Chapter 6 - The Weight of a Trigger
Time seemed to fracture into razor-sharp, agonizing shards.
The enforcer raised his pistol, aiming directly at the narrow gap of the cellar door where Brutus’s heavy breathing could be heard.
Clara didn't think. Years of growing up on the rough docks, watching her father fight to protect their livelihood, superseded every survival instinct screaming at her to run. With a fierce cry, she lunged forward, slamming her heavy metal trash bag directly into the enforcer’s chest and driving her shoulder into his ribs.
The man grunted in surprise, stumbling backward on the icy gravel, his pistol discharging wildly into the frozen brick wall above her head with a dull pfft.
"Bitch!" the second enforcer roared, rushing forward to grab Clara by her coat collar and flinging her hard against the brick wall. The impact knocked the wind out of her lungs, stars bursting across her vision as she slid down onto the snow-covered pavement.
The scarred enforcer recovered his balance, coughing angrily as he leveled his pistol straight down at Clara’s face. "End of the line, sweetheart. Say hello to the fish."
His finger began to squeeze the trigger.
CRACK.
A deafening gunshot echoed off the narrow alley walls—but it didn't come from the enforcer’s gun.
The scarred man’s eyes widened in absolute shock. A clean, round hole appeared instantly through the center of his forehead. He dropped his weapon, his knees buckling beneath him, and he crashed face-first into the bloody snow.
The second enforcer whipped around, staring in horror toward the shadows of the cellar entrance.
Standing in the doorway, supporting his weight against the stone doorframe with one hand, was Roland Vance. He was stripped to a dark thermal undershirt, his face pale as chalk, sweat beading on his forehead from the agonizing strain. But in his right hand, he held a heavy-duty, stainless-steel .45 automatic pistol, smoke curling lazily from the barrel.
Roland didn't hesitate. He pulled the trigger a second time.
The second enforcer spun around and collapsed beside his partner, the alley falling instantly back into a heavy, terrifying silence broken only by the steady hiss of falling snow.
Clara sat frozen against the brick wall, gasping for air, clutching her bruised shoulder as she stared up at the mob boss who had just saved her life.
Roland lowered the gun, his breathing ragged and shallow, fresh blood beginning to seep through the white gauze bandage wrapped around his ribs. He dropped the pistol into the snow, staggered forward, and dropped to his knees right beside Clara.
"Are you... are you hit?" Roland rasped, his gray eyes searching her face with fierce, unmasked panic.
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Clara let out a shaky, half-hysterical laugh, shaking her head. "I... I think my pride hurts more than my shoulder. You... you just shot two men."
"They were Curtis's cleanup crew," Roland muttered, his jaw tight with cold fury. "Which means they knew this alley. And within ten minutes, a backup team will be here to sweep the bodies." He reached down, hooking his strong arm under Clara’s good shoulder, hauling her effortlessly to her feet. "We can't stay here anymore, Clara. The war has come to your door."
