Chapter 73 – Funeral for the Fallen
Liam
We get dressed in silence, the weight of what’s coming pressing against our chests like an anchor. Today, we bury our brother. Today, we set the stage for the next move. And when the dirt settles, we’ll split up — ghosts in the city, bait in a trap — playing Killian at his own game.
My thoughts spin faster than the wheels under us. My brother. My kitten. Everything we’ve lost.
Grief isn’t new to me; it’s an old companion.
Lilly. Gregory. John. The men who followed us into battle and never came back.
Each one carved a hollow inside me, a place I keep locked away so I can keep moving. But today, the hollows ache.
No matter how much death surrounds us, I know one truth: Killian’s reign will end. And when it does, we’ll rebuild the city from its ashes. Better. Stronger. Ours.
We pull into the graveyard — our family ground. The same place we buried Lilly. The same place Gregory’s name still sits on cold stone. Today, another joins them.
The old man is already there, standing beside John’s casket, his frail body trembling under the weight of his cane. His suit hangs loose — black, long, a shadow of mourning. John’s casket is red, trimmed in black — a warrior’s farewell. Inside, he looks peaceful. Still. Lifeless.
I bend down, staring at him, and the tears well before I can stop them.
“I’m sorry, brother. I’m sorry I failed you.”
My voice cracks, the words hanging heavy between us. It was my job to protect them — all of them. And I failed.
One by one, my brothers step forward — all but Thomas — to say their goodbyes.
Ricky leans in, voice low, rough around the edges.
“You just had to be dramatic and go first, huh? Always did love a grand exit.”
I swallow hard, my throat burning, as Clause and Reggy follow suit. We each lay a piece of ourselves in that coffin — a memory, a promise, a vengeance yet to come.
The old man begins the service, voice trembling but strong.
“We gather here today to say goodbye to John. Our brother. Our son. Our child.”
I nod at Reggy. He flips his phone open, fingers flying over the keys — a silent signal.
Our location, now visible to Killian’s men. The bait has been cast.
“John lived a warrior’s life,” the old man continues. “Loyal to his brothers, fearless in his fight, steadfast in his heart. He will be missed, and he will be honored.”
Reggy’s eyes gloss with tears. For a heartbeat, we’re not soldiers. We’re not killers.
We’re just men mourning a brother.
Then — the roar of engines.
Cars flood the lot.
I stay still, calm, collected — the storm beneath my skin locked in place. The old man keeps speaking, his words cracking like glass as the first shots ring out.
Clause and Ricky move — silent and sharp — stepping just far enough to fire.
Bullets tear through the graveyard. The air fills with smoke, with screams.
Reggy drags me down behind a tombstone, stone shattering under impact.
I peek over, fire back — deliberate, precise. We don’t want to win. Not yet. We want them close. We want them confident.
Clause leaps over the casket, knife flashing through the air — a streak of silver death. It plunges into a man’s chest, blood spraying across the marble. He collapses, eyes wide, a gurgle caught in his throat.
The others scream, enraged, unleashing a hail of bullets.
Ricky and I fire back, our aim wide — herding them, feeding the illusion.
I catch sight of Clause and Ricky slipping toward the car parked in the grass. They run, shoot, slide into the seats, and peel out. Their tires kick dirt into the air as they go.
I return fire, covering their exit. Two more men drop.
Reggy tosses a smoke bomb — a thick gray cloud swallowing the field.
“Move!”
We sprint to the old man. I grab him by the shoulders and haul him toward the car.
Reggy covers us, but a shot tears through his arm. He grunts, spinning, and I fire back — my bullet finding the shooter’s skull. Blood sprays across the tombstones.
I shove the old man into the backseat.
“Get in! Now!”
I slide into the driver’s seat, slam the door, engine roaring.
Gunfire shatters the air. Bullets ricochet off the reinforced glass.
Reggy clutches his arm, teeth gritted, blood soaking his sleeve.
Three cars tail us, one crashing in the chaos behind.
“Hold the wheel!”
He grabs it, steadying us as I lean out the window, returning fire.
One bullet finds its mark — a tire explodes.
The car flips, rolling end over end before crashing in front of us.
Reggy jerks the wheel — we swerve into oncoming traffic, horns blaring.
I seize control, dodging cars by inches, cutting sharp into a side street. Tires screech. Smoke trails us.
Reggy’s breathing ragged, his arm slick with red.
“Old man!” I bark. “Get up here and wrap it before he bleeds out!”
The elder clambers forward, steady hands working a makeshift tourniquet — his belt pulled tight around Reggy’s arm.
In the rearview mirror, I watch the last car’s tire burst — one final shot, one final crash. Flames bloom behind us like the fires of hell themselves.
My hands tighten on the wheel. My heart pounds in my chest.
We live another day. But war has already begun.