Bounty Hunter Watts Bloods Novels & Stories

Balls And waves of red hot fire and golden flames flew like raindrops, knocking its target. The patrols fought for their lives, slashing and trusting their spears and swords to the enemies. Bong and Bato were fighting back to back a black wolf but suddenly the grasses on their feet grew and wrapped them. They helplessly cut the grasses but they just keep growing. Seizing the opportunity, the wolf lunged at the both of them and bit their head off. Bato's perfectly round and shiny head rolled on the ground and was squashed to pulp by a Reaper. Rila stared in horror at her friends. She picked a dagger from her hips and threw it on the plant Badblood. The dagger sunk perfectly on the forehead.

Her mind was made up on Evan, she had washed her hands. Facing the fire, Hunter shouted Walutanga’s name. He had never been to the Chief’s house before but Walutanga had told him about the house and where his bedroom was. The fire was all over the place but Hunter stepped on it like nothing. He had a cloth on his face to prevent him from inhaling too much smoke. He knew he didn’t have much time and had to hurry before he passed out. He reached a door that seemed like Walutanga’s from what the boy had described to him before. He busted it open and was met with smoke. He heard a voice shouting for help. “Walutanga!” Hunter shouted.

Now the most expensive quarry in the shadow trade. Victor stood at the top of his tower. Hudson River below him, placid and indifferent. A glass of scotch in his hand—left to sweat, untouched. His mind dragged him back to that blood-soaked night. The night he’d been certain had burned every trace of his sin to ash. It turned out one thread had never caught fire. The phone barked. “Status?” “Twelve teams in motion. Boston, Philadelphia, Baltimore—all active. Every informant, every street rat. All hunting the Moretti girl.”

BLOOD AND VOWS --- CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO HIS FIRST KILL “A man doesn’t become a monster. He just finds out what was already in him.” He was thirteen the first time someone handed him a gun. It was a summer night in Palermo. The kind of heat that clings to the bones. Alessio Moretti stood in the back of a butcher shop that doubled as a safehouse, blood on the floors, sweat on his neck, the sound of meat hooks swinging faint in the dark. Don Salvatore was there. So was his father. And in the middle of the room, tied to a chair, was a man with a bag over his head and a bruise blooming around his eye.