The man wailed hideously as he crawled toward the back door. There didn’t seem to be anyone else in the house.
When the gunfire lulled once more, Grady stood and flipped his spear around to the clubbed end. He walked forward quickly and brought it down onto the back of the man’s head, producing more screams of agony.
Fuck. He hadn’t hit him hard enough. He lifted the curtain rod and bashed it into the back of the gangbanger’s head. Bloodlust tore through him. He was excited for the kill. He pounded the man’s head over and over until the rod broke. He continued with the smaller, pointed stick until it lodged itself into the open skin along the man’s neck.
The red subsided from his eyes and he felt himself get lightheaded. He sat heavily in the dining room chair. Grady had been overcome by the need to kill this man. It had flooded his system with adrenaline and now he was worn out, completely exhausted in the aftermath. Then he understood. That’s what had happened to him the previous night when he’d been captured. He’d gone on a much, much longer killing spree, relying on his body’s adrenaline to fuel his madness. When it ran out, he collapsed, giving the gang the opportunity to take him.
Fucking Iranians. Grady’s hatred for them burned brightly.
“Hey. Hey, mister. Are you okay?”
Grady turned his head. “I told you to stay upstairs,” he managed.
“Yeah, well, it’s been a long time. We thought maybe you got yourself killed or something.”
“A long time?”
“Like ten minutes. You okay?”
Grady pushed himself to his feet and wobbled unsteadily for a moment. He could feel his energy level beginning to return. “Yeah. I’m good. I just needed a second.”
He looked around the small kitchen and dining area, his eyes resting on the girls he’d told to stay upstairs. “Help me out, will ya? I need a weapon. My other one broke.” He pointed at the jagged curtain rod standing nearly vertical from where it was imbedded in the back of the gangbanger’s neck.
“Yeah, sure.” The two women went into the kitchen as Grady flexed the fingers of his damaged hand. Carla, the quiet one, held up a large knife that she’d pulled from a wooden block on the countertop.
Grady flashed her a smile. “That will do. Thank you.”
He accepted the knife from her. “I’m going next door to see about Scorpion. The soldiers outside are still shooting every once in a while, so stay here in the kitchen. The refrigerator and the cabinets will help to block any bullets.”
Mandy nodded while Carla just continued to stare at him with those big doe eyes. “When the soldiers come into the house—and they will—yell like crazy that you’re unarmed and not part of the gang, okay?”
“You ain’t leavin’ us, are you?” Mandy asked.
“No. I’m not. I promised you that I’d see you safely out of this, and I’m gonna do that. But I have to make sure that Scorpion is dead. He has my gun and I want it back.”
“Be safe, um… What’s your name again?”
“Grady.”
Mandy leaned in quickly and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Be safe, Grady. We’ll be right here.”
He opened the back door cautiously. The small patch of grass in the back was unkempt and overgrown, but a well-worn path of mashed down grasses led the way to the house next door. The gang must have been using this route for months. Grady poked his head around the townhouse cautiously, peering up the space between homes to the street out front where his platoon was. He didn’t want to get shot by some trigger happy infantryman.
It looked clear, so he sprinted across the opening. A couple of bullets zinged down the breezeway, but nothing came close enough to him to worry about.
He held the knife at the ready as he crept up the house stairs. He liked to envision himself as the Angel of Death, descending upon the wicked. The mental imagery made him smile.
The back door to the house was unlocked. He eased it open, slipped inside, then closed it behind himself. It was quiet. Nothing seemed to be moving inside the home. That was strange. It should have been a hive of activity, or at least the defenders talking amongst themselves.
Grady pressed himself flat against the wall and slid along it toward the front of the home. He saw the first body halfway over the couch. The man had been shot in the back and fallen over the back of the couch, most likely attempting to flee.
The second body came into view on the floor. Similarly, this one appeared to have been shot in the back while trying to run away. Grady pushed himself off the wall. A cool breeze hit him as he exposed himself. Wind blew through the shattered windows at the front of the home.
Two more bodies lay sprawled in the living room and a fifth, recognizable form lay in a bloody heap by the windows. Scorpion’s head rested near his shoulder, blood dripping slowly into the large puddle on the floor. Given the amount of blood, Grady was certain the man was dead. So much for his big, bad Angel of Death routine. He hadn’t done a damn thing.
“Hey!” Grady called out softly to see if anyone would answer. No one did. The house was a morgue. The platoon’s response to being fired at had been swift and deadly.
Grady heard the slapping of boots on concrete outside and ducked back behind the wall in the kitchen. They
