Chapter 5 — Tate
Church is already running when I walk in.
The clubhouse smells like coffee and cigarettes. Clint sits at the head of the table, Cain's hunched over his laptop, and Holt, Diesel, and four others are scattered around the room.
I slide into a seat and Clint acknowledges me with a brief nod before continuing.
"Any movement?" Holt asks.
Cain keeps his eyes on his screen. "Chatter. Nothing concrete yet. They're planning something but I can't pin down location or timing."
"What about watch rotation?" Diesel leans forward.
"Doubled it. No one goes anywhere alone until this cools down. Perry's covering The Anchor today, should check in around noon."
I lean back and the wound across my ribs pulls slightly. I barely notice it anymore, Natalie's dressing job was solid work.
Thinking about her makes focusing on Clint's words nearly impossible. Makes me think about her standing naked in my kitchen, about the fact that she's at my house right now waiting for me to come back.
About what happens when I do.
Clint moves on to supply lines and territory when three phones suddenly go off at once—mine, his, and Cain's.
That's never a coincidence.
Clint answers first, his expression unchanging while he listens, but his body language shifts completely. Every muscle goes tight.
"Where?" A pause. "We're moving now."
He ends the call and looks at all of us.
"Perry's apartment. Blood on the ground. No Perry."
I'm standing before he finishes the sentence. Everyone else is already moving too.
We're on our bikes and rolling out in under a minute.
The ride to Perry's place takes eight minutes and my brain shifts into operational mode automatically. Running through medical scenarios.
If they took him, it's a message. If they left him behind, it's worse.
Best case scenario, he's breathing when we get there. Worst case I don't let myself consider yet.
We pull into the parking lot and I see the blood first, dark spray patterns on the asphalt near his truck, then broken glass scattered like stars, then the scuff marks that tell the story of a fight that didn't go well.
Then I spot Perry near the dumpsters, motionless on the ground.
I'm off the bike before it fully stops, running, dropping to my knees beside him.
"Perry!"
He groans and his eyes open, tracking my face. Still conscious.
The relief that hits is so intense I have to take a breath to steady myself before I can start working.
His face is destroyed. Nose clearly broken with blood everywhere, right eye swollen completely shut, left eye open but the pupil response is sluggish when I check. Possible concussion.
"Don't move," I tell him.
I reach for his right hand to check his pulse and he makes a sound, not a groan but a scream he's desperately trying to swallow.
The hand is wrong in every way that matters. Fingers bent at angles that don't exist in nature, swelling already severe and getting worse. There might be bone through the skin but I can't tell through all the blood.
Multiple fractures, at least three that I can identify visually. Maybe more.
Fuck.
I move to his ribs and press gently along his left side. He hisses sharply when I reach the third rib, and again at the fourth. Both broken, maybe more. At least two for certain.
"How many were there?" I ask him.
"Three." His voice sounds wrecked, raw. "Two of them are still here."
I look up and scan the area.
I spot them standing near the building entrance. Not hiding, not running. Just standing there watching us with their Marrow patches visible even from this distance.
They wanted us to find Perry like this, to deliver their message in person.
That was a serious mistake.
"Clint," I say.
He's already seen them. So have Holt and Diesel.
"Handle Perry," Clint tells me. "We'll handle them."
The three of them start walking with a kind of purpose that says the outcome is already decided and everyone involved knows it.
I turn my full attention back to Perry because this is my job, this is what I do.
"Can you breathe?"
"Barely," he manages.
"Ribs are broken, at least two. You're going to hurt for a while but you're not dying today."
"My hand?"
I look at it again and the damage is extensive, really bad.
"Looks broken in multiple places. You'll probably need surgery soon."
"Fuck," he breathes out.
Behind me I hear the first impact, meat connecting with bone, someone hitting concrete hard, a scream that cuts off abruptly.
I don't turn around because that's not my responsibility right now.
"Stay still," I tell Perry. "I need to stabilize your hand before we can move you."
I pull off my shirt and rip it into strips, then start wrapping his hand as carefully as possible given the circumstances.
Every small movement makes him produce sounds of pain but it can't be helped, the hand needs immobilization or the bones will shift during transport and he could lose function permanently.
Behind me come more sounds of violence. Grunts of effort, another heavy impact, someone begging in a voice that cracks.
Then the begging stops entirely.
I finish wrapping Perry's hand and check his face. He's still conscious but fading fast.
"Perry, stay with me."
"I'm here," he says, though his voice is weaker.
"Who gave the order for this?"
"They didn't say. Just kept saying it was about respect. About what happened on Route 9."
"What about the third one?"
"Left before you got here. Probably went to report back."
Footsteps approach from behind and Holt appears beside me. His knuckles are split and bleeding but he's not even breathing hard.
"Ready to move him?" he asks.
"Yeah, but carefully. Those broken ribs can puncture a lung if we're not careful."
Diesel appears on Perry's other side, also showing blood on his hands. Neither of them looks particularly concerned about it.
Together we get Perry to his feet and he makes sounds of pain but manages not to scream. Tough bastard.
"Bike or truck?" Diesel asks.
"Bike will be faster. I'll take him."
Getting a man with broken ribs and a shattered hand onto a motorcycle isn't ideal, but we manage it between the three of us.
He settles behind me with his broken hand cradled protectively against his chest and his other arm wrapped around my waist.
Every bump in the road is going to hurt like hell.
"What about the two Marrow guys?" I ask Clint.
"Taken care of," he says flatly.
I don't ask what that means because I don't need the details.
"And the third one who left?"
"We'll find him."
I start the bike and Perry's weight shifts slightly, making him groan, but his grip around my waist stays solid and strong.
"Fifteen minutes," I tell him. "Just hold on."
"Just don't hit any fucking potholes," he mutters against my back.
I almost smile at that because it means he's going to be okay.
The ride takes twelve careful minutes. I avoid every bump I can spot, take every turn as gently as possible.
Perry keeps his head pressed against my back and his breathing stays rough but steady throughout.
When I pull up to the clinic, Doc is already standing outside waiting. Someone must’ve called ahead.
He takes one look at Perry's hand and curses under his breath.
"Inside. Right now."
We get Perry onto an examination table and Doc starts working immediately. I stay close long enough to confirm my initial assessment was accurate, then Doc glances up at me.
"I've got him from here. That hand's going to need surgery but he'll keep it. He'll be out of commission for six to eight weeks minimum."
"Anything else I should know?"
"Yeah. This was professional work. Whoever did this knew exactly how to break a man without killing him. Classic message beating."
I nod because I'd already figured that out for myself.
"Keep Clint updated on his condition."
"Will do."
I head back outside to my bike. I should ride to the clubhouse, check in with everyone, find out what actually happened to those two Marrow guys.
Instead I point the bike toward home.
Because there's a woman waiting there who chose to stay. Who needs to know what happened today. Who needs to see me walk through the door covered in my brother's blood and then decide if she's still choosing this life.
The ride home happens on autopilot. My hands are covered in Perry's blood, brown and drying now, crusted under my nails and in every crease of my knuckles.
My shirt is gone, torn into strips for bandages. I'm riding shirtless with blood all over my hands in broad daylight.
I don't care.
I pull into my driveway and sit on the bike for a long moment, just looking at my hands and Perry's blood dried on my skin.
This is the reality of what I am. Violence and blood and a brotherhood that demands a cost.
She should leave. It would be the smart move.
I kill the engine, swing off the bike, and walk to my front door.
I open it and step inside.
She's sitting on the couch wearing my t-shirt with her hair pulled back. She looks up at the sound of the door.
Her eyes take in the sight of me shirtless and covered in blood.
She stands immediately and walks straight toward me without hesitation.
I expect questions, expect her to stop before she gets too close.
She doesn't stop until she's barely a foot away, close enough that I can smell my soap on her skin.
Her eyes track over me, the blood on my hands, the wound across my ribs that's still healing, then back to my face.
"You're hurt?" she asks, her voice steady and checking for facts, not panicking.
"No."
"Is someone else?"
"He'll live. Broken hand, broken ribs. He'll be out of commission for a while but he'll recover."
She nods, processing this information. Then her eyes return to my hands and the blood covering them.
"Go shower," she says simply. "I'll make food."
No questions about what happened to the men who hurt Perry. No asking if I was involved in their fate. Just accepting the reality of what my life is and moving forward with it.
I walk past her, down the hallway, into the bathroom.
I strip off my jeans and turn the shower as hot as it will go, then step under the spray.