From Bullets To Billions novel Chapter 121

Chapter 121: Call Me Sir!

Max spotted ten men pouring out from the back of the van, all dressed like Dud. Same boots, same jackets, same dead-eyed look. The only thing that set them apart? A small mark stitched onto the tops of their hats. Subtle, but definitely there.

I never paid much attention to military stuff, Max thought, squinting. But those have to be rank markings, right? Looks like they’re all wearing the same one, maybe that’s what a private wears? But this guy... he’s got something different. I don’t know exactly what it means, but I can tell he outranks the others.

But that wasn’t the only thing eating at Max. The word gang war kept looping in his brain like a siren that wouldn’t shut up. That term wasn’t just thrown around. Not even in street gang circles.

The problem with criminal groups? Most of them weren’t just little neighborhood squads. They were big. Organized. Spread out across different zones, different cities even, and this was the case for even Street Gangs.

The Pit was an exception. The Billion Bloodline had called on them for help, but that was a weird move. The Pit was known for being scrappy and small, obsessed with fighting more than territory. That wasn’t normal. Most gangs were bigger, more methodical.

So when someone said "war," they weren’t talking about a single blowout in a back alley. No. It meant constant, ruthless clashes with another crew that matched them in size and strength.

And it never ended in one night.

Wars like that hit everything, rival businesses, stash houses, clubs, bars, anywhere money flowed. Each side did whatever they could to cripple the other, step by bloody step.

There were only three ways it usually ended: one side got completely wiped out, the two bosses made a deal and called it off, or one gang absorbed the other. No matter how it finished, it always came at a cost. People got hurt. People got killed.

"Come out. You’re coming with us," Dud barked, like this was routine.

Max stepped out of the vehicle without flinching. "You think I’m gonna run?"

Dud chuckled, low and sarcastic. "Man, I don’t care. You high school kids always think you’re some kind of gangster. You’ve got no idea what the real thing looks like."

Max had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from rolling his eyes. This guy’s got no clue, he thought. I’ve already lived through worse than anything he’s talking about. I didn’t just survive it, I came out stronger. He’s talking tough to the wrong person.

"If you want to be part of this world," Dud said, not even looking back, "then you better start living it."

Max followed a few meters behind, keeping just enough distance to react if Dud tried something sketchy. But he noticed something weird, Dud didn’t seem to care about him. Not like he was a prisoner. Not like he was an asset, either. Just... there. Like Max didn’t matter.

When they reached the group, the ten men straightened up in a rough line and threw a small salute Dud’s way.

It was off.

Max had seen military salutes before, on TV, in real life, at a few parades and ceremonies. This wasn’t that. Some of the guys looked sharp, others were half-assing it. There was respect in it, yeah, but it didn’t have that clean, disciplined snap. More like a crew nodding to their boss, not soldiers answering to a commander.

Right, Max reminded himself. Dipter said this group, The Rejected Corps, was made up of people who’d been kicked out of their branches. Dishonorably discharged, forced out, whatever. No wonder they don’t act like standard military.

"Sorry I was a little late, boys," Dud said casually, like he hadn’t just walked out of a shady mission. "Had to take care of another important task."

"No sweat," one of the men replied. "If you’d been more than fifteen minutes late, we would’ve gone in ourselves."

"These guys are trickier than they look," another chimed in. "They’re brutal when it comes to tools."

"Damn right," a third one added, holding up a hand with a missing finger. "Last time, one of ’em chopped this clean off! So now I owe them, what, ten fingers back?"

The others laughed like it was a running joke. Out in the middle of the street. No shame, no effort to hide it. Just a bunch of half-mad ex-soldiers swapping stories about violence like it was stand-up comedy.

Even though it was late and they weren’t in a busy part of the city, people were still walking by, some glancing over, most minding their own business. But anyone who stared too long got a look back. Cold. Direct. Enough to make them think twice.

Rain glanced at the others. "Wait... does that mean we’re supposed to protect him?"