35. Hudson
HUDSON
The message hits me hard. I just stand there, shocked.
RedPrincess: Nice try motherfucker
RedPrincess: We’re coming for you
RedPrincess: You’re dead
The next message is a photo of Eva lying on the floor. Her body is twisted, and my stomach sinks. She isn’t moving.
For one horrible second, everything inside me goes cold and empty. It feels like the ground vanishes under my feet.
“Get everyone armed and mobilized,” I say, already moving.
Donnelly looks up immediately.
"What happened?"
"The Saints are coming."
His face tightens.
"Right."
"Now," I say sharply. "Move."
He runs.
The hallway erupts into motion.
Doors slamming.
Weapons are being pulled from safes and lockers.
I push through the front entrance and step out into the night.
The mansion sits high enough on the hill to see the road below.
Headlights cut through the darkness.
A lot of them.
Motorcycles.
Cars.
Trucks.
At least fifty bikes.
Maybe more.
The line stretches farther than I can see.
"They're close," I mutter.
Closer than they should be.
Closer than I expected.
Footsteps approach behind me.
Donnelly shows up with several officers behind him, their faces tense with anticipation.
I point toward the approaching vehicles.
"You hold here."
His eyes follow my gesture.
"Keep them off the house."
"What about you?"
"I'm going on offense."
His jaw tightens.
But he nods.
"I need five riders," I continue. "Fast ones who won't freeze when bullets fly."
"I'll go."
The voice belongs to Christof.
Big bastard.
Built like a wrecking ball.
He’s exactly the kind of guy I want with me.
He heads off to get four more guys.
I give Donnelly the main command here at the house before running after him.
Five minutes later, the Saints are storming the front lawn.
Gunfire erupts almost immediately.
Shouting.
Glass breaking.
Engines roaring.
The first gunshots echo through the trees as I get on my bike.
The others follow.
We slip through the back gates and disappear into the woods.
The hidden trail spits us onto the road.
Then we race down the road.
The ride seems to go on forever.
I remember my brother, blood running down his neck, his weight in my arms, and how his body went limp.
Fuck.
My grip tightens on the handlebars until my hands hurt.
I couldn't save him.
What if I can't save Eva?
No.
I force myself to stop thinking about it.
There isn't room for failure.
Not tonight.
The Saints' compound comes into view through the trees.
It's already falling apart.
Federal agents swarm the property.
Black SUVs.
Tactical teams.
Floodlights.
Sirens.
Gunfire cracks from every direction.
Men are running.
Women are screaming.
Bodies lie scattered across the lawn.
Smoke drifts through the night.
The whole place is wrecked.
And somehow, in the middle of all that chaos, nobody notices us.
No one stops us.
The Saints are too busy fighting for their lives.
I slow the bike and pull into the shadows.
The others gather around me.
I kill the engine.
Silence hangs in the air for a moment.
"Listen carefully," I say.
Every eye locks onto mine.
"Nobody follows me inside."
Christof immediately scowls.
"Hudson—"
"No."
I lower my voice.
"If she's alive, I get her out."
"If she's dead..." My jaw tightens. "None of this matters."
Nobody argues after that.
That’s a relief.
I point toward the burning compound.
"Stay hidden."
The FBI lights flash across their faces.
"If any Saints are left standing when the dust settles, you tell them to bend the knee to the Eagles or die. Those are the options." I look at each man in turn. "Women are off limits. Kids, too."
There’s a pause.
"The Saints are fucking done as of tonight."
“Yes, boss,” Christof says in his deep, bass voice. “And you?”
“I've got someone to find,” I say.
“Leverage, boss?” he asks.
“No. She’s mine, and I’m taking what’s mine.”
He grunts but doesn’t argue or say anything else.
I turn and run.
I move through the shadows along the edge of the property, away from the chaos, gun ready.
I manage to get inside without any resistance, trying to identify any features of the room where Eva’s photo was taken.
I turn a corner too fast and nearly slam straight into Baron Roybal.
He stands in the hallway holding a crowbar like some cheap movie thug.
A smirk spreads across his face.
"Looking for your little whore?"
I stop.
The gun remains pointed at the floor.
"You remember me."
His grin widens.
"Hard to forget." He laughs. "The media's gonna love this one. Golden-boy hockey player turns out to be a murdering psychopath."
I just shrug; don’t care.
That seems to irritate him.
"You know," he says, "I almost forgot you existed."
I grip the gun a little tighter.
"I killed your slut of a mother and never thought twice about the dirty little orphan she left behind."
There it is.
It's what he's always done.
He always thinks being cruel makes him powerful.
"Did you spend all these years dreaming about revenge?"
“Did you spend all these years being a fucking piece of shit you've always been?”
“What are you gonna do about it?”
"You think this happened by accident?" I ask quietly. "You think the Feds just magically found this place?"
He looks surprised at this. Something shifts in his eyes. He didn’t expect that.
“You murdered my mother. And you're not doing the same thing to Eva.”
“Eva is not yours to protect.”
He bares his teeth.
“She was supposed to be mine. You mother fucker.” He roars.
Then he charges and swings the crowbar; it slams into my wrist.
Pain explodes up my arm.
The gun flies from my hand and skids across the floor.
Baron swings again.
I duck under it and drive my shoulder into his chest.
We crash into the wall hard enough to crack the drywall.
The crowbar falls from his hand.
We hit each other at the same time.
His fist catches my jaw.
Mine catches his throat.
Suddenly, we're grappling.
Grunting.
Trading elbows and punches from inches away.
I land a strong uppercut into his gut.
Air leaves him in a violent wheeze.
That’s all I need.
I step in and drive a jab into his mouth.
He doubles over, spitting out blood and teeth.
Then the stupid bastard lunges at me again.
I meet him head-on.
Every ounce of my weight drives into him.
We crash to the floor hard.
I think of my mom’s lifeless body.
My fist crashes into his face.
Bone crunches.
His nose caves sideways with a wet crunch.
Blood sprays and pours down his cheeks.
I don't stop until he finally quits fighting back.
I push myself up, disgusted.
Blood drips from my fists.
I stare down at him for one long second.
Then I spit directly into his ruined face.
"That's for my mother, prick."
Let the Fed fuck him later.
I can’t stay here any longer; finding Eva is crucial.
I stumble through the hallways.
Everything is chaos.
Smoke curls along the ceiling.
Something nearby is burning so hot it's warping the walls.
I smell gasoline.
Burning fabric.
Melted plastic.
The air thickens with screams and gunfire.
Somewhere deeper in the house, something explodes.
A rush of heat rolls through the corridor.
"Eva!"
My voice tears from my throat.
No answer.
I keep moving.
Room after room.
Every empty doorway tightens the knot in my chest.
Then I find her.
Curled on the floor.
Motionless.
I drop beside her.
My fingers fumble against her throat, searching in desperation.
Then I feel a pulse.
It's weak, but it's there.
A wave of relief flushes over me.
“Eva, wake up.”
I brush her hair away from her face.
She’s alive.
I slide an arm beneath her shoulders.
Then hear a click.
A gun being cocked.
Slowly, I rise and turn.
Jonas Sorenson stands in the doorway.
Smoke drifts around him.
Gun raised.
Eyes cold.
"That doesn't belong to you."
His voice is calm.
I look down at Eva.
Then back at him.
"The hell she doesn't."
His jaw twitches.
"She's my daughter."
"And you stopped being her father when you left her here."
His expression darkens.
"I assume you're the one who invited all our guests."
Red and blue lights flash through the broken window.
"Consider it a gift."
Jonas nods slowly.
Then raises the gun.
"You're fucking dead."
The trigger breaks.
I dodge.
The first shot misses.
The second punches through the wall behind me.
I dive sideways.
Pop, pop.
Two more shots crack through the room.
Jonas jerks, his body going rigid before he looks down at the blood spreading across his chest. Then he drops.
Federal agents pour in, weapons raised, shouting commands.
"FBI!"
"Hands where we can see them!"
I put my hands up.
"I'm not with them. I'm your source."
One of the agents studies me.
He recognizes me.
Then he nods once and moves past me.
That’s all I need.
As soon as they're gone, I scoop Eva into my arms and carry her out of the house.
Past smoke and chaos and flashing lights.
I keep moving until we’re deep in the trees where the bikes are hidden.
Only then do I gently lay her on a patch of grass.
"Eva."
I brush her hair away from her face.
"Come on, Red," I whisper.
A small sound escapes her.
Then her eyelids flutter.
"Hey."
I press a kiss against her forehead.
"Hey, sweetheart."
Her eyes finally focus on me.
She looks confused and lost as she tries to figure out where she is.
"I knew you weren’t done fighting. You’re going to be okay," I say softly.
My hand trembles as I cup her cheek.
She leans into my touch.
For the first time all night, I feel something other than grief.
It’s over.
Or at least close enough.
Eva pushes herself up slowly, unsteady.
Then she turns and vomits.
I hold her upright until it passes.
“What… what happened?” Her voice is weak, but she’s coherent enough to ask.
I tell her what I can.
“Jonas is dead.”
Her face changes. Her mouth trembles and her eyes fill with tears.
I pull her into me. She clings just as tight.
For a long time, neither of us says anything.
We just sit there.
Holding on.
We’re grieving different people, but it’s the same war.
Eventually, I force myself to move.
“Let’s go,” I say quietly.
I help her to her feet, get her onto the bike, then climb on behind her, pulling her back against me.
I don't look back.
We ride out.
Away from the carnage, the noise, and everything that just happened.
Right now, all I care about is getting Eva to safety.