They weren’t as many as they were before, but they were mean and brutal- trained and experienced killers, all of them. They’re armed to the teeth, and they’re out for blood. They were also already dead, and they knew it, so they had nothing to lose and no reason to hold back. Ken also knew all of this, and he appreciated these facts as he skirted around the woods surrounding the cabin to get an opening.
He found one on the corner, where those inside couldn’t see and where those outside were on the far end of their perimeter patrols, and ran for the cabin. Within moments, men hidden outside the cabin sounded the alarm; the patrols came running and opening fire upon him. Ken returned fire, and everyone took cover. Ken caught two of them out of cover, dropped them both with the Mozambique Drill—two to the chest, one to the head, each—and hauled ass for a new position. As he ran, he took out another with a fluke shot that caught the gangster’s throat.
Now a pair of SUVs rolled up, with windows down and those inside firing upon him. Ken again took cover and fired back, killing the drivers and causing them to pile up. Bikers following behind tried to swerve wide, only to be caught by gunfire and shot down. More men poured out of the cabin to go after Ken, but Ken rushed them and cut them down with knife work before they could draw down upon him. By then the surviving men in the SUVs and amongst the bikers got to their feet, so Ken took up a dead man’s rifle and shot them down.
Bursting into the cabin, he killed another man by throwing his knife into the man’s forehead, took the shotgun in his hands and then cleared the ground floor and the basement of the handful of men. Alas, this meant shooting a man carrying incendiaries, which started a fire. Without delay, Ken ran upstairs to the top floor where the girl—and the last man—would be. With the shotgun run dry, all Ken had left was an old revolver he took on the firebug. Ready to die, he drew down on where in that room he expected the man to be.
Instead, he found the little girl shaking and the man dead—shot multiple times in the groin by his own gun—as she tried to keep the pistol pointed at the corpse. Fortunately, she recognized Ken; she dropped her gun, Ken stowed his and they went outside. Ken grabbed a pad of paper and something to write with, and together on the stoop he began writing.
The Hell’s Angels were no more. The Zetas were soon to follow. The Syndicate disappeared. The girl, after burying her family, went to live with Reginald’s parents. As for Ken, he got a call. Guiscard needed a favor done in Europe, and figured that Ken would want a change of venue. Ken flew out, flying directly to France, that night.