American, white pussy, making us money for the war that hangs over us.” He ran his hand over his shaved head. “And the dick that plows this pussy, that fucks and sucks and drinks on the juices from their cunts, is only white cock. Klan cock. No Jews. No blacks. No spics. Or any other fucking poisoned blood that infects this planet like a plague, and robs the true race, the Aryan race, of what is rightfully theirs.”

Meister paced back and forth on his patch of floor. “All the brothers here are pure.” He stopped. Slowly, a savage grin spread on his lips. “Or they should be.”

I darted a glance at Vike, Cowboy and Flame. Flame had his hands on his blades, ready to fight. Vike nodded a single discreet nod without looking my way. Cowboy tapped the tip of his Stetson, his free hand moving to his Glock. I had my eyes set on the fastest path out, hand braced on my gun.

Meister opened the file. “We background-check all who enter my town. And we leave no stone unturned. For the race war to begin, we need good white soldiers. Soldiers who are dedicated to the white way and will do anything to bring our dream to reality.” Meister took a sheet from the file. “The pussy here is Aryan. We are all Aryan. Because we are the motherfucking ARYAN BROTHERHOOD!”

Slamming what I now saw was a photo into the air, he said, “And no motherfucking Aryan would fuck black pussy!” Meister waved the picture around for all to see; it showed a black woman smiling.

My eyebrows pulled down. The sound of chair legs scraping the wooden floor came from the far left of the bar, as someone jumped to their feet. Heads whipped in his direction.

He looked in his late twenties. Some skinny blond who seemed to be strung out on meth. Meister glared at the guy, his lips curling in disgust. The traps in his neck bulged as he seethed on the spot. “You dare to call yourself White Power when you fucked this cunt’s pussy, lived with her for a year?”