The Man From Blackwater Red Dead Redemption Novels & Stories

It was likely just a code name he used to keep his real identity a secret, since he dealt in criminal activity. “We’re all set,” Red said into the phone, his voice deep and husky. It hadn’t been easy to find a man like Red. I’d had to track him down on the black market. And he scared me a bit. When we met, I’d recoiled. He was a large, imposing man, covered in dark tattoos with two gold teeth. He was clearly no stranger to physical violence, and I shuddered to think what he was actually capable of. He’d smirked when I told him what I needed him to do, thrusting over an envelope full of cash.

Somewhere, a screen door whined on rusted hinges, slapping rhythmically against a frame bloated with rot. A man bursts out of the house, screen door slamming behind him. He’s a mountain of a man with a salt-and-pepper beard and wearing a leather jacket similar to the other two. Clutching my duffel bag in one hand and a .44 Magnum in the other, barrel still smoking. The *Lou Nwa* (Black Wolves) patch—a snarling wolf with flaming fleur de lis for eyes—marked him as a crew even the bayou’s ghosts feared. His Dyna Glide hog idled at the curb, handlebars wrapped in gator hide, tooth-studded grips flecked with dried reptilian blood. Swamp mud crusted the fenders like concrete, embedded with crawfi

I pulled over and then I opened the video. The world stopped. Damian Blackwood hung from the ceiling, his wrists bound above his head, his shirt torn and soaked with blood. His face, Jesus Christ, his face was swollen, split, unrecognisable in places. Bruises layered over bruises, his dried blood at his mouth, and one eye barely open. I didn’t care about him, not really, but what came next made my blood turn to ice. A man stepped into frame. Tall, calm, and smiling. I knew that face. I had memorised it in nightmares.

"If I can get in contact with the thing...maybe it'll guide me. The captain ain't helpin' and Lord knows that kid ain't goin' to go anything but make it worse. If his blood will free us or lift the curse then so be it." He threw the rolled-up cigarette into the sand, grinding it deep with his heel. The ash burned at the hard skin of his bare feet but the pain barely touched him. "Get over here!" He called out to two men returning from the wooded glades. Blood of a small animal stained their shirt and sweat blended in an unpleasant oil painting on their skin. Blake didn't want to know what they had been doing. Having been around the slums of the docks and seen what went on behind the closed d

Honestly, between getting caught by him again or being dragged away by these rogue wolves, I’d take the latter. Suddenly, Ryder reached out his hand toward me. "We haven’t introduced ourselves yet. I’m Ryder Black!" I didn’t shake his hand, just stared at it coldly. "Ryder? What are you, a motorcyclist or something? Oh wait, I know—you’re a bandit!"

My instincts told me outrunning the truck wouldn’t be possible so I stopped walking, then a man came out of the car. He was a tall, rugged man with black hair and red eyes, the telltale sign of a member of the Blood Fang pack, he wore a black tank top that exposed his sleeve tattoos- one arm had a wolf curling around his bicep while the other arm had thorns with a single flower that disappeared into his shoulder. “You going somewhere little one?” His voice was deep and could only be what I could call scary.

Using the butt of my gun I land a couple hard hits to the back of his head knocking him out cold. Well, this is going to be a long night. Looking down I see the thick blood trickling down my fingers from the bullet wound in my arm. Fucking hell. I really liked this jacket and worse, I’m leaving my own blood behind. What a mess. I tuck Crimson back into my ankle holster and tuck my gun in the back of my pants next to the other gun and focus on the task at hand. I pull Lowell out of sight and then drag the hitman’s body behind a dumpster as I tune out the sounds of blood gurgling and spluttering out of the cut in his neck. Now I just need to go get my car.

The freezing air stung my cheeks, but the anger burning in my chest kept me moving. A low, deep rumble rattled the wet asphalt behind me. Twin beams of blinding halogen light cut through the black fog, pinning me in their glare. A massive, matte-black Blackwood Range Rover glided to a halt at the edge of the abandoned road. Its armored plating and heavy tinted glass made it look like a crouching predator waiting in the rain. The front door opened, and a broad-shouldered man in a heavy tactical vest stepped out into the storm. Edwin Clarke, the legendary enforcer of the Ravenscroft Citadel, stood under the downpour, his sharp eyes evaluating my soaked frame.

He was the only one that was wearing black, other in that room and those at the door from the restaurant were wearing pure white uniforms. The man was their boss and his name was BLACK MAN. He was a notorious adding criminal in US and it was only Buniyaminu's stepmother that he was working for but also uses to work as an hire assassin for other people and doing this for people not know that she was the one that he was working for.

​The man in black reappeared near the edge of the marshes and he looked at the approaching unit of trackers and then back at me with a frustrated scowl, and he realized that the odds were no longer in his favor even if I was wounded and bleeding out in the mud. ​"This isn't over and I'll be seeing both of you again very soon because the Drakes don't like to lose and I always finish my contracts one way or another," he shouted while he stepped back into a deep patch of shadow and vanished completely as if he had never been there at all.