Marcus

Click.

Click.

Pump.

Marcus finished chambering the shell, then set the shotgun in the passenger seat. He tightened his fists as he adjusted the straps of the vest. Excess shells slid into the holders lining his shoulders. Last, he screwed the suppressor onto the Glock, seated a magazine, and locked it into the holster.

He took a slow breath.

The sun dipped lower, moonlight creeping through the windshield. The parking lot was empty—too quiet. The silence rang with memories. Rebecca’s laugh. Cheap food spread across the hood after three-day work binges. This was the same place she’d told him she was pregnant.

She never told him who the father was. Probably embarrassed. She’d lived hard in her mid-twenties—parties, chaos, no brakes.

Marcus had planned to bring her son, Benja, here one day.

That wasn’t happening now.

He pulled out his phone and dialed. It rang twice.

“Hol—hold on, baby, one sec. Hello?”

“It’s me,” Marcus said. “You thought about our offer?”

“Our offer?” Holiday scoffed. “You’re still stuck on that? Look, what I did to Rebecca wasn’t personal. Well—maybe it was. But that’s not the point. Why don’t you come over, collect yourself, and get ready for a job. I need a bodyguard for a weapons trade in Vegas.”

“DAMN IT,” Marcus snapped. “Pay for the funeral. Say you’re sorry.”

“I knew it,” Holiday said. “You let personal shit get in the way. Under all that bravado, guns, and money—you’re just a motherfucker who couldn’t keep a cheap hoe alive. Whenever you’re ready to man up, swing by. Until then, stay the fuck away from me. I don’t want that shit rubbing off.”

Marcus went quiet.

“Alright,” he said. “Just one question.”

“What’s that, Marcus?”

“Do you believe there’s a God after this life?”

There was a pause. Then a laugh. “What kind of shit are you smoking?”

“Answer the question.”

“No,” Holiday said. “No God built this empire. I did.”

“Then I suggest you find one,” Marcus said calmly. “Because you’re gonna be standing in front of one real soon.”

He hung up.

The engine roared to life as Marcus turned the key. Tires screamed as he tore out of the parking lot—no music, no regard for traffic laws. Just rage.

The drive usually took twenty-five minutes.

Marcus made it in ten.

Red lights blurred past him.

He pulled up to Holiday’s house and saw the same guy from earlier clutching his eye, purple and swollen.

“Hey, motherfucker,” the man snapped. “Look what you did to my eye.”

Marcus grabbed the shotgun, slung it over his shoulder, and stepped out.

“I’m talking to you!”

Marcus didn’t respond.

He drew the Glock and fired twice. The man dropped before the sound finished echoing.

Marcus holstered the pistol, brought the shotgun up, and took cover beside the door. He exhaled once, then knocked—three heavy hits.

A few seconds passed.

A woman opened the door.

She noticed the body. Her mouth opened—

Marcus grabbed her by the throat and shoved his way inside.

One of Holiday’s men drew his gun.

Marcus released the woman, raised the shotgun, and pulled the trigger.

Blue fire and steel erupted from the barrel.

The man screamed as flames consumed him.

The house exploded into chaos.

Gunfire ripped through the room. Marcus dove behind a pillar as bullets shredded the walls.

“AHHH!” he roared, stepping back out and firing again.

Each blast spewed fire like a volcanic eruption. Bodies fell. Flames spread. Smoke filled the air.

Marcus kept moving.

“HOLIDAY!” he shouted, pushing toward the stairs.

He reached the bedroom door.

Gunshots punched through it, barely missing his head. Marcus slammed against the wall beside it.

“I asked for two simple things!” Marcus yelled. “It didn’t have to be like this!”

“WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU’RE TALKING TO!” Holiday screamed back. “I built this empire! You and that bitch were just pawns! You had one job—do what I say and watch the money roll in. Now look at you. One dead. One about to join her.”

Marcus kicked out of cover and blasted the door apart.

Holiday fired wildly as he ran for the window. Marcus fired back—

Click.

The shotgun went dry.

Marcus reached for his pistol—

Holiday jumped.

Marcus rushed the window and fired, the glass exploding outward. One round caught Holiday low in the back as he hit the ground and scrambled into his car.

Holiday peeled away.

Marcus didn’t hesitate.

The house was already burning as Marcus leapt through the window, hit the ground hard, and rolled. He jumped into the Mustang, engine screaming, and tore after him.