Lair of Killers Read Free

forty-seven toughs had answered with his formation. It gave him several men as back up to use during their operation.
    The nighttime air was cool and windy. Their black, v-necked, sleeveless shirts did little to protect from the chilly breeze that sprang up near the southern docks area of town. They covered their faces with black hoods, with little holes cut out for eyes, and their black pants completed their outfits.
    They looked like executioners ready for battle. The effect was frightening. They would hit every tavern in the city. Maybe not tonight, but at some point they would clear them all out, including Stern’s Place, the traitorous establishment that had rejected them. They would first tackle The Drunken Flagon. It was closer to where they were, and not only was it a rival to Stern’s but also less guarded. They needed a warm up first, since the toughs didn’t really do this type of thing.
    Jerrod led one group, making it fourteen strong. Another group stayed close by, ready to provide a distraction when the need arose, while the other stayed in reserve on lookout duty. The cops were nowhere to be found on the streets.
    And the slugs working the taverns would not understand what had hit them. They would be floored, thunderstruck so fast they would piss themselves before they could pull their swords.
    They held to the shadowy confines of the alleyways along the dockside off the edge of the southernmost pier. The moon hugged their backs as they rushed out from the dark towards The Drunken Flagon’s entrance. Outside the tavern, two prostitutes, one well-dressed merchant that looked out of place, and two drunk men argued with one of the whores.
    Jerrod and his men swept by like demons out of hell, and the bystanders gasped and stood back. One of the women screamed. He gripped his brass knuckles in his right hand, his favorite weapon for this type of job, and snarled at the merchant. The man blanched and put a hand to his mouth.
    Jerrod snickered and kicked the door open. They entered at a quick jog and while the crowd muttered, his thirteen toughs drew their swords and kept the crowd under control.
    Jerrod went straight for the bartender, a fattish man wearing an apron.
    “Give it up,” Jerrod said. “All of it. Now.”
    Everyone stared. Some spoke up, yelling in chorus.
    “What’s this?”
    “Hey, you can’t—”
    A tough slammed the last speaker in the gut with a stiff elbow, and the man doubled over, gasping for breath.
    “I won’t ask again,” Jerrod said.
    The tender rubbed his considerable belly and stuttered. “I-I-don’t know what- we don’t have anything.”
    Jerrod reached a long arm over the countertop, grabbed the man by the front of his shirt, and yanked him over the counter. He choked and tried to pry Jerrod’s left hand off his shirt, but Jerrod didn’t give him the chance as he drove his brass knuckles into his upper cheek and temple area with two sharp whacks that crushed the bone, caving in the side of his face.
    That was it. The man went limp. His brain smashed, and Jerrod let the corpse flop to the floor like a fish out of water. He glanced at one of the servers, a young girl, who stared at him as if he were the devil himself. Shock and terror mixed in her pretty features.
    “You next, sweetheart? Or do you wanna do what you’re told?”
    The girl froze solid, then wet herself as he stepped towards her. A wet spot of urine dripped down her leg to pool on the floor. She started to swoon as Jerrod stepped closer and grabbed her shirt to hold her up.
    “Yeah?” He raised his right fist. “That’s how you want it?”
    “Wait!”
    A man stepped forward from the crowd, eyeing a nearby tough that held a sword towards him. He looked like one of the house security men since he was dressed in similar fashion to a few others, with brown leggings and studded leather on their torsos. They had clubs strapped to their waists, pathetic weapons that did little but help control an unruly