Page 3 of Truck Stop Tempest

In my world, it was kill or be killed. I’d never been ready to die, and lucky me, there had always been someone ready, although never willing, to take my place. Death wasn’t biased. A soul was a soul, regardless of race, religion, or guilt.

As the old home above me crumbled, the acrid burn of paint and treated wood, old furniture, and flesh seared my nostrils. I choked on the metallic tang of blood and strained to see across the room through the sting in my eyes. I wondered if Lady Death was pleased that, for the first time, I had no alternative soul to offer.

Voltolini’s enemies would escape. I would not. I had led the Marcovic Cartel to the safe house. I deserved to die.

And so, I closed my eyes, conceding. Tapping out. My only request, that Death draw out my final moments, allow me to feel and suffer every agonizing detail of my final breaths, to hurt until my black heart thumped a final beat.

Lady Death heard me. The ceiling tore open, dropping heavy chunks of fire on my head. Death heard me. And she was more than happy to oblige my wishes.

All was going according to plan until someone tugged at my feet.

From across the room, a thick, hoarse voice commanded, “Get him out of here.”

More tugging. A hand lay across my chest. Heavy breaths blew in my ear. “Protect Aida, son. Take care of my princess. Then make them pay.”