Chapter 105 Nipping Evil in the Bud
Oscar, removing his helmet and donning a wicked smirk, quipped, " Finnegan, sorry about this but my hands have been itchy. I figured I'd 'practice' with you."
Finnegan casually flicked the ash from his cigarette, unperturbed by the bloody fight happening behind him.
The two bodyguards stood no chance against the dozen men and were quickly incapacitated, lying severely injured on the ground.
Finnegan elegantly quipped, "If opportunity knocks, why not answer?" He then tossed his cigarette butt on the ground, stamped it out with his foot, took off his jacket calmly, loosened his shirt buttons, and braced himself for combat.
One of the bikers lunged at him with a knife, but Finnegan suddenly turned fierce, kicking the attacker away. He advanced swiftly, hoisted the man up against the car door, seized his knife, and with one swift cut, severed the biker's finger.
It all happened rapidly and brutally—the severed finger lay twitching on the ground, provoking a scream of agony from the biker.
This calculated move by Finnegan, a warning to the others, sent a very clear message and visibly shocked Oscar, who turned pale as a hidden layer of fear flickered through the depths of his eyes.
Finnegan, knife in hand, his gaze now colored by the blood on the blade, looked intently at Oscar, "Don't disappoint me."
With deliberate steps, Finnegan advanced with his tall frame towards Oscar, who instinctively stepped back half a pace.
Realizing his own hesitation, Oscar became furious with embarrassment and roared at his gang, "All of you, get him!"
Oscar might have been vicious, but Finnegan was even more so. The surrounding thugs hesitated, having seen Finnegan's capability. The message was very clear—if instead of a finger, Finnegan had decided on an arm or a head, they would be mourning a loss of life rather than a mere appendage.
Gripping his severed wrist, the biker locked eyes with Finnegan, his gaze filled with sheer terror, not daring to move an inch closer. However, under Oscar's commanding influence, and with the sheer number of his henchmen, over a dozen bikers armed with knives or iron rods rushed towards Finnegan.
One biker came at him with a knife which Finnegan met with his own. The blades clashed, instantly nicking and denting the metal. Finnegan’s reflexes were quick. Before his opponent could even think of the next move, he snatched an iron rod from a would-be attacker and knocked the man out cold with a single, violent strike.
When it came to fighting, Finnegan was ruthless. Under the cover of night, the scent of blood soon thickened in the air. Oscar stayed on the perimeter, waiting for Finnegan to exhaust himself. He had his crew engage Finnegan in waves, trying to wear him down.
However, Finnegan wasn’t foolish. He knew he had to end the fight quickly before he ran out of energy; otherwise, given Oscar's ruthlessness, his chances didn’t look good. Outnumbered and taking a blade to the back, it was this very hit that drove Finnegan over the edge.
To catch the big fish, Finnegan made his way straight for Oscar. With a powerful swing of the iron rod, he struck Oscar's shoulder. The blow was so severe Oscar winced with intense pain and dropped to his knees.
Finnegan stood over Oscar, iron rod resting on top of his head, his body radiating malevolence, his eyes sweeping over the onlookers with a murderous glint. "Anyone else not afraid to die, feel free to step up."
The dozen or so men Oscar had brought were either too injured to stand or too scared to move. They were street fighters with no real finesse to their brawling. They might have been fierce, but that meant nothing when faced with someone far more ferocious than themselves.
Finnegan's once white shirt was now stained red with blood, much like his back that continued to bleed. He resembled a grim reaper straight out of hell, encompassed by the aura of death, intimidating to the core.
Oscar looked up fearfully at the iron rod and the bravado he'd had moments before had evaporated completely, his voice trembling, "Finnegan, this was just a joke, man. We're family."
The word made Finnegan feel sick. Mason Abbott and his son Oscar were ambitious and ruthless, but ultimately incompetent. Finnegan's eyes, cold as ice, bore no warmth, "Killing you would just dirty my hands."
With those words, Finnegan kicked Oscar aside and walked towards his car.
Holding a grudge and consumed by an infuriated sense of embarrassment, Oscar's heart harbored resentment. As Finnegan turned away, Oscar's face immediately darkened. He picked up a knife from the ground and, seizing the moment of Finnegan's inattention, he swung it toward Finnegan's back.
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