Read Online Evan Arden 05 Irrevocable by Shay Savage - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Shay Savage
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goal—my targets—I don’t give a shit about traffic laws.
There’s a crappy little bar where Marcello and his group all hang out on weekdays—the whole lot of them. They do their business there, terrorize the neighborhood in general, and usually end up killing at least one of their own every month.
How they flourished so quickly in my absence is beyond me. I’m not sure I completely believe Beni’s assessment that they became so bold when they discovered I was no longer in Chicago. I’d been gone before. Something or someone has to be driving them up north.
I’ll think about that later.
Pulling into the alley next to the door of the small, run-down bar, I let the engine roar once more before I turn it off. I’m not going for stealth here. Reaching over to the floor of the passenger seat, I grab my assault rifle and step out onto the pavement. A bunch of graffiti defaces the side of the building, depicting various gang symbols and a bunch of names in stylized letters. Everything is orange and black as if Halloween never ended.
Overconfidence should be a synonym for stupidity. They don’t even have anyone standing at the door. It wouldn’t have mattered, but I had at least expected it. This is too easy, and it puts me on guard.
It’s a few minutes past nine in the evening when I silently open the door and step inside. There’s rap music playing, but it’s surprisingly subdued. There’s a woman cleaning up spilled beer on the countertop, and two more chicks in orange miniskirts are sitting at the bar, yakking away.
Marcello and eight members of his group are at the far side of the room near the end of the bar. Marcello is divvying out cash, and everyone is focused on him. They don’t even look up as the door opens.
Everyone in the place seems to be an associate of Marcello’s though it doesn’t really matter to me. I’m not here for a single kill. I’m here to send a fucking message.
There’s only one guy on the other side of the room who makes eye contact with me. His eyes are bright in contrast to the black bandana tied around his head. I watch his mouth drop open as I swing the AR up to my shoulder.
Shots ring out, and people start scrambling. I swing the weapon from side to side. Blood splatters across walls and tables, and screaming competes with the sound of the gunfire. Bodies fall. Those that don’t, I target. The two women who had been gossiping at the bar fall to the floor, arms flailing amidst a heap of chairs. A few more blasts and they are still.
Turning to my left, I blast holes in the bottles across the back of the bar. The bartender must be hiding behind the counter because I don’t see her anymore. I blow holes in the wood until I hear another scream.
The blasts leave me partially deaf, but I keep shooting. I walk up to the near end of the bar and back around, finishing off the bartender. There’s a guy who has managed to sneak back there with her, and I step over her body to get to him. He’s half buried by the bartender and has multiple wounds in his legs but nothing life-threatening.
I decide to go the tactical route. It might save me a return trip later.
“You know who I am?” I ask the guy on the floor. I recognize his face from Jonathan’s research, but I can’t remember his actual name, only that he goes by Harpy.
“Fuck you!” he screams at me.
I point the AR at his groin and pull back on the trigger. He writhes on the floor, screaming and cussing.
“Let’s try this again,” I say. “Do you know who I am?”
“Yeah.” Harpy’s voice is just a little mouse-squeak.
“Say my name.”
“Ar-ar-Arden,” he says. “Evan Arden.”
“You ever going to forget it?”
“N-n-no!”
“There was a deal made a long time ago. You were probably still trying to figure out what your dick was for at the time, but you might remember something about it.”
He’s starting to convulse a
There’s a crappy little bar where Marcello and his group all hang out on weekdays—the whole lot of them. They do their business there, terrorize the neighborhood in general, and usually end up killing at least one of their own every month.
How they flourished so quickly in my absence is beyond me. I’m not sure I completely believe Beni’s assessment that they became so bold when they discovered I was no longer in Chicago. I’d been gone before. Something or someone has to be driving them up north.
I’ll think about that later.
Pulling into the alley next to the door of the small, run-down bar, I let the engine roar once more before I turn it off. I’m not going for stealth here. Reaching over to the floor of the passenger seat, I grab my assault rifle and step out onto the pavement. A bunch of graffiti defaces the side of the building, depicting various gang symbols and a bunch of names in stylized letters. Everything is orange and black as if Halloween never ended.
Overconfidence should be a synonym for stupidity. They don’t even have anyone standing at the door. It wouldn’t have mattered, but I had at least expected it. This is too easy, and it puts me on guard.
It’s a few minutes past nine in the evening when I silently open the door and step inside. There’s rap music playing, but it’s surprisingly subdued. There’s a woman cleaning up spilled beer on the countertop, and two more chicks in orange miniskirts are sitting at the bar, yakking away.
Marcello and eight members of his group are at the far side of the room near the end of the bar. Marcello is divvying out cash, and everyone is focused on him. They don’t even look up as the door opens.
Everyone in the place seems to be an associate of Marcello’s though it doesn’t really matter to me. I’m not here for a single kill. I’m here to send a fucking message.
There’s only one guy on the other side of the room who makes eye contact with me. His eyes are bright in contrast to the black bandana tied around his head. I watch his mouth drop open as I swing the AR up to my shoulder.
Shots ring out, and people start scrambling. I swing the weapon from side to side. Blood splatters across walls and tables, and screaming competes with the sound of the gunfire. Bodies fall. Those that don’t, I target. The two women who had been gossiping at the bar fall to the floor, arms flailing amidst a heap of chairs. A few more blasts and they are still.
Turning to my left, I blast holes in the bottles across the back of the bar. The bartender must be hiding behind the counter because I don’t see her anymore. I blow holes in the wood until I hear another scream.
The blasts leave me partially deaf, but I keep shooting. I walk up to the near end of the bar and back around, finishing off the bartender. There’s a guy who has managed to sneak back there with her, and I step over her body to get to him. He’s half buried by the bartender and has multiple wounds in his legs but nothing life-threatening.
I decide to go the tactical route. It might save me a return trip later.
“You know who I am?” I ask the guy on the floor. I recognize his face from Jonathan’s research, but I can’t remember his actual name, only that he goes by Harpy.
“Fuck you!” he screams at me.
I point the AR at his groin and pull back on the trigger. He writhes on the floor, screaming and cussing.
“Let’s try this again,” I say. “Do you know who I am?”
“Yeah.” Harpy’s voice is just a little mouse-squeak.
“Say my name.”
“Ar-ar-Arden,” he says. “Evan Arden.”
“You ever going to forget it?”
“N-n-no!”
“There was a deal made a long time ago. You were probably still trying to figure out what your dick was for at the time, but you might remember something about it.”
He’s starting to convulse a
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