Chapter Thirty Seven #2
A shot. A shout. A man on the left flank of the group dropped.
The rest of them ducked, others searched wildly for the source.
Grim moved quickly, his hand going to his cut.
I ran without thinking, my legs and arms pumping fast, my heartbeat filling my ears.
He pulled his hand from the cut, metal glinting in the daylight.
Another shot. To my left. Boots crunched loudly over gravel.
Voices filled the air. Grim straightened his arm.
I jumped now, my foot slipping on the stones under my feet.
The gun exploded beside my ear before I could get to it.
Behind me, I heard Fury. Demon rushed past on my left.
Time moved fast and slow all at once. I landed hard, my elbow striking the ground, pain ripping through the bone.
My fingers wrapped around his wrist, and I smashed his arm into the decaying tarmac underneath us.
One. Two. A dull crunch. Grim groaned and wrenched sideways, the knee striking hard in my stomach, forcing my diaphragm into my chest cavity. I sucked in a sharp, shuddering breath.
I rolled onto my back, Grim pushing to his feet before driving his toe hard into my ribs.
Pain radiated from the spot, and I clutched my side, scrambling up as my lungs struggled to fill.
Grim ran at me, fists flying at my face, and I ducked his arms, returning with a quick combination that sent him staggering back.
A shot rang out to my left. Someone fell in my periphery.
Grim ducked a haymaker, the returning uppercut hitting me hard in the chin, ripping my head backwards, my spine striking the uneven tarmac.
Darkness swelled in my head. Pitch black. Fuck. I felt the trickle of something warm run down my eye.
“Fucking Geordie, scum,” the deep south drawled. My head snapped to the other side. “Fucking Kings cunts.” Another blow to my face. The man on top of me blurred in and out of focus.
Then he grinned. Blood in his teeth.
“You reap what you sow, boy.”
Everything stopped.
The car park disappeared. The bikes. The gunfire. The grunts. The groans. All of it gone beneath fluorescent prison lights and concrete walls slick with damp. Hands holding me down. Boots cracking ribs. A screw whispering those same fucking words into my ear while blood filled my mouth.
Something inside me split open.
I roared and surged upward, my forehead smashing into Grim’s nose hard enough to explode blood across both our faces.
He reeled backwards, and I was on him before he hit the ground properly.
Knee driving into his chest. Fist after fist after fist slamming into his face.
I couldn’t hear anyone anymore. Not Fury.
Not Indie. Not the gunshots. Just those words. Only those words.
You reap what you sow.
My knuckles split open against bone. Teeth shattered under my fists.
Grim tried to shield his face, and I grabbed his wrist, wrenching the arm sideways until something tore.
He screamed. I hit him again. And again.
And again, until the scream stopped and something wet and ruined sat beneath me instead of a man.
My chest heaved, blackness peeling back from my vision. I looked up slowly. Silence. Not true silence. Somewhere engines still rattled. Someone groaned in pain. A bike indicator clicked uselessly against broken tarmac. But compared to the chaos from seconds earlier, the stillness felt deafening.
The Kings stood scattered across the car park staring at me. Some only a few feet away. Prospects pale beneath their cuts. One looked like he might be sick. Another gripped a sawn-off shotgun so tightly his hands shook around it.
Fuck.
I dragged my gaze away from them and looked around properly.
Bodies littered the gravel. Bloody Hand.
Notorious. Blood pooled dark between potholes in the broken car park, soaking into oil-stained tarmac and loose gravel.
One bastard twitched near the bikes, clutching his stomach, while another lay face down beside the wall, unmoving.
Fury stood near the pub doors, clutching his bicep, blood slipping steadily between his fingers.
One of the twins limped heavily nearby, jeans soaked dark red from a slice through his thigh while Chaos pressed a ripped bar towel against it.
Or Carnage. I genuinely couldn’t fucking tell which one it was anymore.
Indie stood in the middle of it all, breathing hard.
His knuckles split open and covered in blood that wasn’t entirely his own.
Then I saw Baz.
He lay flat on his back near the front of the pub, eyes empty and fixed on the bright spring sky above him. Blood spread slowly beneath his cut. I stared at him. Not feeling much of anything. Indie followed my gaze.
“He took Grim’s bullet,” he said quietly. “Got his way out, anyway.”
Something twisted strangely in my chest at that. Not quite forgiveness, and not remorse. But maybe understanding.
Surviving rivals started moving then. Scrambling for bikes. Half dragging wounded men with them while engines roared heavily as they retreated, no one up for a fight anymore.
Then a slow clap sounded from behind us. Every head turned. V strode out the Dog like he was arriving late to a fucking party, sniper rifle slung casually over one shoulder and a bottle of beer hanging between his fingers.
Indie stared at him in disbelief.
“It was fucking you upstairs,” Indie growled, rolling his eyes. “I told you to stay positioned at the church with the Reverend.”
The Viking shrugged arrogantly, taking a swig from the bottle like bullets hadn’t just torn through the fucking clubhouse.
“Aye,” he answered calmly. “Then I decided that was a fucking stupid plan.”