Revenge to the Alpha Mate-Chapter 269

Brett’s Perspective

Bullets whined past my ears. One struck a rusted oil drum with a heavy *thump*, throwing up a shower of blinding sparks. A second shot cracked, then a third, ripping apart the night’s false quiet over the sprawling junkyard.

"Damn it! They’re shooting!" Scarface roared, instinctively dropping lower. These weren’t rubber bullets or tranquilizers. This was live ammo. The real, lethal kind.

The four of us—well, now effectively three—scrambled like startled rabbits, weaving a desperate zigzag between mounds of scrap, using every piece of junk as cover. But the pursuers clearly didn’t care if we were taken alive. The "dead" option seemed preferred.

Luka, already unsteady from his injured arm, was just ahead and to my left. After a shot that sounded too close, he grunted, his body jerking forward before he collapsed to one knee. His right hand clamped over the outside of his left thigh, blood immediately seeping between his fingers.

"Luka!" I skidded, trying to turn back.

Almost simultaneously, Scarface, ahead to the right, let out a choked cry of pain. His shoulder exploded in a puff of dark fabric and blood. The impact spun him sideways, and he crashed into the door of a wrecked car with a deafening *clang*.

"Goddamn... clean through..." Scarface gritted out, his face instantly paling. He didn’t go down, bracing himself against the car, his good hand pressing hard against the wound. Blood quickly soaked his fingers and ragged prison uniform. Not life-threatening? Maybe it missed artery and bone. But it sure as hell ruined any chance of running. Our sprint became a limping, dragging stumble.

Rat? I frantically scanned the darkness. His skinny frame was just ahead of Scarface. Seeing Luka and Scarface get hit, he didn’t even hesitate. If anything, it seemed to spur him on. He didn’t look back, putting on a desperate burst of speed toward the darker silhouette of what looked like an abandoned warehouse in the distance, leaving only a shrinking shadow behind him.

"Rat! Get back here and help!" I screamed at his retreating back, my voice raw with fury and despair in the lull between gunshots. "You son of a bitch! Come back!"

Rat didn’t turn. He ran faster, as if we weren’t the comrades he’d just torn through a grate with, but a plague that would drag him down.

The next instant, as if to underscore the cost of betrayal—or perhaps because the guards focused fire on his lone fleeing form—several more rapid shots rang out. The small running figure in the distance jerked violently, as if hit by an invisible sledgehammer. He pitched forward, tumbling a few times in the dirt before lying utterly still. Flashlight beams swept over, settling on his curled form.

No movement.

Rat was dead. Just like that. For a head start of a few seconds.

A torrent of conflicting emotions—fury, bleak sorrow, a chilling fear for my own fate—overwhelmed me.

"You bastards!!" I roared at the shooters with every ounce of my strength, hot tears stinging my eyes. I didn’t know if they were for Rat’s pathetic end or our own hopeless situation.

Luka tried to push himself up, but his wounded leg buckled. He grabbed my arm, his fingers icy, his voice unnervingly calm, almost resigned. "Brett... listen. You alone... you can still run. Forget us. Scarface and I... we’ll buy you a moment. Just a moment." His green eyes found mine in the dark. The fear was gone, replaced by a bottomless weariness and a plea. "Run. Live... tell anyone who knows me... what happened here."

"Bullshit!" I snapped, blood rushing to my head. "We all go down together or we all get out! I’m not leaving you!" The Moonlight Pack didn’t abandon its own. Not the ones I knew. My dad would break my legs himself if he knew I’d run and left injured comrades.

Scarface, leaning against the wrecked car and breathing hard, actually let out a bloody, pained laugh at my words. "Idiot... a naive... little idiot..." He coughed, flecks of blood spraying. "Now’s not... the time for... that crap... Just... go!"

The guards’ shouts and footsteps grew closer. Flashlights swept erratically. The dog’s barking started again—they’d confirmed Rat was dead and were refocusing on us. Scarface, with immense effort, used his good hand to pull a crude, sharpened metal shiv from his waistband. He glared at the approaching lights. "Come on then... you filth..."

At this moment of utter despair, a completely unfamiliar, low-pitched male voice with a strange accent suddenly spoke from my side—from deep within a shadowy pile of twisted rebar and tattered canvas.

"Hey. You three dying guys over there. Which one’s Brett? Brett of the Moonlight Pack?"

All three of us froze, every hair standing on end. Someone was here?! Had they been watching the whole time? Or... waiting in ambush?

Shock lasted half a second. Whoever he was, he knew my name and pack. Between the guards and this unknown "other," instinct made me gamble.

"That’s me!" I called out immediately, turning toward the voice but seeing only deep shadow. "I’m Brett! Who the hell are you?"

"Lucky," the voice muttered, then turned brisk and commanding. "Stay put. Get down!"

Before the words faded, rapid, staccato gunfire erupted from the shadows! Not the pistols the guards used. This was the sharper, more authoritative *crack* of an assault rifle on semi-auto. Shots ripped toward the guards’ flashlights and the source of the barking, instantly suppressing their fire. A short, sharp yelp cut off the loudest hound.

"Hell! They’ve got backup! Take cover!" a furious shout came from the guards. Their gunfire became scattered as they scrambled for cover, thrown by the sudden flanking attack.

We used the moment to scramble, crawl, and haul ourselves behind a stack of bald tires, momentarily out of the direct line of fire. My heart hammered. I stared at the shadows. A muzzle flash, another precise burst, and the nearest guard’s flashlight went dark.

"Your people?" Luka gasped, hope and deeper confusion warring on his face.

"I have no damn idea!" I hissed back.

The firefight intensified. The unknown shooter was clearly trained—accurate, using the terrain. One man with one rifle was temporarily holding off at least four or five guards. But the guards had numbers, and their fire began to saturate the area.

Then, a new sound: the roar of an engine, growing fast. Two blinding headlights, like the eyes of a beast, cut through the darkness. A modified, oversized dark pickup truck hurtled into the junkyard at shocking speed, plowing through scattered boards, executing a sharp slide that slammed it sideways between us and the guards’ line of fire, its body acting as a makeshift barricade.

The passenger window rolled down. Another assault rifle emerged and unleashed a suppressing burst toward the guards, forcing them to keep their heads down.

"Get in! Now!" a shout came from the driver’s seat, the same accent as before.

No time to hesitate! Luka and I gritted our teeth, hauling up Scarface, who was losing more blood and fading in and out. We dragged him with everything we had toward the pickup’s open bed. Luka’s leg was useless, so most of the weight was on me. My own wounds screamed, pain flashing white behind my eyes, the taste of blood in my mouth.

We’d barely gotten Scarface halfway in when the truck rocked. The windshield spider-webbed as a bullet struck it. The driver cursed but kept firing the truck-mounted weapon.

Somehow, the three of us tumbled into the cold, hard bed. The truck shot forward like a spooked animal, rear wheels spewing dirt and gravel.

"Hold on!" the driver yelled.

The truck bucked and swerved madly through the junk-strewn yard, trying to shake the pursuit. The guards had vehicles too; engine sounds closed in from behind, gunfire exchanged between the speeding cars.

I lay flat in the bed, wind roaring in my ears over the engine’s growl and the crackle of gunfire. Scarface lay beside me, breathing shallowly. Luka clung to the side rail, face ghostly pale. I looked toward the cab, seeing only the driver’s blurred head and the figure in the passenger seat, still firing back.

"Who are you people?!" I shouted toward the cab, my words torn away by the wind.

"Northern Sentinel Pack!" the passenger gunner yelled back over his shoulder. A hard-faced man with stubble and a scar near his temple, eyes sharp as a hawk’s. "Just happened to be in the area! Took a job to find you! You sure know how to make a scene, kid!"

*Northern Sentinel!* A pack! A wild surge of disbelief and hope hit me, but was instantly drowned by the more urgent reality—the pursuers were right on our tail.

"They’ve got cars! Gaining!" Luka shouted, pointing behind.

Two black SUVs were in close pursuit. Bullets pinged and sparked off the truck’s body and roll bars. The Northern Sentinel passenger kept returning fire, but the SUVs weaved, making them hard to shake.

"Give me a gun!" I yelled at the passenger.

The man glanced back at me, didn’t argue, fumbled at his feet, pulled out a pistol, checked the magazine, and tossed it into the bed. I grabbed it. Heavy. Cold metal. The familiar weight steadied my frayed nerves slightly. In the moonlight, I recognized it as a Glock.

I crawled to the tailgate, braced against the roll bar, and aimed at the headlights behind us. My hands shook. My arm was agony. My vision swam. I clenched my teeth, forcing myself to remember my dad’s lessons from the rare times he took me to the range—breathe, aim, lead...

*Bang! Bang!* I squeezed the trigger. The recoil jolted my wounds. Didn’t know if I hit anything, but it forced one SUV to swerve violently.

"Watch it!" the Northern Sentinel driver suddenly shouted.