From Bullets To Billions Chapter 627: The Weight of the Past

Skull’s words sank deeply into Aron amid a heavy, quiet realization. No explanation of the Black Hand was required; he comprehended the syndicate’s reality more profoundly than nearly anyone alive. This shadowy alliance operated as a phantom force, thriving on the complete obliteration of personal identity. The outer world knew nothing of them. For their operatives, they embodied the only truth.

Escape from that realm proved utterly impossible. The Black Hand pursued turncoats with fanatical zeal, not merely to exact punishment on the betrayer, but to preserve the silence of the entire group. Fleeing attempts always ended in relentless pursuit, lives brutally ended to block any secrets from surfacing.

As Aron finally launched his bid to flee that existence, he grasped that simple departure wouldn’t cut it. His own death was staged with exquisite care, every detail arranged so the group would erase his name from the roster of the living. He believed his execution flawless.

Nothing terrified him more than his forsaken past infiltrating the new life he’d claimed. The Stern family had embraced him, formally adopted him, granting a name rich with meaning beyond any codename. Should the Black Hand uncover him, destruction would engulf them without mercy.

That endless undercurrent of dread shaped every aspect of Aron’s existence. It explained his perpetual wariness, and the instant chill at news of other Black Hand operatives active in the city, sending prickles racing up his spine. Usually scattered as hired guns in ravaged battlegrounds, they sometimes got summoned for precise "surgical" missions within civilized bounds.

A chilling notion briefly seized his thoughts:

Yet upon studying the figure before him, Aron discerned that Skull served no Hand agenda. Rather, he reflected Aron’s own path. Skull was another defector, one lacking comparable cunning.

’This unnerves me beyond measure,’ Aron reflected, breath snagging as he evaded a clumsy lash. ’I concealed my trail expertly. But Skull... he recognizes his own blunder. Seeking refuge specifically with the Gilt Rats reveals he senses the Hand still prowling his path. Their capture of him guarantees they’ll soon trace the link back to me.’

Aron’s gaze turned steely. His eyes flicked to the door through which Ramon had vanished. ’Max plunges into ever-greater perils. His breakneck progress beckons the world’s gaze. Thus, two paths open: bolt now to shield him from amplified peril, or forge strength rendering it irrelevant. I must possess the power to dismantle the Black Hand outright if they descend, sparing Max that crushing load.’

Aron surged ahead in a blur, fists vanishing into speed. Two precise blows hammered Skull’s jaw, chased instantly by an ascending palm slamming beneath the brute’s chin. The sequence aimed to scramble the mind and paralyze the nerves.

Skull refused to crumple. Driven like a vengeful undead husk, he barreled onward, head trauma shrugged aside. A massive brass-knuckled swing clipped Aron’s flank, striking true on the fractured ribs.

A choked cry of torment burst from Aron. Reset impossible, Skull lunged with his skull as a weapon, crashing it into Aron’s torso. The collision hurled Aron reeling, while two erratic fists sliced near his ears.

Aron sidestepped them barely, his actions turning choppy. Every motion burned as if molten metal seared his ribs.

’Peak shape would end this swiftly,’ Aron pondered, sweat sheening his brow. ’Caution reigns now. Those knuckles landing clean spell my doom. Skull reads my haste. He spots my aggressive rushes over smart defense, all to hasten reunion with Max.’

"There’s a reason they call me Skull!" the brute bellowed, voice clogged with gore. "Back at the camp, I was the toughest to floor. Thickest head in the outfit. Technical loss or not, I’ll swing till you crash. I’m your worst nightmare, Silver-boy!"

The brutal back-and-forth dragged on relentlessly. Aron compelled steady breaths, calming his racing pulse while banishing flank torment. A flawless riposte connected sideways to Skull’s chin, force enough to behead an average fighter.

Skull flung a feral hook grazing only emptiness. Fatigue gripped him visibly, strikes shedding accuracy and force, yet his stance held defiant. Exhaustion claimed both warriors, gym floor gleaming with their mingled sweat.

’Harder blows are essential,’ Aron grasped, sight fuzzing at the borders. ’My batons... Na’s devastating might... if only.’

Amid the subsequent clash, an alien noise sliced through. A piercing electronic screech invaded, evoking enraged hornets swarming the space.

Aron knew that tone intimately. Echo of his nearer history, signature of elite technology.

"Hey, Silver-boy!" boomed a broadcast voice, speaker-enhanced.

Aron’s head jerked toward the source. A polished drone floated high against the distant ceiling. The timbre clicked instantly: Vivian.

"I’ve got a package for you!" the drone proclaimed.

’A package? Delivered to me?’ Aron wondered, weary eyes igniting with sudden hope.

**

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