Blood Sky (Broken Mercenaries Book 1)

by S. Massery

  Then they brought in my uncles.

  “This is your second in command, no?” Jorge asked, the barrel of his gun brushing against Uncle Ricco’s forehead. No one reacted. Jorge came at my father and hit him in the jaw. “You speak, or he dies. Your choice.”

  My father grunted. He was weary of this. “Why are you doing this, Jorge? We’ve lived peacefully for years.”

  Jorge’s eyes darted to Margaret before returning to Father. “Peace? You suppress us, old man. We want liberation.”

  One of Jorge’s guys grabbed my father and yanked him up. “This is for Papi,” he muttered, driving his fist into Father’s stomach. My father exhaled sharply, bending almost in half. The guy’s knee snapped up, straight into his face. Blood gushed before my father even hit the floor.

  I lunged forward, screaming.

  It’s Margaret who caught me around the stomach, surprisingly strong. She lifted me nearly off my feet and dragged me backwards, away from the men.

  “Leave her,” Margaret snapped. “I’ll take care of her.”

  Jorge looked at her and inclined his head.

  Margaret dragged me into the kitchen, shoving me against the sink.

  “Are you sparing me from watching my father die, or sentencing me to a worse fate?” I asked her.

  She shook her head. “You are a dramatic child,” she said. “Did you think your father could hold onto his crown forever? With sharks in the water? No,” she laughed. “No, your father believed in peace. Peace. That isn’t our way.”

  “Whose way?” I asked, keeping the island between us. I still wasn’t sure she was the bad guy.

  “Delia,” my father yelled from the other room, “run!”

  Someone snatched my arm. A man dressed in black. I kicked at him and screamed when he got ahold of my hair. His meaty fingers bit into the back of my neck, forcing me ahead of him back into the living room.

  The men of my family were considerably bloodier than when I left them.

  Fear spiked through me. Ice trickled down my back.

  Jorge looked from me to over my shoulder. Margaret had followed us back into the room. My doubt that she loved my father was growing, and a wail was building inside of me. I knew our fates—how could I not?

  “Do it,” she said. “I tire of this.”

  Jorge nodded. The man standing behind Uncle Angelo stepped forward and slid a knife across his throat. There was a moment of hesitation, and then the awful gurgle, the spray of blood across the carpet. He fell face-first to the ground, grasping at his throat, but you can’t stop a rushing river with your bare hands.

  I yelled, throwing my elbow back and clipping something solid. Uncle Ricco was next. He met my eyes and said, “Survive, niece.”

  I closed my eyes when he hit the ground. My father was on his knees, but he struggled to his feet. “Don’t let my daughter see this,” he begged. I opened my eyes and saw he wasn’t looking at Jorge. He was staring at Margaret.

  “She’s just going to follow you,” Margaret said. “Unless you’d like her to go first.”

  He squeezed his eyes shut, bowing his head.

  “No,” I said. “Dad.”

  He met my eyes. There were things I wanted to say: I love you. I’ll survive this. But the truth was, I knew I was a goner. I knew I was going to die the second after Jorge’s man slit his throat. Margaret would step forward and run her own knife along my skin.

  I felt the blade already, sharp and coated with my uncles’ blood. She didn’t hold the weapon—one of Jorge’s men did—but she controlled this situation all the same.

  Father staggered to his feet and dove at me. The man holding me shoved me away, catching my father and sliding his knife into Father’s stomach. I watched from the floor as the man twisted his blade and jerked upwards. My father’s body jolted before he buckled over.

  Margaret’s eyes were fastened on my father as blood spilled from his abdomen. She walked forward and took the knife from the man.

  “Give us a moment, Jorge,” she said. He looked at her. I didn’t know what he saw in her eyes—I could barely look away from the blood spilling out of my father. The next thing I knew, Jorge gave a sharp whistle. He and his men filed out of the house.

  As the door closed behind them, Margaret knelt by my father’s side. His eyes were open, fixated on her face.

  “I really did love you, you know,” she murmured as she cut his throat.

  Bile rose in my throat. I leaned over and threw up, the vomit shocking me out of silence. My father was dead. His blood ebbed out of him. “Margaret,” I sobbed. “Why?”

  She flinched.

  “You’re going to kill me, too?” I scrambled backward until I hit the wall. The gun pressed against my stomach as I pulled my knees up toward my chest.

  She stood and looked at me, cocking her head. “Do you want to live in a world without your family?”

  No, a dark part of me thought.

  Another part of me roared at the indignation of it.

  “How dare you think that’s all I live for. My father and uncles? I love them, but they aren’t my whole world. And I’m not going to let you destroy the rest of my family.” I pulled the gun from my waistband and showed it to her.

  She paled, backing up a step.

  I pulled back the safety and shot her three times, shredding her stomach. Her mouth parted in an ‘O’ shape, and it felt like I had shot myself. Pain swept through me, followed by horror. Never-ending horror, tipping me over and over into the abyss.

  There are things a girl can’t come back from—this was one of those things.

  Margaret fell backwards, hitting the ground with splayed arms. She grasped at her stomach, but her fingers slid across the torn, wet fabric. When my ears stopped ringing, I swiped at my face. I was covered in blood, too.

  “You better run, girl,” she moaned from the floor. She had ended up next to my father, her head by his shoulder. I stood, shaky like a newborn deer, and stared down at her. “They’ll never stop hunting you.”

  “Who?” I asked, but she exhaled a shaky breath, and she didn’t inhale again.

  So I ran.

  I look around at everyone, blinking as if coming out of a nightmare. Did I just tell them that story out loud? I’ve kept it close to my heart for too long, and the relief of having my truth in the open is almost too much to bear.

  “Margaret Elizabeth Applewood. That’s who my father married.” I look at James. “But that’s not who she was. Before she married a man named Martin Applewood, she was Margaret Elizabeth Elvira.”

  Shock ripples out, paired with disbelief. James has done a good job painting me in a negative light. They don’t know if they can trust my words.

  “I can corroborate,” Jorge Castillo calls. “The girl tells the truth. Margaret and James worked together. They were siblings.” More murmurs. Some people hiss their disapproval. “They came to my home and offered my family more money, more power… if only I would help them put an end to the Moretti reign.” He bows his head.

  I nod at Edgar, who grabs his father and leads him out of the warehouse. He understands: family business is private. We deal with our own by ourselves.

  Once they’re gone, I exhale. Michael steps forward like he wants to embrace me, but he stops at the look in my eyes.

  Jackson steadies me, one hand on my shoulder, and I fight against leaning back.

  I hate my whole family. I hate that James turned them against me, that they believed him. I hate everything I’ve been forced to endure in the past two months.

  “You trusted an outsider over your own blood,” I tell them. Anger puts a bite in my words, and it seems to cow my cousins. “For that...”

  Silence, except for my heart thundering in my ears.

  “You die.” I turn and bury Benjamin’s knife between James’s ribs. He stares at me in surprise, and every single memory of him passes through me. The good. The bad. The ugly. I mourn the good and scorn the rest, letting him see the disdain in my eyes
. He grasps my hand with both of his.

  I twist the knife and go with him to the ground. Blood seeps over the blade, my fist, everything a mess. “I hate you,” I tell him. Thick, poisonous feelings pour out of my mouth. “I hate that you thought you could get away with this. This won’t bring my father back, but it’s pretty fucking close.” I yank the blade out and stand up as his breathing turns jagged.

  Jackson pulls me away from James, and I drop the knife with a clatter.

  All at once, everyone erupts into chaos.

  My cousins start yelling. Some cheer. How easily you’re swayed, I think at them.

  Lauren comes toward me. Tears streak down her face, and she kneels down next to James for a second. Blood soaks into her jeans. She rises and turns to me. “I’m sorry,” she cries. My heart squeezes. “I’m so sorry.”

  I put my arms around her, patting her back. If I were to have taken a step back, I would’ve realized that I was furious with her for siding with James against me. He never should’ve come between us. Instead, I comfort her. I say, “It’s okay, Lauren.”

  She throws one arm around me.

  The other, holding the knife she just picked up from the floor, pushes into my abdomen.

  30

  JACKSON

  If you had asked me two months ago what the scariest moment of my life was, I wouldn’t have been able to give you a definite answer. There were too many close calls to choose from: running with my crew through the mountains and being picked up by the helicopter by chance; the girl with the IED; being interrogated by an extremist group before my crew broke me out. They were all moments that terrified me in the moment, but their impact lessens as time goes on.

  Ask me tomorrow what the scariest moment of my life was, and I’ll tell you it’s today. Right now.

  Delia’s exhale turns into a moan, and my attention zeros in on her cousin. Lauren. The girl meets my eyes and shoves Delia off of her, right into my arms, and Delia’s hands immediately go to her lower stomach.

  “Why?” Delia mumbles. I look down. There’s a knife sticking out of Delia’s stomach. A knife that Lauren darts forward and yanks out, shaking her head at me. Delia cries out, and the sound makes me want to rip the earth apart for her.

  Not here, Benjamin said to me, intestines. Nasty suckers to cut open.

  I’ve dealt with anxiety. Worry. Adrenaline. But nothing compares to the shot of fear I get as I lower Delia to the floor and cover her hand with mine. “Delia,” I say.

  She inhales a sharp breath. “I’m okay,” she murmurs. “Just—”

  “I love him,” Lauren says. Her eyes are wet, and there’s torment on her face. We all do crazy things for love. She kneels down by James, who’s barely breathing. His eyes are on Lauren’s face.

  She cries, “I love you. I’m sorry, I love you.”

  His bloody smile is sad, and I hate the tragedy of it.

  But she hurt Delia.

  Fear turns quickly into rage. It doesn’t matter that Lauren is a woman, or Delia’s cousin. Right now, the only thing I see is red.

  Blood.

  I lift James’s pistol and shoot Lauren without hesitating. Fuck, I don’t even blink as she grunts and falls backwards. There are screams. Cousins tumble over each other trying to get away—classic herd mentality. They thought they were safe. They thought rising up against Delia would be forgiven with James’ blood, but it isn’t.

  I stalk them, saving my bullets. Zach didn’t give Delia nearly enough ammunition for the shotgun, and the pistol has a handful of bullets left. Outside, someone scrambles to their car and pulls a gun. My bullet finds its mark in his head. Too many more are pulling weapons, but the blood lust is calling to me.

  A gunshot wrenches the night open, and I grin. The Morning Star. Dalton reloads and shoots again. I’ve seen him do it so many times, I can practically hear the bolt action slide back and release a casing, the scrape of another bullet loaded in.

  Crack.

  Another traitorous cousin falls.

  In the end, they all fall. Six pairs of headlights illuminate the carnage, but I can’t make myself care about them. I turn and rush back into the building, to Delia in the center of the room.

  “That’s the kind of ending I had secretly been hoping for,” she mutters. “This fucking hurts.”

  “You just hold on,” I tell her. I press on the wound, my heart breaking when she cries out. “Griffin will be here in a minute. He’ll get you all stitched up—”

  “You think so?” she asks, trying to smile.

  My own smile wobbles. “You’re sure as hell not dying on me, Delia.”

  “Benji was always obsessed with bodies. He told me to avoid getting stabbed in the stomach or the intestines, like I’d have a choice—” She turns her head and coughs. When she looks back at me, her lips are speckled with blood.

  “You’re going to live,” I say in as firm a voice I can manage. “Okay? Delia.”

  “Jackson.”

  It’s our thing, remember? Even in the face of death.

  “I love you,” she tells me. “Just in case.”

  “I love you,” I say as her eyes flutter shut. Griffin appears over my shoulder and I grab his arm. “Save her,” I beg.

  He shoots me a look. “That’s the plan, asshole.”

  “Be easy,” Zach mutters. “The love of his life is bleeding out on the floor.”

  “Hospital?” I ask.

  Griffin rolls his eyes. “It’s like you don’t trust me or something. Can you give me some space? Go wait outside.”

  I don’t budge until Zach hauls me up and away. Minutes later, Griffin appears with Delia in his arms and his bag over his shoulder. “Car. Right now.” He heads for the first and climbs into the backseat with her. I go for the driver’s side and hesitate for a fraction of a second, because Zach just watches us.

  “Dalton and I will clean up,” Zach says.

  I get in the car and drive like the hounds of hell are chasing us. Griffin is silent. I strain to hear Delia’s breathing, but it sounds faint to my ears.

  “Is she going to live?”

  “This is a bad wound, Jackson,” Griffin says. He was never one to mince words. “She’ll need surgery. Drive faster.”

  I do, and we get to the hospital in record time. Yet as Griffin rushes her into the ER, I sit in the SUV and stare at the Emergency sign. I send a prayer up that she makes it through this long enough to spend the rest of her life with me.

  A nurse sweeps into the room. I expect to hear something similar to the last time she found Griffin in one of her rooms, but instead, she smiles. “How’s our patient?”

  Griffin and I look toward Delia. She was sleeping, but now she gives me a tired grin. Her eyes are bright. “I’m alive?”

  I lean over and kiss her forehead. “You’re alive,” I say.

  “Good,” she murmurs.

  The nurse adjusts Delia’s monitors, pushes medication through the IV, and tells us that the doctor will be in to see us soon. Delia had surgery to repair her intestines and clear away any leakage from her bowels. She has a scar to match mine now, which I point out to her with a soft smile.

  She reaches over and takes my hand. “What happened?” She stares at the muted television, which shows an aerial shot of the warehouse up in flames.

  Griffin frowns. “Don’t feel guilty for their deaths, Delia,” he says.

  “I don’t. Not really.” She looks at me and squeezes my hand. “I feel guilty that you have that weight on your shoulders.”

  I shake my head. These past few hours, since the doctors told us that Delia would be okay, I’ve felt surprisingly light. “When it comes to you, I’d do anything.”

  “Including…” she bites her lip. “Including leaving Vegas behind and traveling?”

  “Where would we go?”

  She doesn’t know that Jorge Castillo went to the police and confessed to the murder of Nicolai, Ricco, Angelo, and Margaret Moretti. Edgar has officially taken over. The Moretti
Company’s assets are still frozen, and the company will most likely dissolve, but Delia’s inheritance has been released because she’s no longer a person of interest in the murder cases.

  “We could go anywhere,” I say. I explain to her what’s happened, and a wide smile takes over her face. “Damn,” I murmur, “if that isn’t the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “Edgar will do well,” she says. “I want somewhere warm.”

  I roll my eyes. “Such a desert girl.”

  Griffin stands. “I’ve got to get going,” he says. “But feel free to visit me in Europe. Wherever I am will be open for you.”

  “Thanks, man,” I say. I give him a hug for Delia and myself. He leaves without much fanfare.

  And then it’s just us.

  “How do you feel?” I ask her.

  Color returns to her cheeks and she motions me to lean in closer. “How long do we have to wait before having sex?” she whispers.

  I tip my head back and laugh, kissing her cheek.

  “You’re not going to like the answer to that,” I mutter.

  “Hello,” Delia’s doctor calls as she walks into the room. “Delia, how are you feeling? My name is Dr. Shapiro. I operated on you to repair the puncture wound’s damage.”

  “I feel okay,” she says.

  “I did want to go over one thing that we found in the blood test.” Dr. Shapiro hesitates and looks to me. “I can tell you alone, Delia, if you’d like.”

  She shakes her head. “No, he can know anything you have to say.”

  My heart fills with joy.

  The doctor comes closer. “I’m so sorry to tell you. Did you know you were pregnant?”

  Pregnant. My mind trips on that word. Stutters over it.

  Did you know you were pregnant?

  You were pregnant?

  Were?

  Delia reaches the same conclusion at the same time. “Were?” We both blurt out.