Chapter Twenty-Two #2
Now, she was working her ass off for a debt that wasn’t fully hers. And some Jared Walsh was tied to it. Who the hell is this guy? And why was she left holding the bag? Was he still in her life?
The barbed wire that had loosened around his heart tightened and squeezed hard.
Rags shoved away from the window, threw the folder onto the desk, and strode out of the room. He needed a Jack, the noise, and the company of his brothers. Fuck women and their lies.
The sound of his boots echoed down the stairwell.
* * *
The sky was thick black, devoid of even a sliver of moonlight. Rags shoved his subcompact 9mm Ruger in his cut’s gun pocket. His right boot concealed a larger Ruger fitted with a silencer. In front, behind, and on all sides of him, dark silhouettes of his brothers crept into position.
Diesel, Helm, and Blade’s scouting had confirmed all twelve Devil’s Reign members were inside the clubhouse, along with five club girls and a couple of citizen hangarounds.
The main objective was to destroy the clubhouse, confiscate the cuts bearing the Colorado rocker, and teach the jerks a lesson once and for all.
At no time did the Insurgents want to hurt anyone who hadn’t done them harm. But, depending on how the Devil’s Reign reacted, there could be casualties. Some of them innocent. They’d do their best to minimize that. Still, they were outlaws living in an outlaw world.
Rags flexed his fingers once, then twice, loosening them.
The cold wind bit through his cut and settled in his bones.
Around him, boots shifted on dry grass, hard snow, and gravel.
Metal clicked and leather creaked as men adjusted their weapons.
No one spoke. Hawk lifted his hand. Everything went still, even the wind.
Then it began.
Rags moved toward the front porch. Hawk, Throttle, and Tank circled around back. Diesel, Puck, Animal, Wheelie, and Helm spread out to the sides.
There was no shout. No countdown. There was only motion.
Rags, Shadow, Smokey, Blade, and Axe crouched down low as they approached the front door.
The air smelled like gas fumes, old metal, and stale smoke.
Somewhere inside the clubhouse, music thumped faint and scratchy, and laughter spilled out between beats like nothing in the world could touch them.
Like they had no clue that in less than a few seconds, their world would implode. Assholes.
Rock and Bones peeled off toward the rear entrance while Jerry and Bear ghosted toward the north side.
The remaining brothers fanned wide, the night swallowing them whole.
Rags slid the padlock from his pocket and wrapped the bandana tight around his fist, letting the familiar weight settle into his palm.
Through the side door, the light from inside illuminated Helm, who gave a quick nod. Rags held his breath.
Three. Two. One.
The door burst inward with a splintering, perfectly in rhythm with the side and back entrances.
All hell broke loose. The heavy door slammed against the wall hard enough to rattle the hinges, killing the music mid-beat.
For half a second, the room froze. Cards hung suspended in mid-air.
Bottles stopped halfway to lips. Smoke drifted thick and lazy.
Then came a roar. “What the fu—”
Rags closed the distance before the man could finish. The padlock cracked against the guy’s cheek with a sick, wet pop, spraying teeth across the poker table. The bastard rolled from his chair and dropped before he even understood what hit him.
Chaos erupted throughout the room. Half-clothed women scrambled off men’s laps and ran for cover while a few of the targets tried to follow, but Hawk, Rock, and Throttle cut them down and stopped them cold.
Chairs scraped against concrete as Devil’s Reign members leapt to their feet.
One of them reached for a gun, but he was too slow—Tank plowed into him like a freight train, driving him through a folding table.
Wood and bone splintered over the sound of a woman screaming.
Shadow flipped the lights, encasing the room in total darkness except for the staccato muzzle flashes and the red glow of the exit sign.
Rags moved on instinct. A body rushed him, a fist crashing into his ribs.
Grunting through the pain, he swung blind.
The padlock smashed into a temple, dropping the man with a heavy thud.
Before Rags could reset, someone grabbed his cut from behind.
He slammed his head backward, feeling the crunch of cartilage against his skull before he spun, driving the padlock straight into the fucker’s throat.
The pussy dropped, gagging and spewing as boots stomped, glass shattered and choked groans filled the air around them.
“Where the fuck are you, Demon?” a raspy voice cried.
“Who’s Demon?” Hawk asked, the bright beam from his kill-light washing over the downed man.
Blood streamed down the guy’s face as he looked up. “Our president.”
Hawk dragged him to his feet. “Show me where he is,” he hissed, hauling the stumbling bastard out of the room.
Rags pulled his kill-light from his waistband just as the greasy-haired asshole from the festival came barreling toward him. Remembering the flashlight the sonofabitch had clobbered him with, Rags brought his arm up and smashed the heavy light straight against his temple, dropping the bastard flat.
“Get the women outta here!” Rock yelled.
Satisfaction and pride swirled through Rags. This wasn’t a fight—it was a reckoning. The fucking Devil’s Reign wanted to poke the bear, and now they were getting mauled. Across the room, Helm had one of the rivals on his knees, ripping the Colorado rocker clean off his cut.
“Wrong fuckin’ colors, asshole,” Helm snarled.
Nearby, Blade dragged another man across the bar top, bouncing his face off the wood until he stopped moving. Rags scanned the room. No Throttle.
“Have you seen Throttle?” he asked Rock.
Rock’s fist paused mid-air. “Nope. I thought he was behind Hawk.” He slammed his fist forward, the five metal rings across his knuckles biting deep into his opponent’s face.
Rags rushed to the back of the clubhouse and flicked on his flashlight. In the beam of light, a big bear of a guy knelt over a body writhing on the floor, his arm raised with a knife dripping blood.
Rags’s gut dropped. “Throttle!”
The attacker looked over and growled. Rags yanked the Ruger from his boot, aimed, and squeezed the trigger twice. Shock crossed the rival’s face before he crumpled.
Rags dropped beside his friend, pressing his hands to the wound. “Dude, talk to me. Can you hear me?”
Throttle moaned, blood pouring from a deep gash in his side. “The fucker stuck me… didn’t see him,” he gasped.
“We need to get you to Doc,” Rags said. Wet, ragged breaths punctuated the quiet of the back room. Rags tore off his cut and pressed the leather hard against the wound. “Fuck, dude. Don’t die on me.”
“What’s going on?” Smokey asked, rushing into the room.
Rags met his eyes, hands slick with blood. “Throttle’s bad. Real bad. I gotta get him outta here. Now.”
“Hang on. Lemme tell Hawk.”
Rags kept pressure on the gash, ignoring the panic ripping through his chest. He couldn’t let an ounce of emotion compromise what needed to be done. He looked down on the pale face of his friend. “You’re gonna be okay, buddy. Just hang in there.”
“What the fuck?” Hawk growled, stepping into the space with Smokey. “Did you nail the fucker who did this?”
“Yeah. I gotta get him to Doc.”
“Go. Now. Tank, Smokey, and Animal will help you carry him,” Hawk said, dragging a hand over his face. “I’ll stay and make sure everything’s handled here. Go.”
Twenty minutes later, Doc met them at the clubhouse entrance with a gurney. They lifted Throttle onto it and hurried him down one of the twisting hallways toward the surgical room.
Doc had been the club doctor for as long as Rags could remember.
An avid Harley rider, he liked the rough-and-tumble world of the Insurgents but never fully embraced it.
He’d patched up more members than anyone could count.
The club had installed a full surgical room, and Doc kept it stocked and ready.
“I’m going to need assistance. Get Kristy,” he said.
Kristy and Brandi were two of the club girls who’d been with the Insurgents since Hawk had prospected.
Kristy had once been in love with Hawk, and after he married Cara, she decided to do something with her life instead of moping around.
She went to Banger with her plans to attend college and become a nurse.
He thought it was a good idea, and the club voted to pay her tuition.
Everyone figured she’d leave once she got her nursing degree, but she never did. She decided to stay to help Doc whenever the guys came in with busted noses, cracked ribs or worse. It was nice having a nurse on call twenty-four seven, and Kristy still loved being a club girl.
“Is he gonna be okay?” Rags rasped.
“I don’t know,” Doc said, locking eyes with him. “But I’ll do everything I can.”
Kristy burst through the door, her eyes scanning the room before landing on Rags.
“Scrub up. We’ve got a critical one,” Doc said.
“Who is it?” Kristy asked.
“Throttle.” Rags’s voice was steady and firm, but inside everything was shattering.
“Doc’s good,” Kristy said, her eyes misting as she stepped up to the gurney. “Go get some shots. We’ve got this.”
Rags nodded, but before heading straight for the main room, he dashed up the stairs to his room.
He needed to scrum the evidence off his skin.
Standing over the sink, he washed away the blood and sweat from the fight, then threw on a clean set of clothes.
After shoving his bloodied cut and ruined jeans deep into a duffel bag, he headed down the stairwell.
When he walked in, a hush fell over the room. All eyes turned to him. He strode to the bar, picked up the Jack Skinless had set on the counter, and downed it.