Total pages in book: 247
Estimated words: 248926 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1245(@200wpm)___ 996(@250wpm)___ 830(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 248926 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1245(@200wpm)___ 996(@250wpm)___ 830(@300wpm)
Up ahead, the sounds of war rang out. Men screamed. Guns blasted. Glass shattered. Metal crashed and boomed.
I made it to the top of the cliff.
Wassily rushed to my side.
We approached the house and then hurried into the back of the mansion.
Tons of men—mine and the Don’s—crowded a huge living room, shooting and fighting, spraying blood all over the plush white carpet and velvet gold couches. Bullets riddled the paintings on the walls.
With both guns in front of me, I stayed low and headed forward.
A dead man lay stuck between the top lid of a grand piano. His head was burst open, exposing a smashed brain.
The stench of smoke and death filled the air.
It was hard to pay attention to who was shooting at who. All I could do was remain alive.
The first Italian that headed for me, I blasted—two in the chest and one in the head.
A man screamed on my right in Russian.
I turned that way.
A bullet had struck him in the neck. Blood gushed out, and he fell to the ground.
Men bumped into me, either running past or trying to take cover.
Heading my way, a man screamed in Italian, “The Lion!”
I fired.
He crashed to the ground.
David hit my side. “Fucking Butler ruined the plan.”
“Where are the French now?”
“Up ahead with Maxwell.” David took the lead. “This way.”
We left the living room.
The hallway was a slaughterhouse. Bodies piled up on either side. Some were Brotherhood. The rest were the Don’s.
At the end of the hallway, a few Harlem Crew fought viciously against the Italians, grappling and stabbing.
David looked at Wassily. “Help them.”
Wassily headed their way, while we sprinted up the circular staircase.
Dead men littered the steps.
On the second level, we turned the corner and entered a large hallway.
An almost dead Italian soldier lay on his side beside a smashed vase. His breathing was shallow, and a thin line of blood trickled from his mouth. His glassy eyes stared at me, and I could see the horror of death in them.
We rushed forward.
Maxwell stood at the end of the hallway, peering into a doorway.
What is he doing?
We got to Maxwell.
I looked into the room that he had been staring at.
With a smile on his face, Jean-Pierre battled six men by himself, slicing and dicing. Dancing around one and slashing another’s throat. Sidestepping a punch and thrusting the bow’s point into a groin. Ducking under one blow and carving a razor-sharp line into a forehead. Slipping under one man’s lunge to chop his hand off. Weaving to the side, to take out the last one’s kneecaps.
“I would jump in.” Maxwell showed us his right arm. His sleeve was cut and a little blood trickled from his flesh. “But last time the motherfucker accidentally got me.”
I turned back to Jean-Pierre.
All six men now lay dead on the floor.
The Butcher wiped the blade on one of the corpse’s pants and then took a dramatic sweeping bow.
I scowled. “You could have simply shot them.”
“Where is the finesse in that?” Jean-Pierre placed the bow by his side.
One man that I thought was dead, stirred and tried to get up. Jean-Pierre looked his way and thrust the point of his bow into the man’s throat with such force that it hacked him open to his spine.
Maxwell chuckled. “I guess that’s why they call you the Butcher.”
Rolling my eyes, I headed away. “The Don is probably on the third level.”
Maxwell called back, “Must be. He wasn’t in his master bedroom. We already checked.”
I stormed back toward the circular staircase.
They followed.
King David loaded his gun. “And where pray tell is the idiot Butler who ruined my plan?”
Maxwell got to David’s right. “You sure you want to know the answer?”
David twisted his face in annoyance. “What is the idiot doing now?”
Jean-Pierre strolled behind us. “Being that we are all friends, I believe the name calling is unjust.”
David scowled at Maxwell. “Where is the Butler?”
“Motherfucker is still in the Don’s master suite.” Maxwell smirked. “Taking a shower.”
“Excuse me?” I turned and glared at Jean-Pierre. “Explain why the hell your cousin decided to wash during our fucking mission?”
“Apparently, he is dirty.”
“You have to admit.” Maxwell laughed. “Dude does have class.”
David growled, “I hope someone shoots his ass in the bathroom.”
We rounded the corner, hit the staircase, and raced up the steps.
The noise of war echoed off the walls and rocked the foundation—screams of agony and gunfire, booming and banging.
We hit the third floor.
“The Don likes his greenhouse.” I took the lead. “He always holds meetings in there.”
David rushed with me. “Due to the Butler alarming everyone, he might have escaped.”
“Hopefully not.” I increased my speed. “The Italians took out the fire on the roof, telling me that they might be trying to land a helicopter. He could think I have people outside of the village.”
“Well,” David smiled. “We do have men out there, waiting with guns.”