Mason:Inked Reapers MC(142)

"Ready to do this?" Colin asked. There was no fear in his voice, only excitement. Hank nodded.



"I was born ready," he growled. There, on the darkened main street of Colridge, their fate would be decided.





Chapter 95



Miles slowed to rub his eyes. How long have they been driving? He'd lost  all concept of time and now his fuel gauge was hovering near the empty  line. He'd have to stop soon and rest. He just hoped that he'd managed  to drive far enough to outrun his past. Brea was slumped against him and  he wondered if she'd fallen asleep. He hoped so, at least if she was  resting she was being released from the grief she felt over her brother  leaving.



Scanning the road ahead, Miles spotted at the neon sign for a motel; the  vacancy sign was lit. He started to slow the bike and veer away from  the highway. The streets of Colridge were probably already bathed in  blood. He was thankful that he'd finally found something to take him  away from that life, something to give his life meaning. He owed Brea  everything.





Chapter 96



Sylar liked how the engine of his motorcycle trembled thunderously  between his legs as he rode. It made him feel powerful. And with the  wind in his hair, it made him feel wild and free. Infinite.



Zooming up the highway, he tried not to think about what had just  happened with Brea. He had no choice but to walk away from her. But he  knew he'd forever be haunted by the pained look she'd given him as he  possibly walked away from her for the last time. But how could she  expect him to give up everything for her? He owed the Blood Pact his  loyalty, how could Brea not understand that?



As his frustration mounted, Sylar drove faster. He bobbed in between the  lines of traffic, desperate to reach Colridge before it was too late.  Smith was always close by, keeping pace. No matter how fast Sylar went,  how much he pushed the limits of his bike and of himself, he knew that  Smith would always be by his side. Loyal to the end. He was his family,  his brother.



With a loud screech, Sylar pulled hard on the breaks. The putrid stench  of burnt rubber filled the air. Smith stopped beside him a few seconds  later, breaking just as abruptly. The two men were perched on their  bikes and looking down at Colridge's main street and the carnage  unfolding within it.



"Jesus," Smith breathed while Sylar remained silent. He could only stare at the apocalyptic scene which greeted them.



The street was slick with freshly spilled blood. Countless men were  engaged in hand to hand combat. Even from a distance, Sylar could hear  the sickening squelch of a blade being thrust into someone's gut. The  air was heavy with the coppery smell of blood and death. It reached up  towards Sylar and Smith desperate to entangle them in its fatal embrace.



Smith dropped off his bike and retrieved his crowbar.



"I guess we'd better get into it," he said solemnly.



"Can we even tell who we should be fighting?" Sylar looked down at the  writhing mass of men engaged in battle. It was impossible to distinguish  friend from foe. Everyone was drenched in either their own blood or a  stranger's. The emblems on their jackets, they so proudly wore, had been  obscured beyond recognition.



"Does it even matter anymore?" Smith held his friend in a level gaze.



"People are dying down there." Sylar could see the fallen, scattered  along the street. Left down there to rot like an unwanted piece of  garbage.



"War is never pretty."



Sylar sighed and looked skyward. Above him, the stars in the sky  sparkled like unobtainable jewels. If Brea could see him now, she'd tell  him to run, to turn away from the gruesome fight and never look back.



"As a kid I used to wonder if my parents were up there," Sylar was still gazing up at the stars.                       
       
           



       



"Watching over you?"



"Yeah," Sylar gave a sad smile. "I imagined them looking down at me,  watching what I did. And you know what?" he lowered his head to lock  eyes with his friend.



"What?" Smith prompted.



"I'm pretty sure they'd be bitterly disappointed in me."



"No," Smith his head, his voice thick with certainty. "They wouldn't."



"Wanna bet?" Sylar raised his eyebrows. He knew that he was far from a perfect son and now, was far from a perfect brother.



"Maybe you did some things you're not proud of, but it always came from a good place."



"Mmm."



"Your sister is going to go on and have a better life, because of you."



Sylar felt his heart tighten in his chest. Where was Brea now? She was  probably driving down some dark road moving further and further away  from him. Would he ever see her again?



"If you want to walk away from this, tell me now," Smith turned his back  completely on the fight to stare at Sylar. His crowbar was now lowered  at his side, no longer being brandished as a weapon.



"We can't walk away," Sylar sighed. This was their battle. It was here  on the streets of Colridge that their fate was supposed to be decided.



"We can," Smith ventured softly. "We can get on our bikes and ride north until we hit the border."



"And what then?" Sylar demanded tersely. "We spend the rest of our lives looking over our shoulder?"



Smith pursed his lips and jerked his head towards the gang members still  standing and fighting. It was gruesome. Men squealed like pigs as their  limbs were severed by crude weapons. Whoever did come out as the victor  would surely be gravely wounded. There was no longer a victory to be  had. It was now just about survival.



"I think whoever walks away from this fight will have better things to do than come after a couple of fugitives."



Sylar couldn't understand how his friend was having such a change of  heart. Had the terrifying scene beneath them terrified Smith as much as  it had Sylar?



"I thought the pack meant everything to you," Sylar challenged.



"It does," Smith confirmed. "But so do you."



There was a heavy pause between them. Slowly filling up with thoughts unsaid.



"You've been my best friend for a long time," Smith continued. "And that  friendship, Sylar, it means something to me, it's the most tangible  thing in my life right now. How fucked up is that? Regardless, if you  tell me you want to fight, I'll walk down there with you, in all  likelihood to our deaths. But we'll be dying as we lived, side by side.  If you tell me you want to walk away, then we'll do that side by side  too. I'm loyal to you over the pack, Sylar."



Sylar was speechless. He'd always assumed that the pack mattered most.  The desire to walk away was almost too delectable to ignore. They could  assume new identities, new lives.



"We can't run away." But the reality was that they were men with  violence hard wired in their DNA. Wherever they went, trouble would  follow. They were Blood Pact through and through.



Smith tightened his grip on his crowbar and raised it menacingly. "Well, then let's do this."



"We can't fight either," Sylar added. He watched his friend's face  contort with confusion. "It's suicide to fight in that." He looked down  at the street where fewer men were still standing. There was so much  blood, so many anguished screams bleeding out into the night, being  ignored. Even angels would fear to tread down the main street tonight.



"Then what do you suggest we do?"



"We claim the Blood Pact as our own," an idea was starting to formulate  in Sylar's mind. "We return to the bar and await the return of those who  survive."



"They'll hate us for not fighting!" Smith insisted, his face reddening with worry.



"Not if we say we were against it all along. That we always knew it  would be a blood bath. We chose to forsake the fight in order to ensure  the future of the Blood Pact. No one from that fight will be in a fit  state to oppose us."



Sylar could see the wilted stance of all those who still stood. They  reached for wounds that wouldn't cease bleeding, as they half-heartedly  fought the next man in their wake. No one was going to chastise Sylar  and Smith, not when they were the strong ones who still had some fight  left in them.



"You're saying we take on leadership of the Blood Pact?" Smith cocked  his head to one side, weighing up the proposal. "Together?"                       
       
           



       



"Exactly," Sylar nodded and flashed his friend a grin. "We lead the Blood Pact into a new era. Side by side."



"We could still walk away," Smith ventured. "We get on our bikes and just drive until dawn."