Chapter 11

  After three long hours,

  the parking lot and the motel looked like any other post-war zone. Broken. Everything that could break had broken. Glass was sprinkled everywhere like morning snow, and cars were either flipped over, smashed, or on fire.

  Amidst the chaos lay Thomas. His back was on the ground, vision blurry as he stared toward the morning sky. He lay there in pieces—only half the man he once was—mainly due to the sheer amount of blood and flesh he had lost. Each breath he took was agony, his one remaining lung flooded with fluid.

  Jesus… my head’s all fuzzy. I’ve lost too much blood, he thought.

  Or maybe it’s because of that eye the Jamaican took.

  Thomas tried to focus, but his thoughts scattered. He forced himself to stand, pain screaming through his body, and scanned the battlefield.

  Only the swordsman remained, his blade broken, along with the ax-wielder who now held only one axe in his right hand.

  The Jamaican lay bleeding out on the ground, one leg completely gone.

  Thomas exhaled slowly.

  “You two fucks are still alive, I see,” Thomas muttered. “Let’s call it a day, okay? I’m tired. You’re tired. We’re all fucking tired. And with the wounds we’ve got, fighting anymore guarantees death.”

  The two men barely stood themselves. The axeman answered first.

  “Well, I don’t know about guaranteed. From the looks of it, if we keep fighting, the two of us might die—but you will. And I like my odds, old boy.”

  Thomas stared at him coldly.

  “I see. So you’re ready to bet your life on that, boy?”

  The two looked at each other, then back at Thomas. The axeman spoke again.

  “Well, buddy, you’ve got some strong points—almost as strong as your punches—but I’m just not seeing the benefit of backing down.”

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  Thomas replied flatly, “Benefit? How about keeping your life. That’s a start.”

  He smirked. “And if living’s overrated, how about I triple whatever gun-boy was paying you for the job?”

  The axeman laughed, then winced as pain caught up to him.

  “I don’t think you could pay even a third of what I’m earning.”

  Thomas’s face hardened.

  “Try me.”

  “All right, all right—listen. If you can offer me a conxxxxxxxl xxxxxx, then maybe I’ll back down.”

  Disappointment spreads across Thomas’s bloodied face as he replies,

  “Seriously, boy—Matthew couldn’t give you what you wanted even if the Kravitz family was backing his attack. And they’re not.”

  The axeman pointed his weapon at him and grinned.

  “That’s your problem, old man. You keep assuming Matthew’s the one writing the checks. He’s just the pawn. The excuse.”

  Thomas felt it click.

  So this wasn’t random. And it wasn’t Kravitz.

  I fucked up. Did Sebastian just finesse me. Or was this something else, but regardless

  they played me. Used my rage. Used my kid. Used everything. This wasn’t just another job, another negotiation, another dirty deal.

  This was a setup.

  If I didn’t know better, I’d think the C/G was involved too—but that not my main concern right now.

  Elijah…

  Fuck.

  If I die here, he’s finished. They’ll tear him apart. He’s too young for this life. I can’t leave him behind.

  I won’t die here.

  Stone you’re not dying here.

  As Thomas’s thoughts hardened, something inside him locked into place. With what little strength remained, he abandoned compressing his wounds and dropped his guard entirely.

  The giant clenched his fists.

  “Alright,” he growled. “So money won’t move you, huh? Then tell me—what does?”

  Silence answered him.

  The two tightened their grips, muscles coiling, eyes locked on him.

  And then Thomas charged.

  His ruined body screamed in protest as he barreled forward, betting everything on a final exchange. The swordsman lunged, driving his broken blade straight into Thomas’s ribs.

  Thomas didn’t dodge.

  He took it.

  And drove his fist forward in return.

  The blow tore through flesh and bone, crushing the swordsman’s torso. Ribs shattered. Organs ruptured. The man collapsed, lifeless.

  The axeman roared and swung his remaining axe into Thomas’s back, just below the shoulder.

  Thomas screamed, pain exploding through him—but he turned, grabbed the man’s wrist, and crushed it. Bone snapped. The hand collapsed into a useless mass of blood and meat.

  Thomas didn’t finish him.

  He ran.

  That’s enough, he thought. One more fight and I’m dead.

  He staggered toward the road, vision fading. His car sat there, barely in sight.

  “Why the hell did I park so far… fuck.”

  He reached it, yanked the door open, and collapsed into the driver’s seat. His body was failing, but escape was inches away.

  Just start the engine. Just go.

  The engine turned—

  Stab.

  Pain exploded through his chest.

  Blood poured out.

  Two blades pierced through his back and burst from his chest.

  “I forgot about you,” Thomas whispered, seeing the twins’ reflection in the windshield. “Thought you ran.”

  His breathing slowed. Vision darkened.

  As the cold grip of death tightened around Thomas’s neck, all he could think was—

  “I’m sorry, Elijah…”

  The twins pulled their blades free.

  Blood flooded the seat.

  And Thomas Stone died there, slumped

  behind the wheel, as the engine idled uselessly beneath the rising sun.