Devil Knives

 PROLOGUE

The night was young, an hour shy 10:00 PM. Those whose shifts had just ended, the odd bunch of students unluckily burdened with night classes, and insomniacs and partygoers alike flocked the business district to partake in the merriments it had to offer. Food stalls sprouted like mushrooms fresh after rainfall. In the classier parts of the strip, music was already playing; women dressed to radiate sex waited outside bars, getting ready for a long and loud night of work. When it came to entertainment, the Western bloc was king. Here you could find the loudest clubs, the coldest beer, and the prettiest ladies at the friendliest prices. Here, happy hour was whenever you wanted it to be. Throughout the years, the Western territories of Rose Lake had come to be known as ‘The Street That Never Sleeps’.

Bradley had come to the West with a pocket full of cash, an unbearable dryness in his throat and a raging hunger in his loins. “Rounds for me and my friends.” He laughed, slamming a fistful of bills on the counter. The bartender was a cheery fellow, barrel-chested, shaved head, standing at around six-foot-three. He had a full beard and tattoos, making him look more like a goon. The biker getup didn’t help improve his image, either.

“Someone’s looking a little extra happy tonight. What’s got you pumped?” the barkeep asked as he poured their drinks.

The young man smiled and raised his glass for a toast, his companions more than eager to echo his cheer. “Damn right I’m happy. Just got hired.”

“Really, now?” The bartender raised a bushy brow. “With a shit of an economy we got nowadays, you’re more than lucky to get a job. Here,” he poured another shot of vodka and slid the glass in Brad’s direction. “Congratulations. On the house.”

Brad was not one to refuse a free drink. The vodka had a good, sharp kick to it. First-class and sweet. Brad slip out a few more bills and called for another shot.

 Power. Finally, it was well within reach. Power, respect, fame. It begins. I’m finally a made man.

 The husky barkeep tipped his head. “So, where are you working? One of the factories? One of the restaurants down the street? “

 Bradley took his time answering. Such questions were often woven with traps. One wrong word, one slip of the tongue and it could very well mean the end of his career before it can even start. Worse, they’ll drive a shell up his skull first. “Nothing fancy, really.”

 The bartender was not satisfied with the answer. “Come on,” he said, grinning, “No need to be a stranger.”

 This is neutral ground, that’s what you mean. “Maintenance,” he lied. “Up North.”

 The barrel-chested barkeep nodded. Brad’s grin was enough to say that the shitty job title had a deeper meaning to it. The questions were a lot more honest and direct now. “So how did you trick Eric into letting you in? How did you convince him to get that stick out of his ass?”

 Aren’t you the curious bastard? he wanted to say, but the words were caught in his throat. It was a no-brainer that the Sasquatch of a proprietor had friends about. To attract unnecessary attention was unwise, especially when one was so far from home. Bradley tipped back his glass and afforded a snicker. “How else? The old-fashioned way, of course.”

 The old-fashioned way. Or simply put, at knifepoint. Northerners were famed for having the social graces of a walrus and the delicate touch of a sledgehammer. Nothing pleased Eric Grant more than a cocksure upstart who had more balls than sense. He tests new blood by pitting them against his very own elite security detail consisting of a dozen murderous thugs trained in various arts of killing. You had to fight your way through five minutes of pure violence, armed with nothing but your fists and your determination to survive. Lucky ones left with just a couple of bruises and broken bones. Most were often reduced to pulp. Brad was among those fortunate. They shattered his right arm and a couple of ribs, but in return he managed to kill two of Grant’s own. He crushed one’s windpipe and snapped the neck of another while fist and boot rained down on him. He spent five weeks in the hospital after that. On the day he was about to be discharged, Eric himself dropped by with a welcome party in tow, to pass the word that he, Bradley Westmont, was now a full-fledged gun of the Northern Hammers.