Chapter 9 #4
“Stay here,” he orders, checking a handgun before tucking it into his waistband. “Lock the door behind me. Don’t open it for anyone but me or Grey.”
“Zach—” I begin, but he cuts me off with a kiss, hard and quick.
“I need to know you’re safe,” he says, his voice dropping to that register that brooks no argument. “Please.”
I nod, understanding that arguing will only divide his attention when he needs to be fully focused. “Be careful.”
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Always am.”
Then he’s gone, slipping through the door with barely a sound. I lock it behind him as instructed, my hands shaking slightly as I return to the window. The clubhouse has come alive below. No lights, no shouting, just the silent deployment of a well-trained force.
I spot Zach as he emerges onto the grounds, moving to join Grey and Butcher near the main entrance. They confer briefly, then split up, Zach heading toward the area where I spotted the intruders.
The silence is worse than gunfire would be, this tense waiting, knowing something is about to happen but not when or how. I press my forehead against the cool glass, straining to see into the shadows where I last spotted movement.
The first explosion takes me completely by surprise.
The front gate erupts in flames and noise, the concussive force rattling the windows even two stories up.
I jerk back instinctively, heart hammering in my chest as shouts and gunfire erupt below.
Through the chaos, I can make out figures rushing the gate, using the explosion as cover to breach the perimeter.
This is a diversion, I realize suddenly. The men I spotted at the tree line, they’re coming from the back while everyone rushes to defend the front.
I back away from the window, adrenaline surging through my system. My medical training kicks in: assess, decide, act. Staying locked in this room while the club is under attack isn’t an option. Not when I might be able to help.
My eyes land on the cabinet Zach left partially open in his haste to leave.
Inside, a smaller handgun rests on the shelf.
His backup weapon. I cross the room in three strides, my hand closing around the grip.
The weight is familiar; my father made sure both Samantha and I knew how to handle firearms safely after a break-in when we were teenagers.
“Always respect the weapon.” My dad’s voice echoes in my head as I check the magazine. “Never point it at anything you’re not willing to destroy.”
The gun is loaded, safety on. I tuck it into the waistband of my jeans, at the small of my back like I’ve seen Zach do. The metal is cold against my skin, a stark reminder of what I might need to do with it.
Another explosion rocks the building, closer this time. The sound of breaking glass and splintering wood follows. They’re inside.
I unlock the bedroom door, easing it open just enough to peer into the hallway. It’s empty, but I can hear shouting from the main room, the distinctive pop of gunfire. The women and children will be gathered in the safe room off the main hall. I need to get to them, make sure they’re protected.
My heart pounds against my ribs as I slip into the corridor, keeping low and moving quickly toward the stairs. The acrid smell of smoke fills my nostrils, burning my eyes as I descend. At the bottom, I press my back against the wall, taking a deep breath before peering around the corner.
The main room is chaos: overturned tables creating makeshift barricades, and club members firing at intruders who’ve breached the front entrance.
I spot Grey behind the bar, blood streaming from a cut on his forehead as he reloads his weapon.
Butcher stands near the chapel doors, providing cover for two prospects who are dragging a wounded brother to safety.
No sign of Zach.
A woman’s scream cuts through the gunfire, coming from the kitchen area. Weren’t they supposed to be in the safe room?
Without thinking, I move toward it, keeping to the shadows along the wall. The gun is in my hand, safety off now, finger resting alongside the trigger guard just as my father taught me.
“Remember,” he’d said during those practice sessions at the range, “you don’t put your finger on the trigger until you’re ready to shoot. And you don’t shoot unless you’re sure.”
I reach the kitchen doorway, my blood turning to ice at what I see. Two men in Reaper cuts have cornered Livie and Tiana, who are standing protectively in front of three children. One of the men has his back to me, weapon raised and pointed at the women.
“Where’s the doctor?” he demands, voice rough with excitement. “Riggs wants him alive.”
They’re looking for me. The realization hits me like a physical blow that they came here specifically for me, to use me against Zach.
“Go to hell,” Tiana spits, her body shielding the smallest child completely.
He raises his gun higher, and something inside me snaps. I step into the doorway, weapon raised in a two-handed grip, just as my father showed me.
“It takes a real man to bully two females,” I voice, pissed off.
Both men whirl toward me, surprise evident in their expressions.
The moment of confusion is all I need. I squeeze the trigger twice in rapid succession, the recoil jarring up my arms as the first Reaper drops, clutching his shoulder.
The second shot goes wide as he falls, but it’s enough to make the other man dive for cover.
“Run!” I shout to Livie and Tiana. “Get the kids out the back way!”
They don’t hesitate, herding the children toward the rear exit. The second Reaper rises from behind a counter, firing wildly in my direction. I duck back into the doorway, plaster dust raining down as bullets impact the wall inches from my head.
My heart hammers so hard I can feel it in my throat, taste copper on my tongue as fear threatens to overwhelm me. But then I think of Zach out there somewhere, fighting to protect what’s his. Fighting to protect me.
I can do this. I have to do this.
Taking a deep breath, I pivot around the doorframe, dropping to one knee as I reacquire my target. The Reaper is moving toward the back exit, intent on pursuing Livie and the children. I raise the gun, just as my father taught me.
“Don’t think of it as killing,” Dad had said. “Think of it as stopping the threat.”
I squeeze the trigger, the sound exploding in the confined space.
The Reaper jerks, stumbles, then crashes into the counter before sliding to the floor.
I advance cautiously, weapon still raised, every nerve ending alive with adrenaline.
He’s alive but incapacitated, blood spreading across his chest in a crimson stain that triggers my medical instincts even as my survival instincts keep the gun trained on him.
“Don’t move,” I warn, my voice steadier than I feel.
His eyes find mine, hatred warring with pain. “You’re him,” he wheezes. “The doctor. Slaughter’s bitch.”
I ignore the taunt, keeping my distance as I check the doorway Livie and Tiana used to escape. It’s clear. They got away with the children.
“Who sent you?” I demand, though I already know the answer.
He laughs, a wet sound that ends in coughing. “You’re all dead anyway. Riggs is going to burn this place to the ground.”
The name confirms my fears. The Reapers’ president has come personally for this attack. Which means this isn’t just about territory, it’s about annihilation.
A crash from the main room pulls my attention. More gunfire, shouts, the distinctive sound of Zach’s voice calling orders. He’s alive. The relief nearly causes my knees to buckle.
I need to get back to him, but I can’t leave an enemy combatant behind me, even a wounded one.
Medical ethics war with survival instincts once again as I look at the bleeding man.
The doctor in me wants to help, to stop the bleeding.
Meanwhile, the man fighting for his life, for Zach’s life, knows better.
“On your stomach,” I order, stepping closer. “Hands where I can see them.”
Surprisingly, he complies, though the movement costs him. I quickly check him for additional weapons, finding a knife in his boot that I kick away. Using zip ties I spot on the counter left from someone’s kitchen project, I secure his hands behind his back.
“This doesn’t have to be fatal,” I tell him, medical training asserting itself despite everything. “But you’ll bleed out if the bullet nicked an artery.”
“Fuck you,” he manages, but there’s less heat behind it now, pain and blood loss taking their toll.
I grab a clean dish towel, pressing it against the wound. “Apply pressure,” I instruct, guiding his bound hands to hold it in place. “And don’t move.”
He stares at me with confusion. “Why would you help me?”
“Because I’m a doctor,” I reply simply. “And because I’m not like you.”
Leaving him secured, I move back toward the main room, staying low as I assess the situation.
The initial chaos has evolved into a more organized defense.
Club members have established firing positions, working in coordinated pairs to push back the invaders.
But the Reapers keep coming, using the smoke and confusion to press their advantage.
I spot Greyson behind an overturned table, blood still streaming down his face as he reloads. Without thinking, I hurry to his side, dropping into cover beside him.
“What the hell are you doing down here?” he demands, though there’s no real anger in his voice, just concern.
“Helping,” I reply, gesturing to his head wound. “You’re bleeding pretty badly.”
He waves off my concern. “Just a graze. Where’s Zach?”
“I was hoping you knew,” I admit, anxiety tightening my chest again. “I haven’t seen him since he left our room.”
* * *
Zach