30. Trick
30
TRICK
I love a good scrap as much as the next guy—maybe more. Aw, hell, a lot more. There’s something about the rush of adrenaline, the crack of knuckles against bone, the way time seems to slow down when you’re locked in a fight.
It’s not the most moral thing in the world, but it’s part of who I am—the one out of the three of us who never backs away from a brawl. Usually, that instinct serves me well.
Tonight, though, it’s turning my stomach sour. Because this isn’t some bar scuffle or a ring match. This isn’t for the giggles. This is about my girlfriend’s-father-slash-best-friend held hostage, a yard full of armed thugs, and the home Marie grew up in twisted into a war zone. This is about the town that took me in as one of their own.
My pulse drums in my ears as I land a punch on some asshole’s jaw, and for half a second, I’m satisfied by the crunch. But in the back of my mind, an icy dread seeps in. We’re fighting for more than just bragging rights tonight.
I leap back, scanning for the next threat. The yard is a mess of bodies and blood, half-lit by the porch light Marie’s dad used to keep on for her when she came home late. Now bullet casings glint in the grass, muzzle flashes blink through the dark, and the porch steps are half splintered.
Hugo is on my right, moving with that lethal economy I’ve seen him use overseas and back again—no wasted motion, every strike perfectly timed. A grunt from behind me signals another thug launching forward. I duck, letting him flail over my shoulder, then drive a fist into his ribs. He collapses with a wheeze.
A savage thrill courses through me. I’m wired for violence and grinning like an idiot, even in the worst circumstances. I can’t help it. It’s how I cope.
Right now, there’s no Sam or Hugo to watch my back specifically, no plan telling me exactly where to move. Sam’s inside the house searching for Preacher, trying to rescue him from the men who’ve turned his own living room into a hostage cage. Hugo’s busy subduing any threat that flanks us from the side. Which leaves me in the thick of it with no shortage of punks to trade blows with.
I land another strike on a different thug, splitting his lip. Blood spatters across my knuckles, warm and sticky. The guy staggers back, eyes wild with confusion. “That all you got?”
He roars something incomprehensible, brandishing a knife this time. But before he can get close, a shot blasts through the air, cracking so loud my ears ring. My immediate reaction is to spin toward the gunfire—huge mistake.
I barely register a sharp impact slamming into my thigh, like someone swung a sword full force at my leg. I crumple with a gasp, entire body folding in on itself as I hit the ground. Dirt grinds into my shoulder and cheek, and for a moment, I don’t even realize what the fuck just happened. Pretty sure none of these assholes had a sword. I just feel that dizzy, breathless whack of pain.
A second passes in surreal silence. Then the agony roars. It radiates outward from my thigh in white-hot waves, stealing the air from my lungs. I blink, trying to get my bearings. An acrid smell of gunpowder and dirt invades my nostrils. From this sideways view, it’s hard to see past the broken porch furniture and lumps I can’t think about right now—bodies or knocked-out men. My vision swims as I tug at my leg, desperately trying to see the damage.
Blood. So much blood, dark and glistening, soaking my jeans and oozing around the edges of my thigh. My heart stutters. My breath catches in my throat. But the first coherent thought that pierces the fog is so absurd it makes me bark a humorless laugh:
My tattoo.
I blink down at the wound, or what I can see of it beneath the blood and ripped jeans. Scales from my snake tat spread across my skin, black ink Hugo painstakingly designed for me. That proud shape is now spattered with red, the lines smeared. A bullet hole, ragged and ugly, has torn right through the edge of the design. The shock of it stings more than I’d like to admit.
“Son of a bitch,” I mutter, voice half-choked. I press my palm to the wound, feeling the sticky warmth of my own blood. “Couldn’t aim an inch lower, you asshole? You had to ruin the ink?”
The pain spikes, making me gasp. My head lolls back against the grass, and a wave of nausea hits. For a moment, I just lie there, trying not to pass out. My pulse thrums in my ears, and I can taste iron on my tongue, whether it’s from biting my lip or just the metallic tang of rage, I’m not sure. Part of me wants to crack a joke about being the only person more worried about messing up a tattoo than bleeding out, but I can’t find enough breath, and I don’t have an audience.
Marie is in the truck, and Hugo is swinging fists in every direction. Sam’s inside, maybe cornered. Preacher is definitely cornered, battered by these scum. I can’t be lying down on the job.
“Move, bitch,” I growl under my breath, clenching my teeth. The agony scorches my nerves, but I force myself to roll to one side, letting out a moan. My fingers tingle with numbness, and another wave of nausea hits me.
This ain’t like the last time I got shot. This is worse.
Guns echo again from near the porch. I hazard a glance upward. Hugo is locked in close combat with three men, or it might as well be three. They keep coming at him from different angles, fists, knives, trying to get him from the side, half in and half out of the light, so I can’t quite tell. But he’s holding them off with that cool precision—twist a wrist, slam an elbow, parry a wild swing with a sharp knee to the face. He’s brilliant, unstoppable.
But even he can’t watch every direction forever. And these punks are relentless. And there’s so fucking many of them.
I grit my teeth, pressing a hand firmly on my thigh to staunch the bleeding. Adrenaline surges again, fueling me. I can’t black out. I have to help them.
My vision wobbles as I push up onto my free knee, breath hitching. “Dammit,” I hiss. Every movement sends shards of pain rattling up my spine. Must have hit the nerve pretty good. Still, I manage to prop myself upright, leaning on my hands for support.
How many times have I been battered or bruised in old missions with Sam and Hugo? A bullet is a bigger deal, sure, but I can’t just lie down. Not when she might be in danger.
My gaze flits across the yard, searching for that battered old pickup truck we rode here in. The last I saw, Marie was inside, safe behind the doors.
I exhale a shaky breath. At least she’s protected in there. She must have seen the guy in the tree. That’s why she honked. Good girl. If Sam and Hugo can push the fight deeper into the house, or corner these creeps, we can rescue Preacher and get the hell out.
I try to breathe through the pain, blinking sweat out of my eyes, forcing my vision to focus. My ears ring from the gunfire. Can’t hear much else right now. Then my eyes land on the truck. Just a dark shape on the far side of the yard. My heart lifts, relief mixing with throbbing pain.
But then I see Marie. Standing outside of the truck.
My stomach drops to all the way to hell.
No. Her shoulders are squared as if she’s on some mission of her own.
My breath catches in my throat. “Marie?” My voice cracks. She can’t hear me at this distance over the din of the fight.
A rush of terror flushes through me so intensely I almost black out. Everything else recedes—the bullet wound, the swirling brawl. I only see her arms up, face set with determination. She’s walking forward, away from safety.
Why the fuck is she leaving the truck?
I try to shout, but my voice is lost in the chaos. So I dig my nails into my palms, summoning the will to stand. I press my free hand over the wound, kneading the muscles around the bullet hole, ignoring the slick warmth, the burning pain. A wave of dizziness nearly topples me. My leg trembles under my weight. I let out a harsh groan.
Marie keeps moving, crossing the yard with slow, deliberate steps. In the half-light, I can see the fear in her eyes, but also that fierce resolve. Does she think she can broker a deal?
Oh fuck. That’s her plan, ain’t it?
She’s offering herself up like some sacrificial lamb to save her father, or maybe to keep us from getting hurt. She’s going to get herself killed.
Or worse, end up in Crow’s clutches. I have to stop her.
The pain in my leg flares, molten, as I take a step fueled by love and fear. I hiss through my teeth. Blood seeps between my fingers, dripping onto the dirt. My head wobbles, but I push on. “Marie!” I force the name from my throat.
She can’t hear me. She’s too far, or too focused on the figure standing beyond the swirling bodies. Crow.
The asshole stands near the side of the yard, arms folded, his face twisted in that smug grin of his. He barely acknowledges the ongoing fights around him, as if he orchestrated the chaos and is content to watch from the sidelines like the fucking coward he is. But when Marie steps into view, his attention snaps to her like a hawk spotting prey.
I want to vomit. I take a step, lose my balance when pain spikes up my spine, and fall. I land on some dead guy and roll off him. My free hand claws at the ground, trying to drag myself upright. Every movement is a fresh slice of agony. “No,” I moan through clenched teeth. “No, no, no.”
If only I could get to her. If only I had two working legs.
My mind screams that I have to stand, but my body rebels. White-hot pain flares in my thigh, making me dizzy. My vision flickers. I plant my palms in the grass, ignoring the blood, ignoring everything but her.
Marie is about to face Crow alone.
Hugo is locked in a brutal clash with two men now, fists flying, blade glinting. He’s too busy to see Marie. He’ll tire eventually.
Sam is still inside the house, presumably going for Preacher.
I can’t rely on either of them to take Crow too. That leaves me, half-dead in the dirt, bleeding like a stuck pig. Useless. My chest tightens with panic.
“Marie!” I shout again, hating how weak I sound.
The yard’s cacophony drowns me out. She keeps walking, heartbreak etched on her face. Heartbreak, not fear. She’s heading for Crow, not even flinching at the gunshots raking the air.
My pulse skyrockets, and I force myself onto my elbows, dragging my bleeding leg behind me. The bullet hole stings viciously, but I push it aside. Nothing else matters. Only her.
I make it a few feet across the grass before Crow steps forward, meeting her halfway. A bullet whizzes overhead, but neither he nor Marie react. They’re locked on each other, as if everyone else is mere background noise.
She says something—her lips move, but I can’t hear it.
Crow tilts his head, that grin curdling into something more menacing. He looks to be mocking her, gesturing with one hand.
My heart bangs against my rib cage.
She’s probably demanding he release her father, or me, or all of us. Or maybe she’s trying to bargain.
Fuck, it’s the worst scenario. They want her. She’s handing herself over. I have to stop her.
Mustering every bit of willpower, I press my palms to the ground and try to haul myself up. My shot leg buckles under me the instant I put weight on it. I collapse with another hiss of pain. I cling to a chunk of uprooted porch railing, using it to drag my torso forward.
Almost there , I lie to myself.
I’m probably ten yards away from her at best. My vision blackens at the edges. I shake my head, refusing to succumb.
Then Crow steps in close to Marie, snaking his hand around her throat. A guttural roar rips from my chest. She gasps, arms flailing for a second. Crow shoves her backward, keeping her on her feet by her throat, and pins her against the side of the truck with brutal efficiency. Her eyes widen with panic, lips parted in a silent cry.
“No!” I bark, voice raw. My progress stalls. My body gives out again, leg screaming as I slump back onto my side, cold rising around me. “Marie!”
She claws at Crow’s arm, but he’s stronger and in a better position. Her head tilts back, like she’s trying to escape his hold. Even from a distance, I see fear flicker in her gaze—and it kills me.
I’m supposed to protect her, supposed to stand at her side. Instead, I’m sprawled in the yard, shot, worthless, bleeding out, forced to watch as this bastard manhandles her.
A wave of dizziness hits, the yard spinning. Scratch that—the whole world spins.
I clamp my hand on my thigh again, a vain attempt to slow the bleeding. My head throbs. My heart stops.
We can’t lose her.
But I can’t reach her either, no matter how hard I grit my teeth or how desperately I dig my fingers into the dirt. My body simply won’t obey. My vision tunnels on Crow’s face, twisted in sadistic glee as he keeps her pinned to the truck, overshadowing her smaller form. She’s pinned. Helpless. And I can’t do a damn thing.