Chapter Twenty-Two
Colter
It was pure chaos when I burst into the clubhouse.
Men scrambled.
But none of them were quite as motivated as I was.
And with Saint and Syn not far behind me, it wasn’t long before blood was painting the walls, the couches, and the filthy-ass, drug-covered coffee tables.
It seemed like the fuckers had trouble locating guns. Hence why they’d wanted to make that deal with us in the first place. Only two of the guys seemed to have guns of their own.
One raised his shaky arm, trying to aim at Syn.
Saint lost his fucking mind, taking the guy down in the middle, and then beating the fucker’s face in until he was unrecognizable.
Meanwhile, Syn held his own, taking on another younger guy who was swinging a sad little switchblade.
I saw blood bloom on Syn’s forearm.
But the sight of it, the searing pain of the slice, only seemed to fuel Syn, who got into the cage of the guy’s body, grabbed his head, and slammed it hard into the corner of the wall.
As for me, I plowed into two guys at once, knocking them down like fucking dominos, then pounded into the one who wasn’t pinned to the ground until he stopped moving.
I shoved his body off to the side, grabbed the other one’s head in both hands, and slammed it down on the floor, watching the life drain from his eyes.
All I could hear was my labored breathing and the whooshing of blood in my ears.
Until I moved deeper into the house, trusting Saint and Syn to finish up in the main room.
Then I heard it.
A low rumbling.
Dogs growling.
I turned to the side, heading down a dark hallway toward the back of the building.
If I remembered correctly, on Dylan’s map, there was a small, windowless, cinderblock and cement room where people could be kept and beaten without any hope of escape.
Of course, that was where she would be taken.
My hands were curled so tightly my knuckles screamed. Sweat streamed down my face, blood dripped from the gunshot wound in my arm.
I barely noticed it.
Not with the idea of what could be happening to Dylan in that torture room.
I reminded myself that she had my knife.
That she wasn’t defenseless.
That it had only been a few minutes.
Right?
Time blurred in a fight.
What felt like seconds could be a lot longer. It was hard to tell when you were thrumming with adrenaline and anger.
No.
No, dammit.
I wasn’t going to let my mind go there.
She was fine.
She was a fighter.
She could buy herself time.
I was closing in on the door when I heard a roar that had my blood running cold.
I moved into the dim space to see Roach starting to lift a gun.
Behind him, a bloody, bruised Dylan frantically tried to reach for the knife as she stood in front of the rumbling dogs.
Some part of me wanted to get Dylan and the dogs out of the torture room, then come back in and spend a few hours slowly and methodically breaking every bone in the motherfucker’s body.
But greater than my thirst for revenge for what he’d done to her was the need to get her safe, to feel her in my arms again, to check her over and make sure she was okay.
So it was just some of my very basic training that had me grabbing the bastard’s head and chin, then, with one fast, firm motion, breaking his neck.
Then there she was.
Flying into my arms.
Clinging to me.
My arms tightened around her, probably squeezing too tightly, but I couldn’t bring myself to loosen my hold.
Not even as the gunshots rang out in the clubhouse, making Dylan jerk and stiffen.
The silence that followed had my gut twisting.
Until, suddenly, Saint’s voice moved into the doorway and called out, “Clear!”
He was probably talking to his brother, the two of them doing a sweep to make sure no one slipped through our fingers.
“We’re gonna need Dylan,” Saint said, catching my eye. “The girls,” he added, his voice lower.
A pained sound escaped her at that, and I held on a little tighter for a second.
“Are you okay? Hurt?” I asked.
“Bruised, mostly,” she admitted, finally pulling against my hold until I had no choice but to let her go. “You’re bleeding. You’re bleeding a lot,” she said, grabbing at my shirtsleeve and yanking it up. “Oh, my God. Are you shot? You’re shot.”
“Grazed,” I clarified.
“It’s not bleeding like it’s a graze,” she said, reaching down to grab her tee and yanking it up over her head.
“Don’t,” she said when an uncontrollable rumble moved through me at seeing her in that lacy black bra of hers.
“I’m trying to stop the bleeding, idiot,” she told me, pressing the shirt hard into my arm.
A hiss escaped me at that, but if she wanted to take care of me, I was going to let her.
“Are you hurt anywhere else?” she asked.
“I’m fine.”
“Your knuckles are all busted open.”
“They’re fine.”
“And your face.”
“Fine too. Everything is fine if you’re alright.”
“This is not the time for being sweet,” she said, rolling her eyes at me. “Hold this,” she demanded, pressing my arm harder.
Deciding to placate her, I reached across my chest to hold the shirt to my arm. Only to have her yank up my shirt.
“Weird time to wanna fuck, but I can rally,” I said, making a pained laugh escape her as she pressed her hand to my ribs.
A curse escaped me at the sharp pain that shot up my side.
“Can you take a deep breath?” she asked.
“It’s—”
“I swear to God, if you say it’s fine one more time, I’m going to beat you up myself.”
My lips curved up at that. “I think they’re just bruised. I’m not short of breath. Got a lot of muscle protecting me from too much damage.”
“Is he okay?” Saint asked, returning, a phone pressed to his ear.
It was time to stop pretending I was taking the lead on any part of this job. Saint was the more natural leader. Besides, I was happy to hand over the reins. I’d rather focus on Dylan.
“He was shot,” she explained. “And his ribs are bruised. His hands…”
Her voice went suddenly thick, and when I looked down at her, her eyes were swimming.
“I’m gonna be alright, baby,” I assured her. “It’s all minor.”
“It doesn’t look minor.”
“Look, I’m barely bleeding anymore,” I said as Saint came over, wedging the phone between his ear and shoulder so his hands were free to pull the shirt away to check out the wound himself.
“It’s a graze,” Saint said.
“Told you,” I said, getting a glower from Dylan.
It was my first good look at Saint.
The guy looked like a horror movie. His shirt was soaked with blood. His face was covered in it. His left eye was half swollen shut. There was a gash down the side of his neck. And the way he was holding himself made me think he’d fucked up his leg.
“How’s Syn?”
“Beat up. But he’ll be fine. Slash, a few of the guys, and some of the girls are on their way. We’ve got a lot of fucking work to do.”
“The girls?” I asked, brows pinching.
“Yeah, uh, Morgaine and Vienna. Because of their pasts,” he added. “You know… to help with the girls.”
A little whimper escaped Dylan at that.
“Are they okay?” she asked.
“There are only three here. The woman from outside—”
“Diana.”
“Diana,” Saint said. “A pixie-cut blonde, and one with pink hair.”
“What? There should be… a dozen. More.”
“Seems like this operation is split. Some are working over in L.A. Some are here.”
“This isn’t all of them?” I asked, stomach churning.
“They pimp out the girls in the city, and bring the money back here.”
The pained animal sound that escaped Dylan had my heart aching for her.
These were her people.
She had to be feeling some kind of responsibility for what happened to them, however misplaced that was.
“Here,” I said, shaking out Dylan’s shirt, then gathering it up and pushing it down over her head. Was it soaked in my blood? Sure. But it was better than her walking around in her bra when she talked to her girls for the first time again.
“Where are they?” she asked, looking at Saint.
“Syn has them in the kitchen. They don’t need to see what’s out there.”
“I need to talk to them.” She glanced at me, her tone apologetic. “Alone.”
“Yeah, that’s okay,” I agreed. “You’ve got a lot to talk about. Just gonna walk you out there.”
With that, Saint kicked at Roach’s body, double-checking my handiwork.
Dylan followed me out.
The dogs followed Dylan.
If I thought we all looked like a horror movie, it was nothing compared to the clubhouse.
Saint must have flicked on the lights as he cleared the house. Every splash, splatter, and pool of blood was painfully on display. As were the mangled bodies of the club men.
If I’d been expecting some kind of regret or remorse, it never came.
Every single one of them had a part in drugging and exploiting unwilling women. They’d likely all taken turns abusing them themselves.
They had it coming to them.
Even if the mess was a little hard to stomach with the adrenaline and rage draining.
“I’ll come out when I’m done,” Dylan said as she stopped outside the doorway to the kitchen.
“Hey,” I said, grabbing her chin between my thumb and forefinger. “You’ve got this. You’ve waited a year for this. You’re free. They’re free. It’s all over. They just need your strength now. For what comes next. You’ve got more than enough to lend them some.”
Her eyes went watery again.
But she quickly blinked the moisture away.
“Hey, Colter?”
“Yeah, babe?”
“I’m in too,” she said.
Then, in a mildly chickenshit move, she ducked quickly into the kitchen, knowing I wouldn’t follow.
I didn’t.
I just stood there for a moment, letting the words sink in, feeling them spread across my chest. The pleasure of it chased away all the various pains that had started to nag at me.
When Syn moved out of the kitchen, Saint appeared out of nowhere, jerking his head toward the front of the building.
“Realistically, how much can you pull it together?” he asked.
“I can do whatever Slash wants us to do.”
“They are four or five hours out, max. But these bodies are going to stiffen up by then. And, well, we don’t really need the girls seeing this.”
“You want to move the bodies,” I concluded.
“I want them in the woods. Out of sight of the road and the girls. The guys will help us start digging when they get here. They’re bringing the gear we will need.”
“Alright. Let’s get moving then,” I said.
I was favoring my arm and ribs.
Saint was trying to pretend he wasn’t babying his knee.
And Syn was attempting not to show his brother the way his one arm dangled.
I didn’t rat him out. I just lent my good arm and helped him drag each body, one by one, outside.
Saint found an old wheelbarrow that made the job somewhat easier.
But by the time all the bodies were hauled out into a line in the woods and we put a tarp over them, we were all drenched in sweat. And if how I was feeling was anything to go by, we were all hurting like hell too.
“Alright. I’ve kept my mouth shut long enough,” I said as we closed in on the clubhouse again. Saint’s gaze cut to me, brows knitted. “I think your brother broke his arm or collarbone,” I told Saint.
“What?” Saint barked, his whole body stiffening.
His gaze moved over his brother, who shot me a frustrated look.
“Sorry, man. You couldn’t keep it from him forever.”
“Let me see,” Saint demanded.
I was only vaguely aware of them speaking, though, as Dylan moved into the doorway and gave me a shaky smile.
“You okay?” I asked.
She’d been crying.
I’d bet good money all the others had been too.
She gave me a tight nod.
“So, you’re in this, huh?” I asked, sliding an arm around her.
“Yeah,” she admitted. “I don’t know what that means yet, future-wise. But yes.”
“We’ve got plenty of time to figure out all that other shit,” I said, pressing my forehead to hers.
“There is one thing, though,” she said, glancing behind her where two dogs were standing, watching her patiently. “Two, I guess.”
“We’ve got three dogs now, huh?”
The look she gave me right then made my chest feel fucking tight; it was so full.
It was sweet, hopeful, unguarded.
Everything I’d been waiting for.
And now I had it.
I had her.
Nothing else mattered.