Seventeen

Deep in the quiet of the mild December night, a fog came over the scene, conceiving a moment of awful foreboding as the hours slowly faded away. On a night like this one, months ago, Don could have lost his brother to a far more dangerous man than he thought he was. But now, in this cruel portion of the night, he had come one step closer to getting to the man that did this. He had made it to his fortress.

If he had found him here, in his hideout, his fortress, then he would have put a bullet through his heart.

Deep in the quiet of the night, Don entered his car once more, wincing from the damage on his shoulders and the pain on the back of his hand which he got from killing a few men in an insatiable rage, leaving them to chill in the embrace of the endless night.

The chaplain did this. These dead men were his and many more men would face the same fate if they would stand between vengeance. Don swore inside his seat that killing these men didn't make him a monster, at least not until