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Colors of the third most prominent gang—and getting stronger by the day—in Dallas.
The Codes colors.
“Fuckin’ hell,” I gasped as I went into a crouch behind a tree. “God dammit!”
“Backup!” I heard yelled.
I turned to see the police cars start pouring into the parking lot, but they were too late.
This had already gotten way out of hand.
I pulled out my gun, checked the backdrop to make sure there would be no collateral damage, and then started taking out the gang bangers with the guns.
Most of the ones I could take out safely were Breakers.
However, when one of the West Backers ran across my line of sight, gun in hand, aimed at a kid wearing orange and teal, I took him out the old-fashioned way, by tackling him to the ground.
I felt something snap in my finger, but ignored it as I gave the West Backer one solid punch to the temple, and then moved through the trees.
It lasted all of two minutes.
Cops swarmed the area.
Parents screamed.
Kids were lost in the woods behind the park.
And every last gang member that showed up was either arrested or taken down with a bullet.
Even Gable lay cuffed on the ground, playing his part well.
I started to move around the area, assessing.
There were minor injuries all over the place, until I came to the bathroom and saw that one of the children hadn’t quite made it to safety before the shooting had started. And since he’d been wearing black and yellow as well, he’d been a target.
“Shit,” I said as I dropped down to my knees, feeling for a pulse.
It was faint, and I steeled my spine as I rolled the poor boy over onto his back.
He was all of maybe eleven, eyes wide, staring at me with fear in his eyes.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Don’t talk to me, pig,” he snarled, kicking out.
I went back onto my ass, and then watched in horror as this kid pulled a gun out of his pocket and aimed it at my face.
My mom came around the corner and reacted with years of training, taking the kid’s arm out with her baton.
The kid’s arm audibly snapped, and the gun dropped uselessly to the floor.
“Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God,” she repeated as she dropped down to her knees beside the kid. “Why? Why are you doing this?”
I assessed the damage to the kid, besides the obviously broken wrist.
“Gunshot wound to the upper left… Mom,” I called out. “Get the medi-vac here. ASAP.”
My mom looked down to the see the blood pouring from the kid’s mouth and pulled out her phone.
