Sylar was speechless. He’d always assumed that the pack mattered most. The desire to walk away was almost too delectable to ignore. They could assume new identities, new lives.
“We can’t run away.” But the reality was that they were men with violence hard wired in their DNA. Wherever they went, trouble would follow. They were Blood Pact through and through.
Smith tightened his grip on his crowbar and raised it menacingly. “Well, then let’s do this.”
“We can’t fight either,” Sylar added. He watched his friend’s face contort with confusion. “It’s suicide to fight in that.” He looked down at the street where fewer men were still standing. There was so much blood, so many anguished screams bleeding out into the night, being ignored. Even angels would fear to tread down the main street tonight.
“Then what do you suggest we do?”
“We claim the Blood Pact as our own,” an idea was starting to formulate in Sylar’s mind. “We return to the bar and await the return of those who survive.”
“They’ll hate us for not fighting!” Smith insisted, his face reddening with worry.
“Not if we say we were against it all along. That we always knew it would be a blood bath. We chose to forsake the fight in order to ensure the future of the Blood Pact. No one from that fight will be in a fit state to oppose us.”
Sylar could see the wilted stance of all those who still stood. They reached for wounds that wouldn’t cease bleeding, as they half-heartedly fought the next man in their wake. No one was going to chastise Sylar and Smith, not when they were the strong ones who still had some fight left in them.
“You’re saying we take on leadership of the Blood Pact?” Smith cocked his head to one side, weighing up the proposal. “Together?”
“Exactly,” Sylar nodded and flashed his friend a grin. “We lead the Blood Pact into a new era. Side by side.”
“We could still walk away,” Smith ventured. “We get on our bikes and just drive until dawn.”
“We’re not the type to run away,” Sylar gave him an apologetic smile. “Nor are we the type to blend into normal society. We were groomed to be pack members. Now it’s our turn to take the reins and mold us into the most powerful pack in the state.”
“I do like the sound of that,” Smith was running his hands through his short hair.
“We’d live like Kings,” Sylar added, grinning devilishly.
“I can’t really argue with that,” Smith laughed. “Maybe it’s time we get back to the bar and wait on the arrival of the others.”
“Yeah,” Sylar took one last look at the fight which was drawing to a natural conclusion. He was ready to lead his pack. A part of him knew that all along this had been his destiny. He glanced up at the stars as he kick-started his bike. He no longer cared if his deceased parents disapproved of his choices. He was making his own way in life and he was proud of himself and that was enough.
Chapter 97
Hank had lost count of the throats he’d sliced through with his machete. But for every killing blow he’d made, some punk had managed to sneak in a cheap shot. Someone had stabbed him in the thigh, another had brought down a hammer against his cheek. He could feel his teeth jangling loosely in his mouth following the blow. Limping he pushed his way through the carnage. He had to pick his way over the fallen who either groaned in agony, curled up in the fetal position, or were deathly silent.
He knew that the fight was over. He had to do his best to walk away with his life. He spied Colin wrestling with some asshole with a two by four embedded with nails. It struck Colin in the leg and he folded like a piece of paper. His opponent raised his crude weapon, about to swipe it across Colin’s face when Hank intervened. With one quick movement, he severed the guy’s arm with his machete. Hot blood spurted from the wound like a gothic fountain, soaking Hank’s face.
“Argh!” the man sank to his knees, squealing in agony and grabbing helplessly as his bloodied stump of an arm.
“Let’s get out of here,” Hank helped haul Colin on to his feet. “We’re done.”
“But they're still standing,” Colin objected, pointing in the direction of another fight.
Looking around, Hank wasn’t quite sure if standing was the correct term. People precariously remained on their feet as blood seeped into their clothes.
“If we want to see tomorrow we need to go now,” Hank urged. “Let’s get back to the bar.”
Any alcohol in his system had run out, along with his blood, and now he felt impossibly tired. The bar on the outskirts of town felt a million miles away. But he knew he had to get there. He urgently needed medical attention, they both did.
“Deacon will kill us…if we…go back,” Colin stuttered. He was zoning in and out of consciousness and starting to shiver. Hank knew that they didn’t have much time.
“I saw the old man go down,” he told his friend gravely. Deacon had been struck down within the first twenty minutes of the fight. Five guys with hammers and baseball bats had set upon him, beating him to death until the bloodied pulp they left in their wake was barely recognizable.
“He got jumped,” Hank explained. “He didn’t even have a chance.”
“Shit.”
“So we need to get the hell out of here so that the Highway Reapers can eventually rise again.”
“Will we run the Reapers?” Colin asked dreamily as Hank finally reached their bikes. He climbed up on his own and hauled Colin up behind him. He just prayed that he’d be able to drive them safely back to the protection of the bar.
“Run the Highway Reapers?” Hank wiped the blood from his eyes and started the engine. He hadn’t thought about it but with Deacon gone, the pack would be rudderless without a leader. Miles would have been Deacon’s natural successor, but he was long gone by now. Hank rolled the idea around in his fogged mind and pulled away on his bike. The more he drove, the more he warmed to the idea.
“Sure,” he shouted over the roar of the engine, the bar now blissfully in sight. “Why the hell not? Let’s run the Reapers, me and you.”
“Sounds good,” Colin coughed. “Now let’s go get us patched the hell up.”
Chapter 98
Gina couldn’t sleep. Outside the night was disturbed by piercing screams and haunting moans. The main street of Colridge had become a battlefield. Just after midnight, she dared to peel back her drapes and glance outside. The street was covered with fallen bodies and those men who still stood, did so on unsteady feet.
“Holy shit,” Gina felt like she was looking down on a war zone. Where were the cops? Why hadn’t they come and broken any of this up? Because, like everyone else, they were too scared. Gina thought of her beloved tattoo parlor and hoped the shutters had been strong enough to keep out any trouble. Her stomach knotted as she then thought of Sylar. Where was he in this fray? She hoped that he’d had the sense to stay away. In the darkness, she strained to try and make out the faces of some of the fallen. Was Sylar among them? But each twisted expression was too far away from her window for her to be able to see anything clearly.
With a sad sigh, Gina moved away from the window and climbed back into bed. Outside it was becoming quieter but Gina knew that sleep would struggle to find her now. And even if it did, her dreams would be haunted by the sights she’d seen beyond her window.
Chapter 99
Gina woke up before her alarm had a chance to kick in. She blinked away the last remnants of sleep and slowly sat up. Her apartment was eerily silent. It was as if the death, which stalked the nearby streets, had infected the building; seeping into its walls and smothering all those inside with its cruel indifference.
She wanted to just hide out in bed, to snuggle down beneath her duvet and pretend the previous night hadn’t happened. But she couldn’t do that, as tempting as it was. She had to go and check on her store, make sure it was still standing. She didn’t relish the conversation she’d need to have with her insurance company if anything was trashed, nor the additional premiums she�
��d incur.
There was no one outside her apartment building. Everyone had sensibly tucked themselves up inside, reluctant to come out. But Gina only had to wander a few feet down the street before she came upon the aftermath of the night before.
The authorities had eventually showed up. They must have arrived in the early hours of the morning, when Gina had finally managed to get some sleep. Paramedics were onsite, tending to the more gravely wounded. There were stretchers everywhere and ambulances parked alongside the road, with cop cars preventing any vehicle access down the street. And blood. There was so much blood. It ran like a river down the center of the street, pooling like oil around the drains. Gina felt sick at the sight of it. She pressed a hand against her stomach and pushed away the uneasy feeling.
“You’re going to need stitches, we’ll have to send you to a hospital,” a young brunette paramedic was telling a battered old man. He was propped up against a wall, one of his eyes swollen shut. His entire face was caked with dried blood and his lips had been burst open by a well-placed punch.
“No,” the old man managed to cough.
“Sir, you’re at risk of infection. You need to be hospitalised for your wounds.”
“No,” the old man protested again, trying to struggle to his feet. The brunette signalled for some of her colleagues to come and assist her. Gina wondered what the old man feared. Was it the hospital or was it the prospect of police intervention? If he went to the hospital, would he ultimately have to answer for his crimes? And anyone present the previous night would have chalked up an impressive number of crimes. Disturbing the peace, disorderly conduct, violent assault, maybe even manslaughter to name a few.
Gina was relieved to see that the carnage of the fight hadn’t seemed to have spread up to her store. And the shutters were still all the way down. Shaking with relief Gina opened up. It felt surreal to even think about working after what she’d just seen. But she needed the normalcy of it to take her mind off worrying about Sylar. And Brea. Would Brea even show up for work?
Gina wandered through the store and into the back room where she’d left her purse and jacket. When she moved back through to the reception area, a man was standing in the doorway. He had shaggy blonde hair and stooped as though he were in pain. Gina recognised him instantly and flinched.
“We’re closed,” she announced stiffly, her voice hard.
“You look pretty open to me,” the guy edged further into the store. He was walking with a limp, pressing a hand against his thigh each time he moved. His face was adorned with numerous fresh stitches over seemingly deep wounds. He was as pale as paper, almost hauntingly so.
“You need to leave,” Gina considered screaming. The paramedics and the cops were close enough to hear her. She took a deep breath, inflating her lungs in preparation.
“Now, you don’t need to be doing that,” he held up hands which were red and bruised and managed to force a smile. “I just want my sleeve finished off before I go into hibernation for the rest of the month.”
“You look like you need the rest of the year,” Gina scoffed.
“True,” he laughed in agreement. “But the best I can manage is the month. Reckon you can finish this sleeve for me today?”
Gina eyed him dubiously.
“I know Brea was working on it, but something tells me we won’t be seeing her again.”
“What do you know about Brea?” panicked burned within Gina at the mention of her protégées name. Where was Brea? Had she somehow been caught up in the madness the night before? Gina couldn’t bear the thought of it.
“I know she’s skipped town.”
“Skipped town?” Gina exhaled and leaned back against the reception counter for support. She felt dizzy from worry.
“Yep. With lover boy in tow. They’ll be long gone by now.”
Gina ran her hands through her hair. So Brea was gone. The most talented artist Gina had come across during her career was now scattered to the wind.
“But she’s safe?” she demanded.
“Should be.”
“Good.” And Sylar? But Gina didn’t ask the question. If Sylar had survived, she was certain she’d hear from him sooner or later when he was ready to crawl up out of the woodwork.
“Should you really be here?” she asked her blonde visitor, pursing her lips.
“Probably not,” he gave a casual shrug and then winced.
“You should be resting up in bed.”
“That an offer to come take care of me?” his eyes sparkled flirtatiously. “I reckon you’d look really good in a tight little nurse’s outfit.”
“If you want me to finish that sleeve for you, I suggest you stop insulting me,” Gina folded her arms across her chest and scowled at him.
“Hey, darling, I was just offering you a compliment. You should learn to take one.”
“You were sexually harassing me,” Gina rolled her eyes. She wanted to get the guy out of there, but she found herself checking her calendar for the day. She could fit him in for the sleeve if she got to work on him right now. But why wasn’t she just sending him away? She didn’t need him bringing any trouble her way.
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” he struggled over to the reception desk and leaned against it so that he was standing beside her. Gina had expected him to smell like stale liquor and dried blood but instead he smelled of oil and shampoo. Fresher than she’d thought he would be.
“If we start on it right now I can finish your sleeve today,” Gina informed him briskly, heading towards the treatment room before he had a chance to respond.
“You’re bossy. I like that,” he commented saucily as he hobbled after her. Gina did pause to hold the door open for him.
“What if the cops find you here?” Gina asked as she started gathering together her tools. She was actually looking forward to working on the guy’s sleeve. It would provide a much needed distraction from all her frantic thoughts. She kept worrying about Brea and Sylar, hoping that they were both okay.
“They won’t do anything,” the guy told her confidently.
“You sure about that?” Gina was wiping down his arm which was surprisingly wound free compared to the rest of him.
“Positive,” he grinned at her. “Cops won’t be giving us any trouble.”
“Weren’t you a part of that big fight last night?”
“What gives you that idea?” he laughed.
“Fine,” Gina huffed and picked up her needle, about to start work on the sleeve.
“Yes,” he conceded quickly, his voice suddenly threatening to crack. “I was a part of the fight last night. But the cops won’t bother me. Or you. I run the Highway Reapers, so I basically run this town.”
“I see,” Gina felt nervous at the gang talk. She’d never wanted to get involved in any of it.
“You stay on my good side and I can bring you lots of work in here and offer you protection.”
Gina opened her mouth to protest, but he talked over her.
“Don’t tell me you don’t want to get involved. Talented lady like yourself should be chomping at the prospect to work on so many guys. Think of the cash flow. And I promise that all my guys would pay you a premium rate.”
Gina clamped her lips together. She’d always remained neutral in gang problems. What this guy was proposing would align her to the Reapers. It would put her in the line of fire when the next fight came around. And there was always a next fight. The kind of grudges that existed between the two packs were never settled no matter how much blood was shed.
“You seem like a nice girl,” he reached out and grabbed her free hand in his. She was startled by the sudden connection but didn’t jump back. “You deserve to be protected,” he added softly.
Gina blinked back tears. During the night, she’d lay awake, alone in her apartment terrified that someone would come bursting through her front door, that the next screams she heard would be her own. Where was Sylar? He’d been so concerned about Brea, but he hadn’t st
uck around to make sure Gina was safe.
“I’d always protect you,” the guy squeezed her hand tightly. Gina looked at him and saw that beneath the bruises and the swelling he’d managed to retain his boyish charm. Handsome eyes sparkled at her and she blushed with understanding. His protection would come at a cost, but it was one she would willingly pay.
Mason: Inked Reapers MC Page 73
