32
Cade
Fuck.
The odds of surviving shrink with every second as the three Harley Road Kings close in. These are infinitely harder targets than the Mexicans from this morning. And after forty eight hours without a wink of sleep, and half my blood volume still sitting in my cock, a three-to-one with seasoned assassins is the last thing I need.
The details give them away—bulky leather jackets hiding bulletproof vests, helmets protecting vital headshots, bikes making them fast-moving targets. And the guns they’re carrying.
AR-15s. Come the fuck on.
I’m outnumbered. Only chance is to attack first and level the odds. I pull out my Glock—laughable against their automatic rifles, but I need precision over firepower. A living dog trumps a dead lion.
Cha mber check: full rounds.
I dive under the pick up, hot gravel scorching my skin as I press flat against the ground. I have split seconds to time a kill shot. I’ve done this dozens of times, but never with my concentration this shot. And never driven by something as foreign as the fear of failing.
Because failing means Luna gets taken.
My senses lock onto the vibrations in the asphalt, judging the distance, hoping one of them is slow enough for me to take a clean shot.
At the first glimpse of rubber, I fire.
And fucking pray.
A tire explodes with a sharp crack, rubber shredding. The bike wobbles as the rider fights for control, but it’s too late. He goes down hard, bike skidding across gravel in a shower of sparks. His body tumbles over the handlebars, hitting the ground with a sickening thud.
One down.
The odds tick up a notch, but I’ve just given away my position—and ramped up their rage.
Bullets pepper the ground around me, sending gravel flying. I roll out from under the truck and crouch beside it, using the body for cover.
Rounds ricochet off the metal, echoing through the hills and ravine below.
The relentless barrage of gunfire pins me down as the truck shakes with the impact.
Shit. These bastards aren’t giving me any opening to return fire, but I can’t stay put. If I do, they’ll close in on the truck, and it’ll be game over.
The back window shatters.
“Blow them up!” Luna screams from inside.
I ’d laugh if I wasn’t one bullet away from the grave.
Another window explodes as more rounds slam through the glass. They’re getting nearer. Bolder.
Suddenly, Luna’s suggestion doesn’t seem so insane. Blow them up.
It’ll cause a god-awful ruckus, but it might just keep us breathing.
I grab the hand grenade from my calf pocket. My teeth yank the pin, and I rise to throw—
And that’s when I catch it: LED headlights slicing through the night.
A car. Barreling straight into our kill zone. Fuck.
I hesitate, and that split second costs me.
One of the bikers circles wide, his bullets slicing through the air. I duck back down, but it’s too late.
White-hot pain explodes in my shoulder, knocking me off balance. The grenade slips from my hand—
I catch it. Barely.
There’s no time to process the blood pouring down my arm or the way my body screams in protest.
There’s a living death in my hand.
I grit my teeth and toss it into the ravine below.
The explosion follows a heartbeat later, ground shaking, the shockwave knocking me back.
Hopefully it’s enough to scare away the driver—who’s probably racing to dial 911 now, that is, if the blast hasn’t alerted all the cops in the area.
I need to end this fast. Hawkins won’t take kindly to a West Coast mess—he might even put me down for good this time. I’ve got minutes, maybe less, to make it stop.
The pain in my arm sears down to my fingers, but as long as all my fingers work, I’m good.
“ You okay in there, baby?” I call out.
“How the fuck should I know? I’ve got a huge hot weight pressing me down, I can’t fucking move, there’s glass and bullets and your bomb obviously didn’t work. How is that even—”
“You’re doing great then.”
Time to level the odds more.
Gunfire pauses and I glance through the shattered window to see the two bikers splitting off and heading off in opposite directions.
I see the move for what it is: they’re not retreating, they’re closing in. Smart. In seconds, they’ll circle back and trap me from both sides like a bug. One shot from either direction and I’m toast.
But they’ve made one mistake. Or maybe I’ve looked out at the perfect time. Because both their backs are turned to me.
Two seconds, maybe less, and they’ll move into position. It’s a narrow window, but it’s all I need.
Their weaving motion is classic—harder to aim, and with the vests and helmets, hitting anything critical is impossible. That doesn’t mean I can’t fuck up their day.
I pick the biker on my left and take aim, steadying my breath. He sways more and moves more erratically, but he’s also the bigger target. I squint, forcing everything else away, and wait for that half-second when his trajectory becomes predictable.
There. I empty my clip into his retreating back.
One of the bullets hit. His vest stops it from tearing through him, but the force jars him even at this distance. His arms jerk on the handlebars, bike veering sharply right as he overcorrects. For a second, it appears he might pull it off, but his rear tire skids on gravel.
He loses control, his momentum sending him straight off the road’s edge. A brief silence before the tell-tale crunch of metal and bone on rock. Dust rises from the ravine.
Two down. One more to go. Only problem is, I’m out of bullets.
The third rider pulls up to a halt as his buddy disappears into the ravine. He kills the engine and dumps the bike, which he now realizes is more of a death trap.
I watch him swing his leg off, tear off his helmet, and angrily throw it on the ground. He’s older than I pegged him for. Which means he’s experienced.
He comes at me on foot with murder in his eyes.
Kill or be killed.
He advances, spraying everything in his path. The noise is deafening, each shot ringing like a death knell. I reach into my pocket for a spare clip but find nothing.
They’re in the center console.
The second I lean into the truck, bullets shatter the remaining windows. Luna screams as more glass rains down and I jerk back.
There’s no time to reload, not with him closing in and spraying death in an ever-tightening circle.
This is going to be bad.
My hand finds the combat knife in my belt. Steel vs gun is suicide but it’s either that or let that fucker near my woman.
I give a quick kiss to the blade, and then I vault onto the truck bed. The biker’s eyes lock on me, shock registering on his features at my unexpected move. Then he adjusts his aim
Too slow, asshole.
The knife leaves my hand as I launch myself forward, hitting the ground in a combat roll that ends behind him.
I w ait for the bullets to rip into my back, the fatal sign that I missed him. But all I hear is a wet gurgle. Gunfire ceases.
Thank fuck.
When I turn, the knife is buried in his throat, the gun forgotten as his hands reach for the blade. Crimson pours between his fingers as he stumbles two steps forward before collapsing.
The quiet is deafening after the chaos, the only sound my ragged breathing. The world slows as the adrenaline leaches out of me, paving the way for the searing pain in my shoulder.
But it’s the warm wetness spreading down my side that pulls my attention.
Blood. A lot of it. It’s soaking my shirt and running down my pants in hot streams. My knees buckle and I catch myself against the truck, leaving a bloody handprint on the black metal.
My fingers feel clumsy and numb as I pull up my shirt.
One hell of a deep bullet graze, like death itself dragged a blunt knife through my obliques. Half an inch to the left and I’d be dead.
How the fuck did I get so lucky?