32. Sam
32
SAM
Shattered wood from one of Preacher’s side tables litters the floor, and the walls bear gashes from hasty knife swings and missed bullets. I can’t count how many times I’ve nearly slipped on shards of glass or tripped over the wreckage that used to be the TV stand.
Preacher stands at my back, breathing hard, a fresh bruise forming on his cheek. The man might be in his forties, but he’s still as solid as he ever was. And tonight, we’re working in tandem—same as we did years ago in tight corners, each of us aware of the other’s next move. Age might’ve slowed us, but adrenaline’s giving us new life.
Even as we stand shoulder to shoulder, I hear his ragged grumble behind me. “I told you to keep her out of trouble.”
I don’t get a chance to answer because a crowbar swings at my head. One of the remaining Hell’s Hammers—a scrawny guy with hate in his eyes and a swastika tattoo on his forearm—tries to crack my skull open. I can’t duck—he’ll hit Preacher’s skull. Instinct flares, and I raise my forearm in a block that rattles my bones.
Pain blooms, but I ignore it, slamming my other fist into his ribs with a short, brutal punch. He doubles over, choking on his breath. I seize the moment to smash a knee into his abdomen. He hits the floor with a groan, crowbar clattering free. Mine now.
I bring it down on his face a few times before I’m satisfied.
The entire room resonates with violent thrashing—broken furniture shifting underfoot, the crack of fists on flesh, curses, and grunts like an awful soundtrack.
Another man charges with a broken wine bottle. The jagged edges glint in the overhead light, and I barely have time to duck. A shard rips the shoulder of my shirt, leaving a sting across my skin. “Could’ve warned me!” I bark, twisting around to see Preacher. He’s engaged in his own scuffle, delivering a punishing strike to a different thug’s jaw.
Preacher snorts. “Thought you saw him!” he snaps, landing a final punch that sends his opponent reeling into another side table. The table collapses under the impact, adding to the chaos of splinters. He glances at the broken bottle in my assailant’s hand. “You fucker! That’s the good stuff!”
One of the guys behind me tries to get up, but Preacher lashes a swift kick into his ribs, not even looking at him as he does it. A second later, a fist whistles toward my temple.
I drop low, letting the blow breeze overhead, then come up with a straight jab to the man’s jaw. He staggers back, eyes fluttering. Preacher deals the final blow—a swift kick across the bastard’s chest that sends him flying. “Thought you had it all under control, Sam! What the fuck is this shit?”
“We’re handling it?—”
“Handled, huh? You’re supposed to be the responsible one!” He’s winded, beads of sweat rolling down his temple. “Instead you’re letting my daughter?—”
He doesn’t finish because the last of the four surges from the hallway, ramming a dining chair into Preacher’s side. They slam into a wall with enough force to rattle the family photos. My heart jolts.
That’s the wall where countless pictures used to hang—Marie in pigtails, family holiday shots, everything that made this place into a home. Now, the frames are askew or shattered on the floor.
I lunge, grabbing the attacker’s collar, yanking him off Preacher. My adrenaline flares, and I hurl him to the floor with a grunt, pinning him for a moment before he scrambles away. “You okay?”
He rubs his shoulder, wincing but standing tall. “This is about that nonsense with my daughter, isn’t it?” he manages, eyes flicking to me. “Sam?—”
“Not now,” I grind out through clenched teeth, scanning the room for other threats. The tension in the air is suffocating, laced with dust from all the broken furniture. My lungs burn, and the bruises on my body throb. We’re outnumbered, but these last few punks are losing steam. We can do this.
I ran out of bullets two minutes ago, but thankfully, so did they. That’s when it became a barroom brawl inside Preacher’s home.
I spot a movement by the overturned couch. A battered thug brandishing a switchblade. He lunges for me with a wild slash, but his aim’s sloppy.
I step back, pivot, and catch his wrist, twisting until I hear the pop of a dislocated joint. He howls, dropping the knife.
Preacher steps in with a heavy punch to the jaw, sending the man sprawling into the shards of what used to be the coffee table. He shouts curses when they pierce his body, some coming out the other side, and then, silence.
For a heartbeat, there’s a lull. The sound of panting, scraping boots, men groaning on the floor. Dust motes drift through the overhead light. I inhale, wincing at a stitch in my side. Preacher’s gaze locks on mine, dark with urgency. “You think we’re done?”
“We took out six inside,” I reply, wiping sweat and blood from my face. “Trick and Hugo are out there handling the rest.” My gut twists at the thought of Trick. He sounded hurt earlier when he shouted her name. Why he shouted it, I don’t know. I mutter under my breath, “I just pray to God Marie’s okay.”
Preacher tenses, flexing his bruised hands. The man is a walking wound. I haven’t seen him this torn up in years, but right now, he barely seems to notice. “She better be. You’re supposed to protect her. Instead, you?—”
He breaks off when a battered gangster near his feet tries to grab his ankle. Preacher stamps down on the man’s wrist, eliciting a pained moan. Standing on that shattered wrist, Preacher lifts his other foot and slams it on the man’s head once, twice, and then again until he stops moving.
The brutality is impressive for a man who’s been on the outside as long as he has. But it never really leaves you. You can put down your gun and pick up a Bible, but the moment your child is in danger, the old you comes back in a blink.
He steps away, scowling. “You let her get mixed up with you three,” he growls, voice trembling with anger. “Don’t think I don’t know about it.”
“Let’s survive the night first.” My ribs ache, making me hiss as I shift. “Then we can talk about blame.”
One of the men is still conscious but cowering behind a broken cabinet, peeking out with panic in his eyes. Another is moaning near the hallway, possibly concussed from colliding with a doorframe. I sense no immediate threat. They’re done. A brief hush settles, broken only by our ragged breathing.
“Let’s drag them out,” I suggest. “We need to find Marie, make sure she and the guys are good. These assholes can be bargaining chips.”
He nods, though his jaw sets at the mention of Marie. “Fine,” he snaps, hooking his hands under an unconscious thug’s arms. “But we’re having a word about her once this is done.”
We haul the battered intruders across the living room, stepping gingerly around the worst debris. Two are unconscious, two dead. One is half-lucid, muttering curses, and the last is crawling, trying to stifle a groan. We each take a pair and drag them across the threshold, out onto the porch, before grabbing the last two.
My arms burn with the effort. My sides throb. I can’t remember the last time I felt so thrashed. But the night isn’t over yet.
Or maybe it is.
Stepping outside, we’re greeted by a drastically changed scene from when I first rushed in. The yard was a battleground of gunshots and grappling figures, but now it’s eerily quiet and extremely dark now that the streetlamps aren’t working.
Broken furniture that once sat on the porch lies scattered. Bullet holes scar the siding. The porch light flickers, giving the yard an even spookier glow, especially considering how much damage there is to the wooden porch itself. Random lumps around the yard…bodies, or men who can’t get up. My heart lurches, scanning for signs of life. Signs of Marie.
I see Hugo first, leaning heavily against the side of my shot-up truck, shoulders rising and falling with fatigue. Blood trickles down his forehead from a cut at his temple. He looks exhausted. Relief loosens a knot in my chest—he’s alive and standing.
“Where’s Marie?” I shout.
He casually points across the yard.
She stands near the edge of the yard, shoulders hunched, hair wild around her face. She’s got a knife clutched in her right hand. She’s breathing hard, eyes full of a defiant glint.
What the fuck happened to her? Why does she have my knife?
There’s no sign of Crow or his men, aside from those who can’t move of their own volition. The fight is effectively over.
“Y’all gonna let me finish bleeding out, or what?” Trick says from the dark.
Preacher aims the now dangling porch light toward his voice while I squint that direction. I see a flash of metal—his belt buckle—and run toward him. Preacher keeps the light on him now that we know where to look.
He sits in the dirt and torn grass, one hand clamped over his thigh, face contorted. I spot the dark stain of blood saturating his jeans. My stomach twists—he was definitely shot or stabbed badly, likely losing more blood than he can afford.
Trick’s lips quirk in a half-smile, as though proud to still be conscious. Typical Trick.
I help him to his feet, operating as his personal crutch to get him inside the house. “Looking a little pale, soldier.”
“Aw, listen to that, Preacher. He’s worried about me. Next thing I know, he’ll be making me chicken soup, or some shit.”
Preacher grumbles, “You’d be lucky to get it. His chicken soup cures everything.”
I ignore their faux-bickering and concentrate on what matters while I kick debris around to create an open space, then lay Trick on the bloodstained floor.
Marie’s safe.
She’s on her feet, brandishing a weapon. I have no clue what she endured in the last few minutes, but she’s not lying in a pool of blood. That’s enough to spur me forward.
Once I know Trick will be okay for a minute without me, my entire focus narrows to Marie. My pulse leaps as I break into a run, crossing the yard in long strides. Her eyes snap toward me, telling me not enough and all too much. Her emotions are right on the surface, and as much as I want to sweep her into my arms, her hand still grips the knife so tightly her knuckles are white.
“Marie!” My voice cracks with urgency. She’s still standing, but I need to check for wounds, need to see if she’s injured or in shock. By the strange look in her eyes, the last is likely. My feet slip on the torn-up grass, and I nearly collide with her. She meets me halfway, her chest hitching in a shaky exhale.
“Sam,” she whispers, voice trembling.
As soon as my hands settle on her shoulders, my gaze roams frantically, searching for blood, bruises, anything to indicate serious harm. “You okay?”
She nods, arms slack at her sides, the knife falling into the dirt. “I—I’m not hurt. Physically. Not much. Crow—he’s gone. I made him leave.”
I exhale a shaky breath of my own, tugging her forward into a fierce, impulsive hug. It might not be what she needs, but right now, it’s exactly what I need. Her body trembles, heart pounding against my chest. My mind reels with the knowledge that she was alone with Crow, alone enough to force him to retreat. She had a knife, but that’s still a monumental gamble.
“God,” I whisper into her hair, which smells of girl sweat and dust. “I was so worried.”
We stay like that for a moment, until a voice rips through the haze. Hugo, leaning out the front door. “Cuddle later, Trick’s bleeding out, move it!” He dips back inside.
My head snaps up, guilt piercing me. “Right, we should?—”
“He’s bleeding out?” she whispers.
We take each other’s hands and run inside together. I pull away from Marie to look at Trick. The moment we’re inside, Preacher grabs his daughter for a rough bear hug.
Trick is still on the floor, caked with dirt and blood. Hugo or Preacher must have cut his jeans open around the wound. He flashes me that ridiculous grin, despite his ashen complexion. “Not dead yet,” he rasps, as if that’s supposed to comfort me. “The bullet only messed up my tattoo.”
I roll my eyes at his feeble joke, but a grin tugs at my lips, relief and exasperation blending. “Barely alive, more like.” I crouch near him, scanning the wound. The bullet hole looks deep, blood everywhere. It’s hard to know what’s a part of the wound and what’s not.
Hugo approaches, limping slightly, a gash on his forearm I hadn’t noticed. He glances between me and Trick. “I can pull that bullet out and stitch him up. I have what I need in my bag.” Hugo kneels by Trick’s side, pressing a cloth to slow the bleeding.
Trick hisses, eyes watering from the pain. “Careful, man.”
Hugo huffs, “You want to keep that leg, you hush.” Then he shoots me a pointed look. “You know what to do.” He flicks his eyes at Marie.
She’s stepped away from Trick, fear in her eyes. Nervous energy flows out of her, as if she can’t hold still. Post-fight adrenaline crash threatens to force her to the floor too.
I guide her to a chair, flip it over for her, and gently press on her shoulders until she sits. She meets my eyes, giving me a strange nod. I sense a thousand questions swirling between us—What happened? Why do I feel like this? Is Trick going to live?
She needs someplace to put that energy. So I tell her, “Call the cops. Tell them your father was attacked, that we handled it, but there are men to be picked up. Got that?” There’s no hospital in Auclair, or I’d have told her to call an ambulance for Trick.
Marie nods and pulls out her cell phone. It’s probably the only one here that didn’t get smashed, which means Crow didn’t beat her. The thought lets me breathe a little easier.
“Hurry,” Hugo snaps, adjusting Trick’s bandage. “He’s losing too much blood. We need to get that bullet out and sew him up. Marie, if you cannot deal with?—”
“Save him. I’m fine,” she says right before speaking to the dispatcher.
Time to get to work.