Chapter 26 Doc
DOC
Knox barges in with a seizure warrant. Not for Wren. “By court order, this clubhouse and all affiliated properties are being seized pending federal investigation.”
He’s holding out the paper like a shield.
Three men come in behind Knox, and they’re not his usual deputies.
Sin is the first to react, ushering Wren toward the back. They’re not going to get her regardless of why they say they’re here.
I clock one deputy’s grip on his gun, his finger too tight, elbow locked. It’s not local law enforcement posture. This shit isn’t sitting right.
Their shoes aren’t government issued, instead they’re black snake skin and steel.
The way they fan out in the room is tactical, not procedural. I’ve seen it enough times in the ER to know the difference. Those instincts I’ve used countless times in emergency situations reads this as wrong in too many ways.
That one’s nervous. Nervous men fire.
My hands find my hips, not quite reaching for my gun, but I want to be near it. I have a feeling I’ll need it.
“Take Colt Maddox, aka Saint, into custody boys. It’s time he paid for his crimes,” Knox orders.
Yet that man isn’t here to arrest anyone. He’s here, ready to shoot, to execute. I’ve seen that same look in enough criminals’ eyes when they came in shot, ready to fight their way out, to attack at the first provocation.
Saint stands tall, not intimidated. We’ve been through this more times than we can count. But he has to be clocking what I am.
Sin reappears at my side, and the tension in the room doubles.
Judge reaches between us to grab the warrant, standing between Knox and Saint. I read it over Judge’s shoulder, and that language isn’t right, rushed, vague.
But I can’t focus on it for long. Knox is pushing forward regardless, not looking at anyone else but Saint.
He’s fucking putting on a show again. He’ll never learn.
“You knowingly interfered with an active investigation and obstructed lawful process,” he continues.
Trumped up charges that hold no legal precedent, but that nervous one is twitching.
Sin clocks it beside me.
“You provided shelter, transportation, and protection to someone actively evading law enforcement.” The sheriff brandishes his cuffs, letting them dangle from a finger. Milking the theatrics. “You have a bad habit of stepping in front of men who pay a lot of money not to be crossed.”
Saint steps forward, ready to take the blow to protect his club. The threat is clear. If he doesn’t come, Knox and his boys are ready to burn us to the ground.
Knox’s voice lowers, the threat clear. Saint is standing in the way of that entitled piece of shit getting what he wants. “You’re coming with me, Saint. Mr. Dalton’s patience is gone.”
One of Knox’s merc deputies makes a move—too fast, too eager—drawing a gun to subdue Saint.
My heart stops.
Saint doesn’t flinch.
Pixie inhales sharply.
Sin shifts his weight.
“If we can’t get the body Grant asked for, we’ll take the one that keeps getting in the way.”
Wren pops up between Saint and the shooter, her hands up. “Stop!
Fuck. She’s supposed to be downstairs, safe. Not trying to protect us. These aren’t the kind of men who care that she’s a woman, that lets that fact sway them from doing their jobs.
Wren makes steady eye contact instead of looking at the gun. The smart move. Deliberate. How many times has she been held at gunpoint now? How many times has she talked her way out of a situation that could kill her?
My gun is in my hand. I’m not the first to draw, but I’m not usually.
“It’s me you want.”
I struggle to breathe at the pleading in her voice, she’s choosing Saint over herself. Too damn selfless. But she doesn’t understand how much danger she just put herself in.
The merc’s trigger finger tenses.
Wren’s hands shake. “Please.”
Saint shifts, ready to yank her behind him. He won’t be fast enough.
Bang.
Wren jerks, then she’s falling. Blood blooms across her chest. There’s so much of it already. I’m on my knees beside her as everything speeds up.
Sin becomes a monster, gun firing, knife twisting, a gurgled scream preceding the thud of a body behind me.
Pixie tests her lungs with Wren’s name.
Blood covers my hands as I press a clean hankie into her wound, trying to stop the bleeding. I press hard, and she cries out softly, breath coming hard and fast. It feels like an inhumane amount of pressure, I hate causing her pain, but it’s that or worse.
I’m frozen over her, stuck hurting her. Again.
The blood has soaked through the small hankie I have at my disposal. Pixie sinks beside me, fresh bar towels in her shaking hands, her blue eyes wild as she offers them to me.
Nodding, I take them and cover Wren’s wound, pressing down again to her whimper.
A bone snaps and another man screams in Saint’s grip. Fighting breaks out around me, but I can’t see anything other than how pale Wren has gotten, how bright the blood is as it spreads, how she’s barely breathing.
Her eyes flutter.
“Little bird, you have to stay with me.” I demand it, pressing a little harder to stem the flow of blood. It just keeps coming. This time her cry is more of a moan.
“You can’t close your eyes on me, Wren. Open. Keep them open.”
But she’s not. Her flashes flutter again, but her eyes don’t open again. Fuck. Echoes reach me as I track every small inhale and exhale.
Another body drops nearby, but I can’t tear myself away from her.
Knox’s scream clears the ringing in my ears, a hole in the thigh. Saint hovers over him. “You don’t get to die. Not until you answer for this.”
Then crouching beside me, Saint frowns so deeply, it’s almost rage instead of devastation.
“We’re moving her. Now. She’s still breathing, and she’s still bleeding.” I need her in my office. Where my equipment is. Where I can get that bullet out. Where I can be sure she’s not bleeding internally, that her lung isn’t collapsing, that air isn’t getting into her chest cavity.
Fucking Knox. Bringing goddamn mercenaries in here with Wren, who doesn’t know how to stay out of things. She doesn’t know how to keep herself safe. She shouldn’t have even been in here.
In my office, we lay her out on the table, and I snap at Saint, at Sin, at Pixie. I need a scalpel, grips, gauze, a bright light.
Digging the bullet out doesn’t earn me a noise, but there’s no sucking, no bubbles, as I pry that piece of lead out of her. When it pings into a pan, I’m able to slow her bleeding, but there’s so much more she needs to pull out of this.
Saint hovers on the other side of the table, a reflection of the pain I’m feeling in his gaze. “It’s not supposed to happen like this. She was supposed to be the one thing untouched by all this filth. And she went and took the bullet meant for me.”