Chapter 24 Diesel
TWENTY-FOUR
DIESEL
The further the van takes me from Makenna, the louder the buzzing in my ears gets, like something is shorting out.
I keep my back pressed to the side panel and try not to bounce my leg.
I’m not the only one feeling the tension.
Mace is humming under his breath and Riot’s gaze is boring into me like a fucking drill from across the other side of the van.
He still doesn’t trust me. Maybe he never will.
Well, fuck him.
I rub my palms against my thighs, the denim rough. I don’t know what is waiting for us, and that’s the worst part of this.
Will Crank have numbers on his side?
Are they armed?
Is this a fucking trap?
He left with at least six patched members—or at least there are six who weren’t with the dead and aren’t accounted for. If they’re with him will we have to kill brothers?
Don’t.
You do whatever you have to do to get back to your wife.
My fingers find the knife sheathed under my kutte. I’ve got a gun too, but knives don’t jam or misfire. They don’t hesitate to kill, and neither will I.
Blade whistles low. “You think he’s here?” he asks, like we’re on a fucking sightseeing tour and not hunting a man who betrayed every single one of us.
I slide my gaze toward him. He’s sitting next to me. Again. Like we’re suddenly fucking friends. I don’t trust him, even if Nic does. Riot doesn’t either. His eyes narrow on him.
No one answers.
Crank’s a fucking coward, but there’s no joy in bringing him down. No one loyal to the patch wants to cut out the poison from within or to fight men who should be standing beside you.
The van stops and I brace as Riot pushes to his feet, Mace following.
My guard is up as my boots hit the gravel path, my gun in my hand, pointed low. London brothers merge with Manchester and the small group of us propping up what’s left of Birmingham.
I’m expecting a warehouse, something impressive maybe, but the building is… Boring. It’s a small red brick house, tucked down a lane. It’s similar to the safehouse we used only a few days ago, only this is remote.
Fields stretch forever beyond the boundary fences, the sunlight bathing everything into spun gold. I don’t know where the hell we are, but we’re definitely not in the city anymore.
It’s too quiet. Too clean. I can feel death breathing against my neck. Not today, fucker.
We move in tandem, as if we’re connected by one brain, and we move fast. The element of surprise is the only advantage we have.
Ravage creeps forward with Nox, watching each other’s backs like brothers are meant to. I keep my eyes locked on Nic. He’s the only person other than Dash who I trust right now.
Nothing moves but us. The silence is wrong. I expect shouting, gunshots. A fucking war. Not this. This isn’t an ambush. I’ve seen those. Seen bodies laid out like sacrifices, walked through blood like I didn’t feel it beneath my boots.
This feels abandoned. Deserted. Empty.
Even so, my skin prickles, my nape too as Nic cracks the door open. It creaks like a warning, but he still slips inside like he’s not afraid the reaper might be waiting on the other side. Riot follows closely with Mace, both armed. Both ready to defend the man we’ve crowned king.
I follow them inside because loyalty is a bitch and I am loyal to my patch, to my club. To my brothers.
“Fuck,” is muttered ahead of me, and I realise why when I slip in behind them.
Two bodies are crumpled on the patterned carpet. Red stains the pile beneath them like spilt paint. I can’t tell who they are beneath the injuries to their faces, but the kuttes, the patches, tell me all I need to know. They’re ours. Or they were.
And they were executed like fucking dogs.
Nic drags in a choppy breath. His eyes blaze. “Check the rest of the house.”
Riot growls low in his throat, straightening from the nearest body. “He’s fucking done. We end this shit.”
I agree. He needs to die, and soon.
I take the opposite hallway to Riot. I don’t trust him to have my back, or to stand at it. The house is a maze of rooms and twisting corridors that puts me on edge. I listen as I move, every step feeling like a gamble.
The dust is thick on the sills and skirting boards, and there’s a musty smell that clings to the back of my throat. Mildew. Damp. Rot in the walls.
I freeze when the floorboards creak under my boots.
Shit.
I pause and listen.
Nothing moves. All I can hear is the voices I left in that room with the dead.
I breathe and keep going.
As I round the corner, I end up staring down the barrel of a gun. Again.
Riot.
I don’t move. He doesn’t either. There’s an intake of breath around us, like the house itself is screaming.
Is he going to finish what he started back at the safehouse?
I’m not sure my heart is even beating. “If you’re gonna shoot me,” I murmur, ignoring the sweat crawling down my nape, “then do it. Otherwise, get that fucking gun out of my face.”
He huffs like I’ve fucking offended him and then lowers his weapon. I don’t release the breath caught in my chest until he steps away.
“House is empty,” he mutters, frustrated. He’s not the only one. “And I wasn’t gonna shoot you.”
I don’t answer. I don’t believe him.
I track him as he walks to the window, his shoulders coiled tight like a knot. He leans his hands on the sill, peering out over the fields. “He’s like a fucking cockroach.”
A glint of something in the trees past the fence line.
I move before my brain understands what I’m seeing. “Down!”
I slam into him, and we hit the floor hard enough to knock the breath out of me.
The window shatters, gunfire exploding from outside. Riot growls a curse, curling into himself as shards of glass rain down on us. I cover my head, bullets thudding into the wall behind us. Meant for us.
We’re pinned down.
Trapped.
Under attack.
And fucked.
Return fire sounds from inside the house. Orders are screamed, but all I focus on is Riot.
He’s staring at me, like he can’t believe I just tackled him. “You saved my life.”
“Yeah, don’t get used to it.”
Another volley of bullets slam into the wall behind us. My gun finds its way into my hands. Riot’s already loading and the mad bastard is grinning like a lunatic. “Let’s cause a riot.”
I grunt. “Don’t say that again.”
He fires a volley of bullets through the broken window, ducking back down fast before they return fire.
“Crank?” I make myself small as fire is returned.
“I’d guess so. He’s scared. Knows we’re comin’ for him. Bet he figured we’d be like rats in a barrel in here.”
The gunfire keeps going, a nonstop cacophony of noise. We both fire back, the minutes feeling like eons.
Eventually, it stops and there’s silence again.
“Clear!” someone yells from down the hallway.
My ears are ringing, and the smell of cordite is thick in the air. I shake my head as I stand slowly, but it doesn’t clear the fuzz.
We move carefully, keeping low just in case. Riot stops me in the hallway. “You didn’t have to put me down like that,” he says.
“You’re club, and despite what you think, that does mean something to me.”
He scans my face, like he’s searching for the lie. “Right. Well, thanks. Doesn’t mean I trust you still,” he says, but his lips twitch.
“Of course not.”
When we get back to the living room, there’s debris everywhere. The windows are gone, wood shards scattered across the carpet. Nic’s bleeding from his bicep, but he’s still barking orders.
He turns as we join the others, giving us both a once over before he continues.
In groups, we head outside, keeping close. Staying low. Riot and Fury follow me toward the tree line, where we were being fired at. It doesn’t take long to find the bodies. Two guys. Not club. No kuttes. No one we know.
Fury bends, his eyes tight. “Mercs, maybe?”
“Wouldn’t put it past Crank,” Riot mutters, scanning the horizon like he’s expecting another shoot out.
I feel deflated as we climb back in the vans and drive back to the clubhouse. There’s dirt beneath my nails, and my back is aching. I stare at the soil on the shovels tossed on the van floor. More dead, but at least these weren’t brothers.
Sons.
No one speaks, but Riot watches me. Not like before. There’s still suspicion, but something else. Respect maybe. Confusion. Gratitude.
I don’t care. I put him down because it was the right thing to do.
Because even though he doesn’t trust me, I’m still fucking loyal.
Eventually, the van slows and then comes to a stop. I’m itching to get my hands on Makenna, to breathe her in. To feel her warmth against my cold skin.
For the first time all day it feels like the boot on my throat has been released. We made it out clean. No one was hurt. Everyone made it back. Even if we didn’t find Crank.
We’re barely out of the vans before Riley comes rushing out of the clubhouse. He jogs up to Nic, his eyes darting.
“We had a problem while you were gone.”
Cold spreads through me. Makenna.
“What kind of problem?” Nic demands.
“Chloe… she’s uh...” His eyes find mine and that cold becomes glacial. “Your old lady found her.”
Makenna? Found what? Fuck. My feet move before my brain gives the command. I push through my brothers, through the doors, into the main bar.
And I find her instantly. Even among the chaos in the room. I always do.
She’s sitting at a table, the girls flanking her. My chest loosens. She’s here. She’s alive.
…And she’s covered in blood.
The ground shifts beneath me. My head spins.
It’s on her hands, staining the hoodie she stole from me this morning. Streaked on her cheek. But it’s her eyes that scare me.
They meet mine, as if she sensed I was here.
And she looks fucking broken.