A/N: Rated M for language and violent action. All weapon and vehicle names are those used in the game, so hopefully you are somewhat familiar with them. If not, just use your imagination as I can't tell you well enough what everything is really supposed to be. This has not been beta'd, but I've edited myself quite carefully. Saints Row, Saints Row 2, and all its characters belong to Violition, Inc. and THQ, of course. Enjoy!
Adrenaline has a way of focusing your mind like nothing else can. And rage has a way of making you eerily invincible. Both poured hot through my veins, making my body shake, but my hands ever so steady... One by one, my .44 Shepard took them down, the deep crack of its steady fire echoing across the concrete street, against the sides of the oh-so-perfect houses in this nice, clean neighborhood.
One Ronin's brains splattered across his car's windshield and his friend ducked away, escaping my aim by a hair's breadth. I wished like hell for a grenade. Or a rocket launcher. I spared a glance down to Johnny, lying prone on the sidewalk, bleeding... bleeding too much. The purple of his shirt too dark where that Ronin lieutenant had stabbed him. His face too pale. Johnny would have a rocket launcher, I knew, hiding somewhere in Aisha's place -
Nausea rocked me and I barely choked back the bile. I kept seeing her body cuffed to that chair, the blood flung across the painting behind her. The sight had brought up feelings long dead - long buried - memories of being stuffed in a trunk with Lin, being shot, being dumped in the river, and Lin never making it to the surface...
The Shepard in my hands barked, another Ronin hit the street, creating his own pool of blood. Another fell, and another, and another. I was surrounded and out in the open, but I wasn't going to leave Johnny for them to finish off. I stood over him and didn't move, didn't even duck. Bullets whizzed by all around me; I could have been hit, but I felt nothing. Another thing about adrenaline and rage, they tend to make you numb.
In the distance I heard the unmistakable - disgusting - high-pitched whine of their bikes as more reinforcements rushed to the aid of their swiftly falling comrades. Then the sound of more cars, getting closer and closer. Where the hell was my ride?!
I didn't dare make another call or glance at my watch. My full attention went to the Ronin as more and more of them pulled up, screeched to a halt, and opened fire. A brief surge of panic gripped my chest as somewhere in my head I calculated the abysmal odds of surviving this fight.
"Gotta save 'Iysh," Johnny mumbled thickly, and his words brought a new burst of rage that cut a swath through my momentary doubt.
I gripped the .44 in both hands and fired as fast as the chamber would allow. Its bullets found eyes, foreheads, brains, skulls. No more body shots. I didn't even think as I fired, acting from pure, insane hatred, vowing right then and there I'd personally see to it that every single Ronin who dared step foot into Stilwater would die.
At last came the rumble of a familiar engine; the clatter of an SMG mowed down the rest of the Ronin still standing and Carlos braked hard to a stop in front of me. His eyes were huge as he leapt from the driver's seat and came around to help me lift Johnny. The man's limp form was surprisingly heavy as we maneuvered him into the backseat as carefully as we could.
Carlos ran back around to the driver's seat, but I headed toward the house.
"What are you doing?" Carlos asked, nearly panicked. "We gotta get outta here!"
He was right. Already the pitch of more high-speed bikes and souped-up cars rolled over the surrounding streets, getting steadily louder. More Ronin would be here soon. Which was exactly why I needed what I was going to get. "I'll be right back," was the only explanation I offered, then ran inside Aisha's house to find Johnny's rocket launcher.
I stowed the rocket launcher on the floorboard of the backseat as we approached the hospital and silently congratulated myself on making one of my first orders of business putting a hospital in our pocket. The paramedics asked no questions as we pulled up and unloaded the nearly unconscious Johnny Gat, whose face had been plastered all over the news – along with mine – these past few weeks.
They put him on a stretcher and wheeled him straight into surgery. I watched their faces intently as we jogged through the ER; they looked concerned, but never showed the expression medical people get when they know someone's not going to make it. I exhaled finally; hadn't realized how little I'd been breathing since the moment Johnny'd gotten stabbed. "Johnny, you're gonna be fine," I told him, but I'm not sure he heard me.
"Gotta save 'Iysh," he repeated.
I stopped in my tracks; watched him be pushed away through the doors where I couldn't follow. I swallowed hard, anger boiling to the surface again. We couldn't save 'Iysh. It was too late for her. But it wasn't too late for Johnny. And when he got up and running again, the Ronin were going to have hell to pay. But in the meantime, I was going to gut the sonuvabitch who had done this to him.
I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Pierce. It was time to let the Ronin know I was through fucking around.