Chapter 26 #2
Swag lets out a low, humorless laugh. “If he wants to make a move, he better bring more than two fuckin’ errand boys.”
It happens fast after that. The second man lunges first, reaching inside his jacket, and Pretty Boy moves like lightning, shoving me hard behind the nearest bike.
A gunshot cracks the air, sharp and deafening, and someone yells as the courthouse erupts into chaos.
Swag’s on the taller man before he can blink, tackling him hard into the side of the SUV.
The sound of bone meeting metal rings loud in my ears.
One of the club guys grabs me, yanking me down low behind the line of bikes, shielding me as shouts and scuffling footsteps echo around us.
Pretty Boy fires twice, and the second man drops, clutching his leg as he curses in pain. The taller one tries to swing on Swag, but Swag drives his fist into the guy’s ribs so hard I feel the impact from across the pavement.
“Jo-Leigh!” Pretty Boy shouts, crouched near the fender, his gun still drawn. “Stay down!”
I want to listen. I want to breathe. But then I hear the roar of another engine and glance up just in time to see a second SUV swing around the corner. My stomach plummets. This isn’t a warning. This is an ambush.
Swag must see it too, because he shoves the man he’s fighting hard against the car and spins, his gun already in his hand. He grabs my arm with the other, yanking me upright and into his chest, shielding me with his body as he backs us toward the line of bikes.
Pretty Boy curses again, falling into step on our flank. “We gotta move, Prez — now.”
Swag’s grip is bruising, his breath hot against my temple when he leans close enough for only me to hear.
“Get on the bike,” he says, low and sharp. “Don’t argue, bee.”
“But—”
“Now.”
He pushes me toward his Harley, his voice rougher than I’ve ever heard it, and that’s what finally breaks through the panic locking up my chest.
I scramble onto the seat as the shouting builds, as engines rev, as Ricky’s men close in from both sides. Swag swings on behind me in one smooth motion, the heat of his body pressed tight against my back, his arm clamping firmly around my waist.
Then the engine roars beneath us, and we peel away from the courthouse just as the second SUV fishtails around the curb, tires screaming against asphalt. Pretty Boy’s bike is right beside us, three more riders falling in tight formation, the entire club suddenly moving like one breathing organism.
Somewhere behind us, Ricky’s men are regrouping, climbing back into their SUVs, engines revving louder as they give chase.
Swag leans down, his lips brushing my ear, voice steady even now, cold and certain.
“You’re mine, Jo-Leigh. And I’ll put every one of these motherfuckers in the ground before I let them take you.”
The courthouse fades behind us, replaced by asphalt, heat, and the scream of metal as Swag weaves the Harley into open road.
His arm is locked tight around my waist, my back pressed into his chest, every muscle in his body coiled like a live wire.
Pretty Boy rides just ahead and to the left, his head snapping back every few seconds to check our flank.
Behind us, three more of Swag’s men fan out forming a moving wall of leather and steel.
I glance over my shoulder. The black SUVs are right there. Two of them. Closing fast. The second one swings wide into the opposite lane, tires shrieking as it lines up directly behind us. My fingers dig into Swag’s thigh without meaning to, clutching hard enough to hurt.
“Jo-Leigh,” Swag shouts over the roar of wind, his mouth close to my ear, rough and steady. “Hang on. Do not let go.”
I nod, though I’m not sure he even feels it, my heart pounding so hard it rattles my ribs. Then the first SUV lurches forward, slamming into the back of Talon’s bike.
“Fuck!” Talon yells as his rear tire wobbles violently.
He recovers, somehow managing to steady the Harley, but Ghost peels off, swinging his bike hard to the side to cut between him and the SUV.
Pretty Boy signals with two sharp hand movements and the formation shifts instantly, practiced and precise.
Swag accelerates, the engine roaring under us as he pulls alongside Pretty Boy.
“Take the back end!” Pretty Boy shouts, his voice shredded by wind. “Force ‘em wide — now!”
Swag doesn’t hesitate. He drops a gear, the bike screaming as he surges forward, cutting diagonally across the lane.
My stomach lurches violently, but his grip on me is iron, keeping me grounded as the whole world blurs past in streaks of gray and heat.
The second SUV swerves, trying to ram us, but Pretty Boy drops low and fires a shot over his shoulder.
The crack echoes sharp and deafening even over the engines, and the passenger-side mirror of the SUV explodes into shards.
The driver jerks back, overcorrects, and the SUV fishtails hard, clipping the median before recovering.
For half a second, I think we’ve bought space.
Then the first SUV pulls so close I can see the man in the passenger seat rolling down the window, raising something black and heavy.
Gun.
“Swag!” I scream, twisting.
He doesn’t flinch. “Duck!”
I slam my body against his chest, curling low, and a split second later, a bullet tears past my shoulder, close enough to feel the heat. The sound ricochets in my skull, sharp and metallic.
Hulk drops behind us, pulling his own pistol and firing back in short, controlled bursts. The second SUV swerves violently, scraping against the guardrail before regaining its lane.
Talon’s voice cracks over the comm clipped to Swag’s collar — calm but commanding. “Three miles out, right fork, underpass. We choke them there.”
Swag nods once, leaning forward hard, and the Harley rockets forward like a predator closing in on its prey. My stomach flips again, the vibrations of the engine rattling my bones, but I can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but hold on.
The SUVs are relentless. One clips Iron’s rear tire, sending sparks raining across the highway. Iron steadies, kicks his foot out, and in the same motion draws his pistol and fires point-blank into the grill. The driver jerks the wheel and slams into the shoulder, losing ground.
We hit the fork at full speed, the whole club cutting hard right in one fluid motion. The underpass opens up ahead and it’s the perfect choke point. Talon guns his throttle, drops his bike into position at the far mouth of the underpass, and pulls his rifle off his back in one smooth motion.
“Bee,” Swag growls against my ear as we slow just enough to slide into position. “Whatever happens, you stay behind me. You don’t move. You don’t breathe. You understand me?”
I nod against his chest, my throat too tight to speak.
The first SUV barrels into view, engine screaming, the sound bouncing off concrete as it rushes into the underpass.
Swag dismounts in one smooth, lethal motion, dragging me down with him and pushing me back behind the Harley before stepping out into the open with his gun drawn. He’s not yelling anymore. He’s quiet. Focused. Deadly.
The SUVs skid to a stop, doors flying open as men spill out, armed and fast. Pretty Boy fires first, the crack splitting the heavy air, and chaos detonates in the shadows of the underpass.
“Down!” Swag barks, his voice sharp enough to slice through panic.
I duck low behind the Harley just as bullets tear into the concrete, the sound deafening, echoing under the bridge until it feels like the air itself is splitting apart.
Swag’s firing back before I can even blink, his movements brutal and efficient.
Ghost and Wrench drop into position beside him, guns spitting fire. Talon is next, a gun in each hand.
Sparks scream across the pavement as a bullet ricochets off the Harley’s chrome. I clamp a hand over my mouth to keep quiet, pressing into the bike as tightly as I can. Every nerve in my body vibrates like a live wire.
Then, through the chaos, I hear something.
“Don’t hit the girl!”
My stomach plummets. I whip my head toward the SUV, my pulse thundering in my ears, and spot a man crouched behind the hood, shouting into the chaos.
“Langston wants her alive!”
The words rip through me like ice water.
Alive.
That’s worse.
Pretty Boy swears under his breath, firing two quick shots into the nearest tire, blowing it out in a spray of shredded rubber. The SUV dips hard to the right, scraping against the concrete barrier.
“Swag!” he yells. “They’re trying to take her!”
I see it happen almost in slow motion. Swag’s entire body goes rigid, his head snapping toward me, jaw clenching hard enough I can see the muscle jump from here.
Then something primal takes over. He moves like a storm unleashed, emptying the rest of his clip into the men advancing from the left before shoving a fresh mag into place and storming forward, no cover, no hesitation.
“Swag!” I scream, but he doesn’t hear me, or he doesn’t care.
Two of Ricky’s men rush him head-on. He drops the first with a shot to the chest, then grabs the second by the collar and slams him hard into the side of the SUV.
The sound of bone against metal echoes like thunder under the bridge.
Pretty Boy curses and fires another controlled burst, keeping the rest of the crew pinned while Ghost slides around to flank them.
One of Ricky’s guys breaks free and charges straight toward me.
I freeze. My whole body locks up, breath trapped in my throat.
But Swag sees him. He spins, his entire weight behind the punch as his fist connects with the guy’s jaw.
There’s a sharp crack, and the man collapses instantly, unmoving.
Swag doesn’t even glance at him, already putting himself between me and the chaos again.
“Bee,” he growls, breath ragged, grabbing my face in both hands for just a split second. His eyes are wild, burning, dark enough to swallow me whole. “Stay. Down.”
I nod, too stunned to breathe, and he’s gone again, back in the fray. The second SUV peels around, tires shrieking as it slams into a support beam and blocks the exit. More men pour out.
Talon ducks low and shouts over the roar, “This isn’t random, Prez! They’re set up for extraction!”
Extraction.
They aren’t here to kill me. They’re here to take me. A cold rush sweeps over my skin as the pieces slam into place. Ricky doesn’t want me dead. He wants leverage.
Swag reloads fast, his voice cutting through the madness like steel on steel. “Not today!”
He signals sharply with two fingers, and Ghost and Iron peel wide, splitting the formation.
Pretty Boy shifts his rifle and lays down cover fire, the sound brutal and unrelenting, echoing like thunder in my bones.
One man from Ricky’s crew tries to flank left and Pretty Boy drops him with a clean shot to the shoulder, sending him spinning hard into the pavement.
Then, just as the last of Ricky’s men retreat back toward the SUVs, the one closest to the open door locks eyes with me, his lip curling into a grin. He taps two fingers against his forehead, slow, deliberate.
“Tell Swag,” he shouts, voice carrying easily over the gunfire as he climbs into the SUV, “Langston says enjoy your honeymoon, Mrs. Boseman.”
And then they’re gone, tires squealing, engines roaring, disappearing into the chaos of the city beyond the bridge.
The silence afterward is deafening.
Swag stands there in the settling dust, chest heaving, gun still in his hand, his jaw set hard enough to break. Pretty Boy lowers his rifle slowly, exchanging a look with him that I can’t read, but I feel it all the same.
This isn’t over.