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I cry out. “I’m armed, and I will shoot you. Leave us alone. Just leave us alone.”
Charlie cries next to me, voice shaking, and I look down at him and force a smile.
“Hang on, Charlie. Hang on. I’ll keep you safe. Whatever it takes.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
Hunter
We arrive at The Red Room as an unhesitating force of vengeance. The parking lot is near empty, a handful of expensive trucks, sedans, and SUVs that hint at nothing more than a bare bones security force. As we park and leap off our bikes, with guns strapped to our backs, our hips, across our chests, enough weaponry to kill a small town, Havoc must see the look of surprise on my face.
“About once a week, they ship their cash out to other parts of their organization — bribes, payroll, whatever — and a decent part of their security force follows that cash shipment, obviously. They vary the date, the time, all of that, but when it happens, it leaves a brief window of an hour or two where they’re vulnerable, and our source told us the shipment left just half an hour ago. Now, these assholes don’t figure anyone would hit them at this time, since most of their money is elsewhere, but we’re not after money. We just want to kill enough of them to send a message,” he says.
“I think we’ll send the clearest message by turning every person in there into a corpse,” Mayhem says. “So, if you want into the Twisted Devils and care about making Ironwood Falls a better place for your baby boy, here’s your chance.”
“No more talk. Time’s short, let’s murder,” Havoc barks before I can even think of a damn thing to stall. “You two go around back, sneak in and start killing. I’ll draw a bunch of their security out here.”
“You going to use the pipe bombs?” Mayhem says.
“I’m going to use the pipe bombs.”
“Come on, Hunter, let’s go,” Mayhem says, sprinting and getting nearly thirty yards away before I can even get my feet moving. Both of them are as giddy as kids on Christmas morning and I’ve just realized I have no fucking clue what madness I’ve gotten myself into.
The second we get behind The Red Room, a thunderous explosion erupts from the parking lot, filling the air with smoke and asphalt shrapnel. Then another erupts. Mayhem doesn’t even blink.
“It’s a tight hallway through the back door until we get to the main gaming floor. Lots of corners, offices, shit like that. Use your shotguns for that stretch, then switch to your rifle and sidearms once we get further in. Kill everyone you see — they’re all hostiles.”
Another explosion comes from the front of the building and I hear yelling and gunfire and, beneath that, continuous, maniacal laughter. Havoc is having the time of his life.
“Hurry, or we’ll miss all the fun,” Mayhem shouts. Then, with a cackle of his own, he boots open the back door of The Red Room and charges inside. Not a second later, the concussive sound of shotgun blasts erupts, along with a flood of screams.
I follow inside and step into a horror shot of bullets and blood, a mayhem of maniacal carnage. Somehow, in this storm of slaughter, I have to find Diesel first.
The hallway stretches before me, a claustrophobic tunnel of violence. Mayhem moves like a demon possessed, his shotgun roaring with each pull of the trigger. Bodies crumple in his wake, faces and chests obliterated into unrecognizable pulp. I follow behind, my shotgun adding to the deafening cacophony, while my eyes scan frantically for any sign of Diesel.
We round a corner and Mayhem's shotgun roars again, the muzzle flash illuminating splattered crimson on the walls. A security guard comes around the corner, eyes wide with panic. Before he can raise his weapon, I instinctively fire, the blast tearing through his chest. He crumples, and I step over the body, my heart hammering.
"That's it! No hesitation!" Mayhem cackles, already moving to the next doorway.
I follow, scanning frantically for any sign of Diesel. Each office we pass is a blur of gunfire and screams. My ears ring from the constant barrage, the acrid smell of gunpowder burning my nostrils.
“Diesel,” I scream. “Diesel.”
“I don’t smell any diesel,” Mayhem says. “Are you sure it’s not just blood?”
“Diesel,” I yell again.
“Oh, I get it,” Mayhem says. “It’s your war cry, huh? Fine, I can roll with that. Diesel! Diesel!”
Our two voices join in a bizarre chorus, one of us screaming for his friend, the other screaming for the petroleum product.
We burst onto the main floor, a cavernous space filled with overturned poker tables and casino security. Mayhem switches to his rifle, cutting down anyone in his path with ruthless efficiency. I do the same, my hands moving on autopilot as I search the faces of the fallen.
"There!" I spot Diesel across the room, crouched behind an overturned blackjack table. Our eyes lock for a split second before he ducks back behind the table. “Mayhem, the one over behind the blackjack table — he’s a friendly. His name’s Diesel.”
“Same as your war cry? What a coincidence.” He shouts back to me from across the room.
“Don’t kill him, OK?”
