Revenge to the Alpha Mate novel Chapter 269

Chapter 269: 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?"

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