Inside the room, Channing Musk was panicking like an ant on a hot pan. He gripped a Smith & Wesson revolver, but his timid presence couldn't have contrasted more starkly with the gun's intimidating design.
At times he pointed the gun toward the door, at others he hesitated, contemplating suicide. Occasionally, he leaned against the window to look down—maybe he could escape by jumping. But from the fourth floor? He didn't dare.
He was nothing more than a puppet propped up by others. He had always thought of himself as strong, but only now did he realize just how weak he truly was.
Channing was terrified—truly terrified. So many of his men hadn't been able to stop those two men outside. Now they were coming for him. For a moment, he even considered calling the police, begging them for protection.
Just as he was frozen in indecision, the door was kicked open. The two harbingers of death walked in. Channing felt all the strength leave his body. Was this it? Was he going to die?
In that instant, his whole life flashed before his eyes. He'd drifted aimlessly until age sixteen, then aimlessly joined a gang. He lived his life like a leaf in the wind. He thought he'd just fade away that way, unnoticed. But then the Rogues had imploded. Their leader, Danny Tully, was arrested, and somehow, inexplicably, Channing had become his proxy.
He had once had some fire in him, but that had long since been dulled by a life of luxury. Just moments ago, he had tried to rally people to defend everything he now had—but they were all dead. Dozens of men couldn't stop two. Channing didn't understand it, but it didn't matter anymore. He was going to die.
Owen pressed the barrel of the Remington to Channing's forehead. He turned to Brock, who nodded. This was their final target.
"It wasn't me! It was all Danny! He made me do it! I was just a puppet! I don't want to die…"
Channing broke into tears as he spoke. Owen looked down at the man, now a sobbing, spineless heap. Not a flicker of sympathy appeared in his eyes. His voice was cold.
"I know you're a puppet. But you messed with my sister. And anyone who messes with my sister… must die."
Boom.
Channing Musk's life was snuffed out. His lifeless body crumpled to the floor.
Owen tossed aside his gun. After a full night of fighting, he was finally tired.
"One more to go…"
Brock knew Owen meant Danny Tully. He was the one truly responsible for all of this—but he was currently serving time in prison, so they couldn't get to him just yet.
"Leave Danny to me," Brock said firmly. This all started because of him. It was only right that he be the one to finish it.
"What are you going to do?" Owen asked, curious.
"Simple. I'll gather evidence to get his sentence reduced, maybe even overturn his conviction on appeal. Then, I'll personally pick him up when he's released."
Hearing Brock's calm words, Owen couldn't help but grin. He liked Brock's approach—no loose ends.
"Alright. He's all yours. But it's getting late. We need to get out of here."
The Rogues' headquarters had been decimated. All of its top brass were dead. It was clear that after today, the Rogues would cease to exist in New Orleans.
As for Brock, he would only admit to the operation at the ship repair yard. As for what happened at the Rogues' headquarters? He had nothing to do with it. Afterward, he made a few phone calls—mostly to other local gangs. Some of them were even longtime enemies of the Rogues.
While Owen and Brock had wiped out the Rogues' leadership and inner circle, the gang still had plenty of peripheral members who hadn't been present. Not to mention, the Rogues controlled territory, businesses, and—most importantly—drug operations. And criminals didn't stash their money in banks. That alone was enough to send rival gangs into a frenzy.
It wasn't hard to imagine what would happen after they left. Chaos. Turf wars. The other gangs might hesitate at first, but once they saw the Rogues' HQ had been reduced to a slaughterhouse, could they really resist? Too many wolves, too little meat. And in the world of gangs, there was no such thing as politeness.
During the night's operations, Owen and Brock had taken care to minimize traces of their involvement—gloves coated in adhesive, no direct witnesses. Even if some clues remained, they would be buried beneath the bloodbath to come.
By sunrise, the two of them returned to the small town of Revel. Owen went home. Brock powered on his phone—it had been off all night, otherwise his DEA superior would've blown it up with calls.
Sure enough, the moment it powered on, his boss called.
"Brock, where the hell have you been?"
DEA agents had arrived on-site shortly after local police secured the area in New Orleans. Brock had previously briefed his superior, but when they got there, Brock had already vanished.
"I'm not supposed to be seen there. Don't forget, I'm officially dead," Brock replied calmly.
The superior was briefly at a loss for words but quickly asked, "Did you have anything to do with what happened at the Rogues' HQ?"
He had just arrived in Revel when the New Orleans DEA informed him of intense conflict at the Rogues' compound—rumors suggested several gangs had joined forces in a coordinated strike.
The Rogues had always been a key target for the DEA. Even before the police got word, the DEA already knew what was happening. When the DEA and police units arrived, several gangs were in a chaotic gunfight with remaining Rogues. Then clashes broke out between those gangs and law enforcement. It became a full-on battle. All sides suffered casualties.
"What happened at the Rogues' HQ? I've been here in town with my daughter the whole time…" Brock feigned innocence.
The superior was suspicious, but given their relationship, he didn't press further.
"White Angels, Iron Cross, the Inked—all of them attacked the Rogues at once. Now it's a total mess."
"Maybe they caught wind of something," Brock offered, "and decided to strike while the HQ was unguarded. Or maybe… the bearded guy taking people out last night was all part of their plan to lure away the guards."
His superior fell silent for a moment. Brock's theory made sense. Still… when did gangs get so strategic? Then again, for turf and profit, there was nothing those guys wouldn't do.
…
Owen didn't know how Brock would handle things from here on out, nor did he care. Even if something leaked, his identity was enough to erase any problem. After all, he hadn't destroyed a "gang"—he'd taken down a drug factory. That made all the difference. A gang was low-level. A drug factory? That was a priority target.
As the morning sunlight spilled over the horizon, Owen appeared on the path outside his home. His mother and Amanda, who had been watching from the window, came running downstairs and embraced him with cheers.
Up on the veranda, lying in a lounge chair, McCall gave a small smile and casually shut off the alert on his tablet.
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