36. Chase
36
CHASE
Tension coils tight in my gut as I strap on my vest. The weight of it presses against my ribs. The scent of gun oil lingers in the air, mixing with leather, sweat, and the unspoken rage vibrating through the room.
It’s quiet in the clubhouse, the kind of calm that settles before a storm. The sort of quiet that comes before blood spills.
Zane checks his mags, jaw tight, movements clipped. Rick paces near the door, rolling his shoulders like he’s already in the fight. His fingers flex like he’s itching to wrap them around someone’s throat.
Kip sharpens his blade at the table, his usual smirk absent. Clay leans against the wall, arms crossed, tension running through him like a live wire. Teller watches us all, unreadable as ever, but his silence is a blade of its own. We all feel it—the weight of what’s coming. The possibility that not all of us walk away.
I force a breath and double-check my Glock. One in the chamber. Safety off. Tonight, there’s no room for hesitation. No space for second-guessing.
“We move fast,” Rick says, voice steady, commanding. The voice of a man who’s done this before. “Get in, get Draven, get out. Anyone gets in our way?—”
“They don’t get back up,” Zane finishes, slamming a clip into place.
A grim agreement settles between us. No hesitation. No mercy.
My fingers flex around my knife. The cold steel is familiar, a comfort in the chaos.
Rose stands near the table, arms crossed. Her usual sharp tongue is absent, her face set in something raw. She’s vibrating with tension, but she stays silent. Draven is her person. Losing him isn’t an option. Her fingers dig into her arms like she’s holding herself together by sheer willpower.
“Stay in the van,” Rick tells her, voice softer than I expect. “Run point. We need eyes on exits.”
She wants to argue. I can see it in the way her fists clench, in the way her chest rises and falls just a little too fast. But she doesn’t. Instead, she nods once, sharp and final. “Bring him back,” she whispers.
We don’t make promises. Not in this life. But we all know we will.
The warehouse looms ahead, squat and ugly under flickering streetlights. The smell of rust, gasoline, and something acrid burns my nostrils. Zane moves first, slipping through the shadows. I follow, my heartbeat a steady drum in my ears.
Rick signals. One finger up. Two fingers forward. Move.
We take out the first two guards without a sound. My blade slides clean, warm blood coating my fingers before the body slumps to the ground. There’s a faint gurgle before silence. The way he struggles for air before the end.
Zane handles his just as fast. Clay and Kip drag them behind a stack of crates, making sure the path stays clear.
Rick’s voice is in my earpiece. “Front secure. Move.”
Inside, the air is thick with diesel fumes and sweat. My boots barely make a sound on the concrete. The warehouse hums with a low electrical buzz, the kind that makes your skin prickle.
Draven is on his knees, wrists zip-tied, blood dripping down his cheek. The cut above his brow is deep, and his right eye is swollen nearly shut. His breathing is rough, like he’s been hit in the ribs more than once.
Marcus stands over him, smirking. His cheap leather cut barely hides the arrogance oozing off him.
“Took you long enough,” he sneers.
Rick steps forward, gun raised. His finger twitches near the trigger. “Let him go.”
“You know that’s not how this works.” The man’s smile widens. His stance is too relaxed, too confident. “Your friend here is just the beginning. We’ll take them one by one until she gives herself up. The woman, the girls—they belong to someone else.”
Something in me snaps. I don’t think. I move.
Zane beats me to it. He lunges, gun up, but Marcus anticipates it. A sharp whistle and his men react instantly. Guns drawn. Chaos erupts.
The first shot rings out, deafening in the enclosed space.
Draven throws his head back, his forehead smashing into the guy behind him. The man stumbles, and Draven uses that second of distraction to twist, yanking at his bindings. His breathing is ragged, wild—but he’s fighting.
Rick’s shot takes the man’s shoulder. He crumples, screaming, clutching at the wound. More gunfire erupts from multiple directions.
“Down!” I tackle Zane as bullets strafe the wall behind us.
Pain explodes in my side. A burning, tearing sensation that feels like fire licking through my ribs.
I try to suck in a breath, but it’s like inhaling razor blades.
Warm wetness spreads across my shirt.
I hit the ground hard, knees buckling. My head smacks the cold concrete, vision blurring at the edges.
Zane’s voice is raw and furious. “Chase!”
Rick yanks me up, gripping me so hard I think my arm might dislocate. “We’re getting you out. Hold on.”
Draven’s up, stumbling but mobile. Blood stains his shirt, but he’s moving. Kip and Clay lay down cover fire, but I can see it—the shift in the fight. We’re not winning this one.
Teller’s voice in my ear. “Get the fuck out. Now.”
Rick drags me toward the exit. My boots scrape against the floor, and my vision swims. I try to lift my gun, but my arm feels like dead weight. My breath rattles. Fuck. I can feel the blood soaking my vest, seeping into my jeans. Too much blood.
The last thing I see is Marcus watching us go, smirking like he’s already won.
Then darkness takes me, and I stop seeing anything at all.
Consciousness returns in fragments. Pain slams into me first, sharp and unrelenting. A dull, pounding throb in my ribs. My limbs feel like they’re made of concrete. Voices fade in and out. Muffled, like they’re speaking through water.
“Stay with me, brother.” Zane’s voice. Strained. Desperate. Not like him at all. “Almost there.”
Movement. Bouncing. A van? Yeah. The fucking van. The familiar rumble vibrates beneath me.
“Drive faster!” Rick. Sounding like he’s barely keeping it together.
“The bleeding’s slowing.” That’s Rose. She sounds…wrecked. I’ve never heard her like this.
More movement. Steps going down—metal stairs. The basement. Jensen’s clinic.
Doc Jensen’s voice joins the chaos.
“Get him on the table. Pressure here. Someone start an IV.”
I try to talk. My mouth won’t work.
Darkness takes me again.
I dream of Evie. Of her smile when she thinks no one’s watching. Of her daughters’ laughter. Of secrets in her eyes that I’m too afraid to understand.
“Chase?” Her voice pulls me back. Real this time. “Can you hear me?”
I try to answer, but my tongue feels thick. Someone holds a straw to my lips—water, blessed water.
“The bullet missed major organs.” Doc Jensen is somewhere nearby. “But he’s running a fever. Need to watch for infection.”
“I’m sorry.” Evie’s fingers stroke my hair. “This is my fault. All of it.”
“Not your fault.” My voice comes raspy but clear. “Is Zane okay?”
“I’m here.” My brother appears in view. “Thanks to you, you stupid hero.”
“Draven?”
“Safe.” That’s Rose hovering in the doorway. “Banged up but alive.”
The fever makes everything hazy, but certain things stand sharp. Marcus’s words about agents. About taking people one by one until she gives herself up.
“Need to tell you…” But darkness pulls me under before I can finish.
More dreams. Evie in the gallery that first day—how beautiful she looked.
“He’s burning up.” Rick’s voice penetrates the fog.
“Antibiotics need time.” Doc Jensen again. “Keep him cool.”
Cool cloth on my forehead.
“Don’t leave,” I mumble during a lucid moment.
“Never.” Evie kisses my palm. “Rest now.”
But fever dreams drag me back, and I don’t know if the things I see are real.
A man’s words echo: They belong to someone else. Someone powerful. Someone Evie fears more than death.
“No.” The word tears from my throat. “Won’t let them take you.”
“Shh.” She tells me. “You’re safe. We’re all safe.” Her eyes are red-rimmed, exhausted. But she’s here. “You scared me,” she whispers.
I manage a smirk, weak as it is. “Not scared of much, sweetheart.”
Her breath catches. “You should be. You almost died.”
“Almost doesn’t count.”
Recovery comes slowly.
On day three, Doc Jensen announces, “Time to move you upstairs. But no riding for at least two weeks.”
Two weeks. Too long with threats looming. With secrets threatening to explode.