by Kyla Stone
“Frankly, it’s none of your damn business.”
Shay opened her mouth, not saying anything for a second as her outrage warred with her desire to be pleasant and polite. “Well—I—I’m just trying to understand what would possess you—”
“This is a waste of time,” Dakota broke in. “Like I said before, you’re welcome to leave at any time. No one’s twisting your arm here.”
Shay gnawed on her thumbnail, her anxious gaze jumping from Dakota to Logan. She took a slow, steadying breath. “I’m—I’m sorry. I’m not trying to cause drama. I just—I really hate guns.”
Logan stared at her like she was from another planet.
“You’re entitled to your opinion, and we’re entitled to ours. The gun stays. No discussion.” Dakota clenched her jaw and stalked past them.
Shay and Julio straggled along silently behind her, Shay appropriately chagrined enough to keep her mouth shut.
Logan remained near the front of the store, rifling through a fallen rack of women’s plaid long-sleeved shirts with the muzzle of the gun. With his free hand, he knocked back more gin.
She gritted her teeth in frustration. They weren’t cut out for this. She definitely should’ve left Shay and Julio behind.
And Logan, too, for that matter.
They were dead weight. They were too pampered; they couldn’t understand the reality of their brave new world.
Dakota didn’t have the time or the patience to explain it to them. She’d thought Logan was someone who got it, but he was acting like a drunken idiot.
She had half a mind to tell him to forget the whole thing right now. He was more trouble than it was worth.
She could defend herself just fine, as long as she had a decent pistol and plenty of ammo. How hard could it be to find a gun?
If worse came to worse, there were people who’d been carrying who’d died from their injuries. Their bodies would still be out there, ripe for the scavenging.
The thought sent a shudder of revulsion through her, but she was nothing if not practical.
They were dead. They were in Heaven or Hell or Nirvana or Valhalla, depending on what they believed.
At any rate, they didn’t care about their guns anymore. If it were her, she’d want someone living to find some use out of the weapons that had served her well.
She adjusted the plan in her mind. Maybe she could lose Logan right now—
Boom!
The crack splintered the air. Small chunks of concrete sprayed a foot in front of the clothing rack directly in front of her.
The gunshot rang in her ears. Her heart exploded against her ribs.
Instinctively, Dakota dropped to the floor, already fumbling for her knife with her free hand.
“Don’t you move,” came a low, hard voice from deep in the shadowed store, “or I’ll blow your head clean off.”
36
Logan
Logan spun and dove behind the toppled clothing rack, his pulse thudding against his throat. The clothes offered zero protection from a bullet, but maybe the hostile hadn’t seen him yet.
If not, he still had the advantage of stealth and surprise.
Damn it straight to hell. He should’ve cleared the damn store before they’d even stepped foot inside. He’d allowed himself to be distracted by the booze and the waitress.
He knew better.
Human nature was human nature, regardless of what atrocities surrounded them.
Looting always came with chaos. Always. Someone had been smart enough to seize an opportunity where he saw it.
“We’re not here to hurt anyone,” Julio stammered, his hands lifted high in the air. “We just need a few things.”
“You and everyone else,” the voice responded. “Ain’t no-one takin’ what belongs to us.”
Logan peered around the corner of the rack, trying to make out the figure but he was still too deeply swathed in shadow. From his voice, Logan guessed male, Hispanic, youngish. Maybe early to mid-twenties. Probably a gangbanger.
“Are you the storeowner?” Julio asked, still attempting diplomacy. “We can pay for what we need.”
“Screw that.” The guy gave a hard laugh. “We took over ownership. No one here to say otherwise. Imagine that.”
“We’re not armed,” Dakota said. “You can put that gun down.”
“Liars and thieves, then. Drop the knife you got there unless you want a hole drilled into your skull.”
Dakota’s knife clattered to the floor.
“Do you see any other weapons?” Dakota said. “We aren’t a threat to you.”
“We’re people trying to survive the bomb, just like you,” Julio said calmly.
“From where I’m standing, you people are the ones breakin’ and enterin’. That makes you the criminals in this scenario.”
“We didn’t know anyone was here,” Shay stammered.
Hunched low behind the clothes, Logan quietly set the liquor bottle on the cement floor and gripped the gun with both hands. His vision blurred a bit as the familiar warm buzz enveloped him.
His thoughts came stiff and jerky. He shook his head hard to clear his mind.
Think. He had to act without doubt or hesitation.
Their lives depended on it.
“We’ll just leave, then.” Shay’s voice shook. “No worries. We’ll go somewhere else. We’re sorry for bothering you.”
“Now see, there ain’t nowhere else to go. We’re taking care of things.”
If he could circle around the far side of the checkout counter, using the clothing racks as cover, he could flank the hostile and take a clear shot.
The next closest rack was about five feet away. It was tall, displaying colorful maxi dresses with a connecting T-shaped shorter rack of cropped jean jackets.
He could make it.
He stifled his breathing, his pulse loud in his ears, and pushed into a crouch, gun at the low ready, finger nestled against the trigger guard.
He darted between the racks and paused again, assessing. One more rack—this one of button-up blouses—and he’d be even with the counter.
“What do you mean?” Dakota asked. “Who’s we?”
She was stalling. Smart girl.
“Blood Outlaws. Chapter of the Latin Kings. Thousands strong and growing by the day. Maybe you ain’t heard of us in your fancy digs, but you sure know us now. We’re taking over the city.”
“The city is burning,” Dakota said.
“Not most of it. Not here. We’re here to make sure everythin’ still standin’ stays that way.”
“The police—” Shay started.
“Are gone.” He laughed harshly. “Dead or fled, makes no difference. When the smoke clears, we’ll be the ones in control. And we’ll do a better job of running this city, too.”
Moving in a crouch, Logan dashed to the next rack. Several sleeves fluttered from his movement.
He held his breath and waited.
The hostile started to turn.
“What about the fallout?” Dakota said quickly. “There’s still radiation everywhere—”
“Man, that’s just the government lyin’ to us to keep us scared and out of the city. They don’t know nothin’. Ain’t nothing falling from the sky.”
Logan peeked around the side of the rack. The light from the storefront windows shone dim and grimy.
The beam of Dakota’s flashlight was angled up at the ceiling, but Logan could still make out the scene before him.
Five yards to his left, the hostile leaned against the white counter next to one of the cash registers.
He was a short and skinny Latino in his late teens, dressed in saggy, oversized shorts and a gray wife-beater tank top. Gang and prison tattoos sleeved both of his light brown arms. Greasy black hair stuck to his scalp and neck.
He gripped an M4 carbine low, with one hand, like Rambo in the movies—which meant he wasn’t well-trained and didn’t know the force of his own weapon.
But Dakota and the
others stood only fifteen feet away from him. The punk could still easily kill all three of them with a wild spray of gunfire.
“If I just let thieves go free, this fine city’ll descend into anarchy,” he continued. “Can’t let that happen.”
“I agree,” Julio said amiably. “Crime’s been a problem here for a while. And now without the police? It’ll be even worse. You’re a good man for willingly stepping into the gap.”
The thug sniffed. “Damn right. The Blood Outlaws make the rules now. We’re the ones gonna keep everythin’ going, you feel me?”
Logan watched as Dakota and Julio exchanged tense glances.
“We aren’t thieves,” Dakota said. “We didn’t take anything.”
“You’ve gotta pay a contribution toward the cause. It ain’t easy protecting this city from the criminal element.”
“We don’t have any—” Shay started.
Julio held up his hand, silencing her. “I’m sure you’re doing everything you can. It takes a lot to protect a city.”
Blood Outlaw nodded along with him, his knee juddering. “We’re working hard to restore order, here!”
“And we appreciate it,” Julio spoke in a placid, reassuring tone. “The fine citizens of Miami appreciate it.”
He just rolled his eyes. “Whatever, man.”
Julio was trying hard to talk him down by agreeing with him, sympathizing with his plight, no matter how far-fetched, the same way Logan had seen him do with aggressive drunks at the Beer Shack a hundred times.
But the thug was too keyed up.
“Empty your pockets,” he demanded with a thick, phlegmy cough. “Take that ring off. Yeah, I see it. Toss it on the counter.”
“Please,” Julio said, the first hint of fear entering his voice. “It’s my wedding ring. We’ve been married twenty-six years. It’s not worth much—”
“It’s gold; it’s worth somethin’. We’ve already hit every jewelry store in the city. We’re rolling in gold and diamonds. Gold’s the currency of the future.” Blood Outlaw waved the carbine at them. “Gold, pills, and bullets.”
“I have cash,” Dakota said quickly. “Let him keep the ring. I’ll give you five hundred bucks.”
“Cash ain’t good for nothin’ anymore. That advice, I’m givin’ to you for free. Take off the ring. Now.”
Julio rubbed his ring, hesitating.
“Just do it,” Dakota said.
For a second, she glanced over Blood Outlaw’s shoulder.
Logan knew she could see him there, hidden in the shadows behind the rack, but her gaze never landed on him. Her eyes gave nothing away. “Whatever he says, do it.”
“It’s just a thing,” Shay whispered. “It’s not her. It’s okay.”
Julio nodded and held up the ring. “I’ve got it right here. I’ll pay the tax. Take this in appreciation for everything you’ve done.”
Blood Outlaw scowled at him suspiciously, suspecting a trick.
Logan watched Julio step forward and place his wedding band gently on the counter. The Blood Outlaw snatched it up with his free hand and jammed it in his pocket.
Anger mingled with the buzzing in Logan’s blood.
In all the months he’d frequented the Beer Shack, Julio had been nothing but kind and polite. He always talked about his wife with fondness—one of the rare truly happily married.
Julio’s wife might already be dead. Even if she were alive, Julio had lost his livelihood, his home, probably most of his friends, his city.
He didn’t deserve to lose his wedding band, too.
It was wrong. And it pissed Logan off.
He’d known plenty of pissants like this guy in the old days. Just puffed up gangster wannabes.
The thug acted like he ruled the roost, but he was just a grunt assigned to keep an eye on a pathetic strip mall. Just a throwaway, a disposable foot soldier.
And not a very good one. He was arrogant and cocky. He didn’t respect the weapon he was waving around, hadn’t even bothered to learn the right stance, the correct grip.
And there was something wrong with him—in his sickly pallor, in the sluggish way he moved.
Logan just needed a moment. A second of inattention, an instant for the muzzle of that M4 to point away from the group.
Just one.
37
Logan
They’re not your responsibility. That voice, whispering inside Logan’s head again.
It’d be far easier to wait for whatever was going to happen to happen, then walk away with his booze and forget about this whole thing.
Maybe find a nice, cozy, empty mansion and curl up and die a slow death from radiation poisoning. Or he could set out alone, journey north and find his own way out of this mayhem.
He wasn’t even sure why he’d said yes to the waitress. He was better off on his own. It was safer for everyone; hadn’t he learned that the hard way?
But he already loathed this Blood Outlaw and everything he stood for. Preying on the weak when the city—the whole country—was on its knees.
Whenever anyone asked, Logan always insisted he didn’t believe in morals, in right and wrong.
He was lying.
As if Dakota could read his thoughts, she slowly tilted her raised hand until the flashlight beam no longer pointed at the ceiling, but a few yards to the right of the counter.
It lit up the area so clearly that Logan could see the gangster’s finger twitching on the trigger. The guy half-turned for a moment, coughing, and spat a sour-smelling liquid onto the floor.
Logan caught a glimpse of his profile: gaunt face, a pallid, yellowish tinge to his skin.
The thug had radiation sickness.
He was a dead man walking.
“We gave you what you asked for,” Shay said. “Can we please just go now?”
Blood Outlaw chuckled darkly. “Listen to this one. Damn girl, you’re funny. And fine. What’re you doin’ with these gringos? Come with me, and I’ll have you set up in a nice-ass mansion in Bay Point with an ocean view by tonight.”
Shay flinched. Her hands were still in the air, but she shrank in on herself. Gone were the cheery smile and bright eyes. She looked terrified.
In contrast, Dakota didn’t look so much frightened as furious. But her voice was deadly calm as she spoke. “We’ve given you what we’ve got. We’re not a threat. We’re leaving.”
“I know you don’t want to hurt anyone,” Julio added, still trying to placate the guy. “You’re a good guy, just doing what you have to. We’ve made our contribution. No reason to wear out our welcome.”
Blood Outlaw snorted. “I’ve gotta worry about me and mine now. Nobody else matters. You could go tell somebody what I got here. Or maybe I let you go, and you sneak around back and try and take us by surprise, steal from the brotherhood.”
He coughed and wiped his mouth, swaying a bit on his feet. “Or maybe you got uglier ideas in those fine li’l heads.”
He smiled lazily, half-turning, and swung the M4 in a slow arc, pointing first at Shay, then Julio, then Dakota. “I could sit here and kill each one of you, like target practice. Pow, pow, pow.”
Sweat trickled down his temple. Circles of sweat drenched the neck of his tank top and ringed his armpits. “Right? You feel me? There ain’t nobody to stop us now. No cops. No politicians. We’re the kings now. We make the rules. I make the rules.”
Logan shifted into a kneeling position, one knee up, and rested his elbows on his thighs to steady his arms. The booze made his head swim, but he forced himself to focus, sighting the back of the gangster’s head.
There were easier targets—his shoulder, his long, skinny back—but anything other than a kill shot would allow the thug to pull the trigger.
Blood Outlaw jerked his chin at Shay. “Come here, girl.”
Shay whimpered.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and spat. He swayed again, then straightened. Sweat dripped down the sides of his face.
“Mayb
e I’ll let y'all go out of the goodness of my heart,” he drawled, grinning. “But maybe we’ll have a little fun first. Just a kiss, girl, for payment. It’s a dangerous world out there without us to protect you.”
Shay didn’t move.
“Look, I know you’re a decent guy,” Julio said. “A real man. You don’t want to hurt a lady—”
“Shut up!” Blood Outlaw aimed the M4 at Shay. “I said, come here!”
Shay took an obedient step closer.
“Don’t,” Dakota said sharply.
Come on, come on. Logan just needed the guy to wave the carbine one more time, to angle it away from them.
Adrenaline shot through his veins. His senses sharpened. That familiar sense of power surged through him: life and death balanced in his hands. It was intoxicating, exhilarating.
Except his hands were trembling, ever so slightly.
The thrill was still there, that pulsing energy lighting up his synapses. But so was the dread, a screw turning tighter and tighter in his gut.
Sweat dripped down Logan’s forehead. His nerves were jangling, a buzzing in his blood.
You can’t take the shot, a voice whispered in his booze-soaked brain.
An image flashed through his mind—a child crying, a woman on her knees, begging, no, no, no, no…the gunshot blast, reverberating up his arm.
The tiny body falling, endlessly falling.
He blinked furiously, willing away the images, the nightmares. He had to focus, to think clearly.
This guy was a scumbag like all the others. How many had he beaten or shot? How many had he killed without guilt or conscience? A dozen? Two dozen?
None since that night.
The truth was, he enjoyed it. He’d derived pleasure and power from violence, right up until the end. That pleasure was tempting him again, thrumming through him in tandem with his heartbeat.
But the darkness was there, too. A swirling mass of nothingness sucking him in, beckoning to him.
If he fell, he’d never come back.