To Kill A Devil

Part 7

In a violent confrontation at a biker compound, Grayson Gatswana, previously thought dead, demonstrates supernatural abilities during an intense battle with the Devil's Sons gang.

Armed with a Hanzo .45 and katana, he decimated their ranks with lethal precision.

His most remarkable ability reveals itself during combat, the power to heal from lethal wounds, with bullets literally pushing themselves out of his flesh.

After a tense showdown with their leader, Deadeye Johnny, Grayson emerges victorious,

But Johnny refuses to reveal the location of the weapon called "Hatori".

Meanwhile, unknown to Grayson, government agents are monitoring the entire situation.

Their superior, Wilson, sees an opportunity…

If they can't find the Hatori, they'll force Grayson to make another one.

As the remaining Devil's Sons regroup deeper in the compound, Grayson arms himself with Johnny's weapons, preparing for what comes next...

The deeper Grayson moved into the compound, the quieter it became. The gunfire had fallen silent, leaving only echoes of dying men lingering in the bloodstained corridors. His boots struck the steel flooring, wet with fresh carnage. The air filled with gunpowder, sweat, and the metallic scent of spilled blood.

A low hum crackled through unseen speakers, the distortion of an ancient intercom system groaning to life. Then, a voice filled the corridor, deep and guttural, like gravel grinding beneath iron wheels.

"Took your damn time getting here, boy."

Grayson went still, scanning for the source. The voice carried amusement, but underneath lurked a predatory hunger.

"Gotta say, you made a mess of my boys. Can’t decide if I’m impressed… or pissed."

The sound echoed off the walls without a clear source, a calculated attempt at psychological warfare. He recognized the tactic from previous encounters with ruthless warlords who maintained control through intimidation, treating their followers as disposable pawns in their twisted games.

"You still walkin’? Good. I want you fresh when I put you down."

Grayson exhaled slowly, maintaining steady control of his pulse as he advanced through the compound. The corridors constricted around him, steel walls closing in to limit his mobility.

Rusted metal surfaces bore the scars of countless battles, their dented panels telling stories of brutality. Within these fortified walls, decades of violence had transformed a simple hideout into an impenetrable stronghold.

Takhar’s voice slithered through his mind, smooth, entertained. "Oh, this one’s different. He likes to play."

Grayson adjusted his grip on the shotgun he had taken from Johnny’s fallen men, the shells lining the barrel still intact. His revolvers were holstered, his katana strapped tight against his back.

The lights flickered out, plunging the corridor into complete darkness. Heavy boots thundered through the blackness. Before Grayson could fully turn, shadowy figures emerged from the void, lunging toward him.

The first brute swung a lead pipe, the wind from the blow whistling past Grayson’s head as he ducked. He fired the shotgun one-handed, point-blank into the man’s gut. The impact sent him flying backward, his body hitting the wall with a sickening crunch.

A massive figure charged from behind. Arms thick as tree trunks wrapped around Grayson's torso as the attacker slammed him to the ground. In one fluid motion, Grayson twisted during the fall, positioning the shotgun barrel beneath his assailant's chin and fired. The blast erupted, sending bone and brain matter spraying across the ceiling.

Before he could catch his breath, another opponent lunged forward. Grayson pivoted smoothly, wielding the shotgun as a makeshift club. The wooden stock connected with devastating force against the man's temple. As his enemy stumbled, disoriented, Grayson drew his blade in one swift motion and sliced cleanly through the exposed throat.

The narrow corridor left no room to maneuver. He flowed through the space with lethal grace, ducking beneath a swinging chain before driving his katana through another biker's ribs. Still they advanced.

A fist slammed into his ribs, followed by another. Hands locked around his throat, but Grayson twisted free, driving his elbow into his attacker's solar plexus. In that brief moment of vulnerability, a steel-wrapped fist emerged from the darkness.

The impact sent him crashing against the wall, driving the air from his lungs. He hit the ground and rolled, every instinct screaming at him to move through the searing pain.

Then he saw him.

A towering figure emerged from the far end of the corridor, stepping into the dim red glow of an emergency light. His arms were thick, wrapped in crude steel plating, fingers curled into massive fists that gleamed under the flickering light.

"Shit, boy," Jack drawled, rolling his massive shoulders, "thought you’d put up more of a fight."

Grayson coughed, tasting blood. His body screamed at him to stop, but he shoved the pain down. He forced himself to his feet, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.