Chapter Three: Fight

"My feet are stuck here against the pavement. I wanna break free, I wanna make it." – The Little Things, by Colby Caillat and Jason Reeves.

Bobby finished verbally replaying the last moments on earth that he could piece together in his memory. His anger toward Angel. His grief. His unfixable and unforgiving hunk of metal he couldn't even rightly call a vehicle anymore. The headlights. The impact. The pain.

Bobby leaned forward suddenly, grunting and wrapping an arm around his abdomen. The unknown and abrupt agony nearly brought him to his knees.

"What the fuck?" Bobby spat and blood accompanied his words.

Without warning, he shot straight up and scanned his surroundings. He had no idea where this sudden sensation was coming from but somehow his brother's face flashed in front of him.

"Angel?"

"It wasn't a car accident, Bobby," Jack stated solemnly. "It wasn't random."

Bobby felt himself unraveling.

"What the hell is going on?"

"It wasn't just you," Jack frowned.

"Angel." Bobby hissed. "Those sons of bitches were right outside our house. They were coming for us. Shit. I have to go back. I have to help him. Bobby spun around in circles before throwing his hands up in the air. "How the fuck do I get out of here?"

"You can't. Not yet. You're not ready."

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"Bobby, you were hit by a damn car and shot in the face point blank. Even if you did go back, you'd just be a bloody mess on the street and no help to Angel."

"They're gonna fucking kill him!" Bobby roared.


Angel heard the gunshot and was sitting up in bed with his own weapon already retrieved from underneath his pillow before its echo had left the night air. Ever since he had been with the Marines, this was how he awoke to any loud sound. The fog from sleep abruptly lifted and he leapt out from underneath his covers. He immediately went to the window, ducking low and peering outside. The image he saw illuminated by headlights nearly caused him to collapse back on to his floor. The sudden shock, horror, grief, fear and rage that attacked him was promptly interrupted when he heard the door downstairs burst open. Emotions had to wait. Survival instincts kicked in and he hurriedly grabbed his second gun that was stored under his bed. He had kept both guns that he had used the day Victor Sweet's boys had attacked their home. The Mercer house didn't turn down free gifts, even if they were stolen from contract killers.

He crept down the hall and paused at the top of the stairs as several intruders entered his home. He quietly stepped back, concealing himself behind his bedroom door. He watched as a gun-wielding man crossed the threshold and searched the room curiously. Without making any alarming noises to alert the intruder's friends, Angel slipped out from hiding and swiftly took the man down, thankful for his combat training more than ever. It was difficult for him to employ what he learned around his brothers. Bobby didn't take the time to calculate or utilize the element of surprise. He went in, guns blazing and hollering cocky remarks without a second thought.

Thinking of Bobby turned up the notch on Angel's already pumping adrenaline. He heard another individual in the hall who has about to enter his room. Angel swung his door so hard that he imagined it broke the man's nose. He landed a quick punch to his face and the bleeding man collapsed backwards. He yearned to charge downstairs as he had no idea of the state of his disfigured brother but stopped himself. He stealthily made his way down the steps and came up behind the slimmer of the two intruders that were left. Wrapping a strong arm around the man's throat, he pointed his gun at the back of the fourth stranger's head. The bullet ejected eagerly from Angel's gun and planted itself successfully in the back of the man's skull. Without hesitation, he pointed the gun against his captive's temple.

"Who sent you?" He demanded.

"Fuck you, man. I ain't tellin' you shit."

"Then you'll get a bullet in your fucking brain like your friend."

"Just do it. You're wasting precious time questioning me when you could be with your pathetic dying brother."

The statement shook Angel enough to give his capture an opening he had been aiming for. He shifted and planted an elbow straight into Angel's stomach and then reeled around, slamming his own gun across Angel's jaw. Angel tasted iron and quickly spit the red liquid on the floor. He could see the gun being raised to his head out of the corner of his eye.

"Say 'hi' to the rest of your family for me," the man snickered.

An animalistic growl exploded from Angel's throat and he whipped his arm around. Before the gunman knew what was going on, the former soldier had hold of the weapon and a bullet was penetrating his forehead. Angel didn't wait for the corpse to finish collapsing as he turned and raced out the door.

He slammed to his knees next to his brother as the scene felt all too familiar t him. Another Mercer brother dying right in front of their home. Angel screamed his eldest brother's name knowingly in vain. He could barely see Bobby's closed eyelids underneath all of the blood. Frantically, Angel searched Bobby's pockets and pulled out a now battered cell phone. He only prayed it still worked. Flipping it open, he punched 911 and shouted the situation to the frazzled operator.

"Is he breathing?"

Angel almost dropped the phone. He hadn't checked. He couldn't check. He knew the procedure. He was well-trained in field medical emergency care, but this wasn't a battlefield or a random fallen comrade. This was his brother. If he did check and found nothing, Angel wasn't sure he could handle that. But this wasn't about him. Angel stiffened. This was about Bobby. His fears and issues had to be shoved aside. He couldn't risk Bobby's life over something a trivial as fear.

"Sir? Sir? You need to –"

I got it. I got it." Angel almost yelled and quickly examined Bobby for any sign of life.

"He's breathin'! He's alive!" Angel exclaimed more to himself that the operator.

Angel's adrenaline took over yet again and he proceeded to do all he could to keep his brother alive. He just had to get him to hold on long enough for the paramedics to arrive.

"Hang in there, Bobby. Come on, man. You fight. You fucking fight, a'ight. Don't you dare give up. Stay with me. Damn it, come on! You're Bobby fucking Mercer! You fight! Come on, Bobby!"


The words rang out in Bobby's ears and he looked around to find the brother calling out to him. It was as if his voice was erupting from the murky sky. He spun around to see Jack smiling softly.

"It's nice to hear that voice again," Jack sighed.

"What am I supposed to do?" Bobby demanded venomously. "He's tellin' me to fight! Fight what? I'm stuck here! I'm stuck in some damn memory and somehow I have to fight?"

"You don't have to do anything," Jack corrected.

"But I want to fight!" Bobby countered. "I need to fight! I need to wake the fuck up and find the bastards who did this!"

"If you're going to win this fight, Bobby, it's got to be about more than simply winning and beating them. That's not going to be enough, man."

"Then what the fuck is?" Bobby demanded.

"I'm sorry, Bobby. I can't tell you that."

"Jack, you turned into a real philosophical dick in the afterlife."

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