Here's chappie 3! I'm pleased with the interest expressed (I've had hits from Bulgaria, the Us, the UK, Australia, japan, and Ireland!), but Please! If you read, please review! I thrive off of feedback! Its what makes every writer want to keep going. so without further ado, lets get back to the story, and back to the Alley of Deep Blood.

Chapter Three

The crowd gathered in their usual alley, but this time it was different. There was no talk; no crude jokes and rough laughter. Everything was solemn. Even the sky was dark as if not even the stars wanted to witness what was about to unfold.

"Tonight," Blade began. "We avenge our brother. The members of the other gang won't know what hit'em." There were no cheers this time, only stiff nods in reply. "Torrent! Where are those guns?"

Tristan swallowed and stepped forward. He swung the bundle from his shoulder onto the ground.

"Eighteen," he announced coldly. His mask of bravery was almost worn and Tristan could swear that Blade saw straight through his façade. Blade kicked the bundle and it rolled open, revealing seventeen revolvers and one sniper. The leader of Deep Blood grinned.

"Good job, kid," he said as he slapped Tristan on the back. "Chose your weapons, boys," he said to the rest of the group as he himself picked up the sniper.

"Torrent," Blade called to the newest member who stood wondering why Blade had chosen a gun if he already had one. Tristan walked over the leader trying his best not to show his fear. Like always, Blade stood there like a menacing gargoyle, his open shirt revealing the scar.

Blade shoved the sniper at Tristan who stared at him wide-eyed. "Don't look at me like that," Blade snapped. "You ain't ready to fight hand to hand, so you'll be using this. Don't miss." Then the leader withdrew to speak to the others, leaving Tristan standing alone, jaw dropped. He clutched the sniper with both hands, dreading what was to come.

"This isn't happen. This is not happening!" Tristan told himself over and over, but lying to himself was doing him no good. It was happening. Everything was unfolding so fast. It was like standing in the middle of an intersection or trying to run from everything. There was simply no escape. He felt like he was suffocating. There was no air, no way out.

Tristan was perched atop an apartment building overlooking an abandoned alley. At least, the alley seemed abandoned to anyone passing by. And if some onlooker happened to be curious enough to go in and check, chances were that they wouldn't come back again. This alley was the equivalent of a den of lions. It was the home of Demonic, yet another West Los Angeles gang.

Demonic was known for their blood-thirst. They didn't rob stores or mug people; these were heartless people doing heartless deeds. Even the richest people of LA feared this gang. Notorious was an understatement. Tristan was for once grateful to Blade. If it weren't for him, Tristan would probably be down there shaking with fear.

A shrill noise sounded in the still night, piercing the silent air. Tristan felt as though he were at an amusement park being carried up the tallest tower ever, only to know that in a few moments he would be sent freefalling. His stomach tightened even more as he saw a single dark figure emerge from an alley in the general vicinity of the one belonging to Demonic. Even though it was dark, and eerily so, any fool could tell that it was Blade. The leader made quick hand gesture behind him and more shadows emerged. Two, three, four…twenty gang members, all armed and ready. Tristan tightened his hold on the sniper. His heart beat so hard that he was surprised it didn't give away his position. He was disgusted with himself for being such a coward. "It's just a trigger. It's just a shot," he thought. He was wrong; so wrong.

Tristan dared not even breathe and he watched more shadows come, but this time they came from the Demonic alley. He watched as not twenty, but thirty full-grown men were revealed, oblivious to the fact that they were about to attacked, and oblivious to the fact that some of them would not rise the next morning.

All of a sudden Tristan was a kid again, running into his father's arms as he came home. He was the church-boy that had once known faith and love. He was that boy that had a future; a hope. But it faded. The vision was lost…forever. But something inside told him that it was in reach; that all he had to do was leave.

A crystal tear slid down Tristan Marken's cheek, quickly joined by another. He did not want this, but he had no choice did he? His parents would never forgive him when they learned what he was doing and there was nowhere else to go. Then he remembered a lesson he had once learned in Sunday school. They had said that God was always listening and that he was always there. "What a lie," Tristan muttered. God was not with him. He couldn't be; he felt too alone and forsaken.

Yet maybe, Tristan mused, maybe there was a chance that God was there with him. Maybe that was the reason that he was still around. The seven-teen-year-old boy then did something that he hadn't done in a long time.

"God," he prayed in a whisper. "If you really are there, help get me through this." That said, Tristan took the deep breath before the plunge. Wearily, he loaded the gun.