Black Rain, page 8
The room was dim, lit only by a solitary desk lamp that cast long, dramatic shadows across the room. The place had a still, brooding atmosphere, a sense of isolation and focused purpose. The bed, stripped down to its bare mattress, was devoid of any semblance of sleep or rest. It had been repurposed as a makeshift armory, laden with an array of weaponry that would rival any military arsenal.
Guns of every imaginable type and size lay in regimented rows across the bedspread—pistols, revolvers, semi-automatics, and a few heavier pieces that looked like they belonged on a battlefield rather than in a downtown motel. The gleam of polished metal and the dark sheen of gun oil was a stark contrast to the worn fabric of the mattress beneath.
Next to the bed, a small table was laden with boxes of ammunition, each meticulously organized and labeled. The cluttered surface also held an assortment of knives, their blades honed to a razor-sharp edge, reflecting the dim light menacingly.
Scattered throughout the room were maps, photos, and scrawled notes, all pinned haphazardly onto the walls. The paper paraphernalia formed a chaotic collage, depicting the tangled web of the Black Nile Mafia's operations. Red lines crisscrossed the maps, pinpointing known hangouts and speculated safe houses. Faces from the photos stared out from the walls, their eyes hollow and unknowing of the fate that Kendra had planned for them.
Despite the chaos, there was an order to it all, a method to the madness that reflected Kendra's unwavering steadfastness. The room felt less like a temporary living space and more like the heart of a war campaign, vividly reflecting Kendra's uncompromising mission of vengeance against the Black Nile Mafia. Standing there, I didn’t know whether to be appalled or impressed.
The room was permeated with the heavy scent of gun oil and metal, a potent mix that spoke of the room's transformation into an armory. Overlaid with these smells were the faint but unmistakable antiseptic tang of iodine and the sterile scent of gauze and bandages. Amidst the weaponry and ammunition, first aid supplies were strewn about in a haphazard fashion—sterile pads, sutures, medical tape, tweezers, and an array of pharmaceuticals to manage pain and prevent infection.
Bloody bandages, carelessly discarded, lay crumpled in a corner of the room, the vivid red stains standing out starkly against the white fabric. An empty syringe and a discarded vial of what I guessed was some kind of painkiller lay on the desk next to the lamp. This was clearly a room not just for planning and waging war, but for treating the inevitable wounds that came with it.
Kendra herself was a mirror image of her surroundings. Dressed in black leather pants that clung to her lithe form, she looked every inch the warrior. The pants were scuffed and scratched from recent encounters, the once-smooth leather marked with battle scars. Her sleeveless black top revealed her arms and shoulders, a canvas of cuts and bruises that told a story of relentless combat. Some were fresh, the skin split and angry, while others were older, fading to the sickly yellow-green of healing bruises.
Her face, beautiful yet hardened by her vendetta, bore its own evidence of her battles. A cut over her cheekbone was healing, the edges puckered slightly, and a darkening bruise spread out from beneath her left eye, marring her otherwise flawless complexion. But her eyes held a fire that seemed to burn brighter against the backdrop of her injuries, a clear indicator of her unyielding will.
“What are you doing here?” Kendra's voice was laced with surprise as she met my gaze, her brows furrowing slightly in a silent question.
“Well,” I said, my tone slow and deliberate. “You left the yard without saying much. All I got was a note.”
Kendra's mouth thinned into a line, her eyes darting away as she grappled for a response. "Yeah, well..." Her voice trailed off, the unease palpable in her silence. "This is my war, and I don't want to drag anyone else into it."
"Your war?" I let out a low chuckle, the sound more bitter than amused. “Look at you, Kendra. You’re gonna get yourself killed.”
Her eyes flashed with defiance as she moved to the door. "If all you've got is a lecture, you might as well go."
"That's not why I came here." I surveyed the room, a sigh escaping my lips. "You got any whiskey lying around?"
Kendra hesitated, her gaze scrutinizing me before she disappeared into the bathroom. When she returned, she was clutching a half-full bottle of Wild Turkey, which she handed to me. "No glasses. You'll have to drink from the bottle."
"Works for me," I said, lifting the bottle to my lips and letting the bourbon burn its way down my throat.
Kendra watched me, her expression unreadable. "Rough night?"
"Something like that," I muttered, my gaze meeting hers. "Nothing I want to talk about."
She shrugged, moving to sit on the mattress. Picking up a semi-automatic, she began to methodically strip and clean it. "Suit yourself."
“So how’s the war effort going?” I asked her. “You look like you’ve been into it recently.”
“I was,” she said as she cleaned the barrel of the gun. “Last night, I hit a safe house in Fullerton. The BNM were holding a few of their members from Blackham. They had heat on them, so they came here to Fairview.”
I sank into a worn chair near the bed, my gaze never leaving her. "What happened?"
She looked up, her eyes cold and distant. "What do you think happened? I went there, and I killed them all."
I shook my head. "Giordano is bound to be onto you by now."
"Oh, he is," she said, her gaze returning to the gun. "He just doesn't know who I am. Yet."
Her will was admirable, but I couldn't help but worry. She was a good person, a victim of circumstances beyond her control. The loss of her family had set her on this path of vengeance, but I couldn't help but hope for a different ending for her. I wanted her to have a chance at a normal life once her quest for revenge was over.
“I’m going to help you, Kendra,” I said, a cigarette now burning between my fingers, a trace of tremors still in my hand. “That’s what I came here to tell you.”
Kendra didn’t respond, went on cleaning her gun.
“Did you hear me?” I asked her.
She nodded. “You’re under no obligation to help me, Drake. Why would you?”
“Let’s just say I have my reasons. It doesn’t matter. You stand a greater chance of taking down Giordano with my help. I have resources you don’t have.”
“I’m doing just fine on my own.”
“Look at you, Kendra. You’re a bloody mess. You’ve already nearly died once.”
Kendra’s aura suddenly ignited around her, branding itself on my vision. It blazed like a silent fire, swirling in colors I couldn't name. The vibrancy of it took my breath away. It pulsed with an intensity that spoke of a will of iron, a solid proof of the battles she had fought and the resilience she had developed.
There were dark, smoky tendrils within the light, echoing the deep trauma she had faced, the pain she had endured, the battles she had lost. They weaved and twisted, a vivid portrayal of her past, a haunting representation of her torment. Yet they did not dominate her aura. They were there, yes, but they did not eclipse the light.
The predominant color was a rich, deep blue, a color that spoke of courage, bravery, of facing one's fears and standing tall. There were also strands of crimson red within her aura, and I knew they represented her deepest fears, the nightmares that haunted her, the doubts that nagged at her. They twisted and curled around the blues and whites, yet they never smothered the light.
Most striking was the white light that seemed to glow at the heart of her aura. It radiated outward, filling the space around her with a gentle, comforting glow. This was her essence, her soul, and it shone with an unfaltering light. A beacon of goodness, it spoke volumes about who she really was, beneath the battle scars and the tough exterior.
And then, as Knight’s aura had done the same, Kendra’s dissipated, removing itself from my vision.
Staring at her, I heard her sigh. Then I watched her put the gun down as she reached for her cigarettes, lighting one up before holding out her hand for the bourbon bottle.
“Tell me you don’t want this to be over,” I said, giving her the bottle. “Tell me you’re not sick of all this, and that you don’t want to do something else. You must have dreams, ambitions—plans for a better life.”
She laughed bitterly, taking a swig of the bourbon. "The only dream I have is seeing my family again. But that's never going to happen, is it?"
“I’ve been where you are, Kendra. You think there’s nothing else, but there is.”
Her dark eyes bored into mine, a challenge gleaming in her gaze. "Are you living your dream life, Drake? Is this your idea of making it through?"
"I've managed to build a life around the darkness I face everyday," I countered, refusing to break eye contact. "I've found people that I care about. A job that keeps me grounded. You could have the same. Don't tell me you haven't thought about it."
She was silent for a moment, her gaze flicking away from mine. "Frank used to say stuff like that to me all the time. He wanted more for me as well."
"He was right to want that for you," I pressed.
Her gaze returned to mine, a vulnerability creeping into her expression. "But what if this is all there is for me?" She paused, her gaze searching mine. "I don't see anything but darkness, Drake."
"You need people, Kendra. People who can help you see the light."
"Frank was that person," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. "And now he's gone."
I leaned forward in my chair, my gaze holding hers. "Then let me be that person now."
A flicker of emotion passed through her eyes before she turned away, reaching for the bottle of bourbon. But before she could take another sip, the bottle exploded in her hand, and the unmistakable sound of a bullet whizzing past my head echoed through the room.
Chapter
Eight
“Get down!” I barked sharply as I threw myself to the floor, my gun materializing in my hand in a fluid, practiced motion. Kendra, with the agility of a seasoned warrior, was already performing a swift roll off the bed, the deadly glint of a Desert Eagle flashing as she snatched it mid-roll.
As a hail of bullets blew out the motel room window, glass and plaster flew everywhere. The shots sounded like they were from semi-automatics.
But above the noise of the shots was another sound—the whip-like crack of a high calibre bullet fired from a powerful rifle.
Somewhere out there was a sniper, and they had just tried to kill Kendra.
Not only that, but the accuracy of that first shot—almost blowing Kendra’s head off—made me think the shooter was using thermal imaging. Which meant we had to be careful about making ourselves targets, on top of avoiding all the gunfire from the shooters outside firing semi-autos.
“Is this who I think it is?” I roared, my voice barely audible over the dissonant symphony of gunshots.
“Well it sure as hell isn’t fucking housekeeping!” Kendra retorted, raising her Desert Eagle over the bed and firing it with one hand, aiming her shots out the blown out window, the massive noise of the pistol deafening to my newly sensitive hearing.
But almost as soon as the noise hit my eardrums, it became dampened, and I knew it was because the ink was filtering out the ear-shattering noise going on all around, protecting me from it. While I could still hear pretty good, the sounds of gunfire had been reduced to a manageable thrum.
Following Kendra’s lead, I raised my pistol up and returned fire, squeezing off half a dozen shots, doubting they hit much of anything. But as long as the shooters outside knew we were armed, they’d be less inclined to come rushing in with guns blazing.
High caliber bullets drilled into the bed we were using as cover, the sniper outside trying to find our heads, forcing Kendra and I to duck lower.
“We need to get the hell out of here!” I shouted. “Is there another exit?”
“There’s a window in the bathroom,” she shouted back as she felt around on the mattress until her hand fell upon what appeared to be an Uzi submachine gun with a fifty round box-shaped magazine. “But you’re not getting through it.”
“Christ.” I fired more shots above the bed, emptying the magazine. “You got anything heavier up there?”
Kendra reached up again just as a sniper bullet penetrated the mattress an inch from her searching hand. “Fuck!” After jerking back, she resumed her search, knowing all too well the next bullet could go through her hand, or somewhere higher. But before the next bullet came, she managed to grab another small submachine gun, one I didn’t recognize, but which I gratefully accepted.
No sooner had I grabbed the weapon when the motel room door was kicked open and the room was subjected to a spray of automatic gunfire, the bullets still sounding like muffled thumps to my protected ears. I lay flat on my belly, gripping the machine gun as plaster from the walls exploded everywhere, filling the room with a thick cloud of dust that mingled with the acrid smell of gunpowder.
Crawling forward to the edge of the bed, I poked the machine gun around it and fired at an angle in the direction of the door, letting off a long burst. When I stopped firing, I noticed the other shooter had stopped as well. Affording myself a quick peak around the bed, I saw a dark suited man lying unmoving on the floor, blood pooling on the carpet around him.
One down, I thought as I crawled backward and turned around, still keeping my head low for fear a sniper bullet would find it. “I need you to cover me!”
Kendra glanced at me after she raised her machine gun and returned more fire, the hail of bullets from outside somewhat reduced now, the shooters possibly being more careful now that we were firing back with submachine guns. “What are you going to do?” she asked.
“We’re sitting ducks staying together like this. I’m gonna run through that wall into the next room.”
“What? Are you crazy?”
“I can flank them from in there and call reinforcements,” I said, dropping the submachine gun before slamming a fresh clip into my service pistol.
“What reinforcements?”
“The Hellbastards! Cover me!”
Before Kendra started firing, I called upon the power of the ink flowing madly under my skin. I sensed it knew what I wanted without me even having to think it.
When Kendra started firing her submachine gun, I jumped up as if propelled by a rocket, my body infused with the enhanced strength and speed granted by the swirling ink beneath my skin. In a blur of motion, I charged at the flimsy motel room wall, barreling through the plaster and timber like it was made of paper.
As I emerged on the other side, shards of plaster and splintered wood erupted into the adjacent room, a maelstrom of debris in my wake. I landed in a crouch, fists clenched, the room resonating with the echoes of my violent entrance. Dust hung in the air, twinkling in the sparse light filtering through the closed curtains. This room was a mirror image of Kendra's, its emptiness palpable, the beds undisturbed, the silence a stark contrast to the chaos I'd left behind. The scent of stale air and faded disinfectant filled my nostrils, untouched by the pervasive tang of cordite and blood from next door. A split second of respite in the eye of the storm.
Knowing the sniper with the thermal imaging was still out there, I flung a wardrobe down to the floor and crouched behind it. As if on cue, a sniper bullet penetrated the window and blew a hole in the wardrobe I was using as cover.
Ignoring the shot, I focused on summoning the Hellbastards, who appeared in the room a few seconds later, just as the shooters outside began to target the room I was in. Instinctively, the Hellbastards all ducked behind the bed. Next door, Kendra was still firing her submachine gun, clouds of dust and gunpowder smoke drifting into the room I was in.
“What’s going on, Boss?” Scroteface asked as a sniper bullet zinged over his head and blew a chunk out of the wall behind him.
“What the fuck do you think?” I replied. “We’re under fire! I need all of you out there taking care of those shooters. Reggie?”
“Yeah, Boss?” Reggie said as he sat puffing on the remains of a joint he had just fished out of his pocket.
“Are you enjoying that fucking joint?” A shadow by the window caught my attention and I stood up and fired three shots from my service pistol, seeing the shadowy figure drop from sight as soon as I did.
“It’s a nice bit of sativa, Boss,” Reggie said. “You want some?”
“No!” I shouted. “I want you out there searching for that fucking sniper!”
“All right. Will do, Boss.” Reggie teleported out of the room a second later, leaving the others to stare at me.
“What are y’all waiting for?” I said. “Get out there and kill those fucking guys!”
“But they’re shooting, Boss,” Snot Skull pointed out.
“Go out the window in the bathroom,” I said, exasperated by their inaction.
“Let’s go, boys,” Scoteface said, and they all piled into the bathroom to climb out the small window.
“Kendra!” I shouted. “You okay in there?”
“Just fucking dandy!” she called back. “You?”
“Yeah, same. The Hellbastards are here. Give them a minute.”
“To do what?”
“To fuck shit up.”
Like a perfectly rehearsed orchestra, a symphony of chaos and terror erupted outside. The guttural roars of the Hellbastards clashed against panicked cries and fervent shouting, marking their ferocious assault on the armed assailants. The once incessant hail of bullets that were mercilessly tearing through the worn-out motel walls abruptly tapered off, replaced by the howls of men facing nightmarish creatures from the deepest bowels of Hell.
Fiery orbs of incandescent flame ignited the inky night, bathing the scene in an ominous, flickering light. They exploded with the force of miniature suns, casting monstrous, writhing shadows across the weathered facade of the motel.
Propelled by an unseen power, a shooter came hurtling through the window, shattering the pane into a storm of razor-sharp shards that glittered menacingly under the dim motel light. His body contorting in mid-air, the man crashed onto the worn-out carpet with a sickening thud, a puppet severed from its strings.
