After we slaughter the wolves, the Executioners will save the sheep. Supplies are ready to go. Following a small bloodbath, we’ll turn into the fucking Red Cross.
Bronco backs away from the lighted area and into the darkness where he texts Conor. I read over his shoulder how the second team should target these zealots while we’ll focus on Marks likely hiding in the main building.
Back on the move, I notice a woman watching us from her spot on the ground near one of the tents. I have no doubt once she alerts the others, shit will get loud very quickly.
But the woman only looks down at her hands and whimpers. I stop holding my breath. The sheep know they’re heading for the slaughter. What difference does it make who the wolves are?
Moving again, we reach the large building meant to keep the Volkshalberd warm during the worst winters and through dangerous storms. The place is lit up like a fucking shopping mall. A TV commercial plays loudly inside. Near the front door, a well-dressed blonde woman bobs her head to music. Without even seeing the bitch’s face, I’m certain she’s Steph Marks. Besides the young male zealots, no one in this fucking place except the Marks family would have the energy for bouncing.
We’re in position when Wyatt drives a box truck to the front gate. On our signal, he revs the engine and makes a scene.
Ready for battle, the younger Volkshalberd men lift their weapons and chant their messiah’s name.
Invisible in the dark sky, the surveillance drones drop the firecrackers in the same way as the last two nights. The singing and banging end as people scatter at the sound of what they worry is gunfire. The young Volkshalberd swing around with their weapons, unsure where the attack is coming from. Finally, they run for the front gate, where Wyatt continues to make a commotion.
“They’re coming through the gate!” yells a young Volkshalberd as if subconsciously helping our team.
The rest of the Village hurries to their tents. Steph Marks still stands at the doorway of the meeting hall. She doesn’t run and hide. She barely glances at one of the armed guys standing next to her.
Her arrogance reminds me of Lonnie. He thought he was untouchable in Cleveland. Bronco Parrish and the Executioners couldn’t lay a finger on him in his town. Except the Killing Joes didn’t run Cleveland. We controlled a few fucking miles. But Lonnie saw himself as a superior fighter, untouchable against the losers of the world. After all, he had a giant. That’s why his last words after I pulled out my hacksaw were, “You belong to me.”
Steph Marks and her brother think the Village belongs to them. They have over seventy people to act as human shields. No one can touch them.
The bitch never has a chance to think otherwise. Bronco’s rifle shot blows off the top part of her head. The guy next to her dies before processing how he’s covered in her brains.
As we rush toward the building, I strap my rifle to my back. I’d rather have my hands free. My knife and pistol are hooked to my waist if I need them.
The tapping of suppressed gunshots signals Conor and his crew have joined the fight. The young Volkshalberd fire back at the invaders.
I remain just behind Bronco as he hurries into the large open building. The TV still plays loudly in a back corner. Faintly, over a radio, the guards cry out for help at the front. Their calls go unanswered as the five men inside hold steady and protect their torch bearer.
As soon as I enter, I spot Marks sitting in a large brown recliner with a blonde woman’s head bobbing over his crotch. Even as the world comes down around him, the pig can’t be bothered to give a shit.
A young man fires at Bronco, but I move in front of the bullet. The burn in my chest doesn’t register as I rush the asshole. He hits the wall hard. His head quickly turns to pulp under the power of my fists. His asshole friend tries to shoot me in the back, but Bronco’s bullet ends that bullshit.
A third Volkshalberd stops trying to shoot at Lowell and turns his gun at me. I slap his rifle away and lift the fucker by the throat. His blue eyes widen. I think he begs. I know he pisses himself. I feel no pity. He needs to die so