Less than ten minutes after the m******e, Marcus Vale drove up to the standalone second floor entrance. He saw with his own eyes the bodies of Grant Vale and Tiger, and the blood already frozen into ice crystals on the ground.
At the door, dozens of men stood on the steps, heads low, silent.
Marcus clenched fists, eyes bulging, roared at them. “Sebastian Crowe got three heads six arms? One man—and you let it turn to this?!”
Silence brief—then a middle-aged man who’d come with Tiger lifted head. “He came to die. Even if we arrived fast, pinned him—scene no better. Pushed too hard—lost reason…”
“Useless—all useless!” Marcus lost usual calm, pointed jumping rage. “All f**k off—you don’t deserve rice. All roll!”
…
Street.
Victor drove, blood all over, roared. “f**k your mother—you pure
