Page 36 of Bad Luck, Hard Love (Heaven’s Rejects MC #6)

A scream pierces the air—muffled by the metal walls but unmistakably female. Charlotte's voice, raw with pain. The sound drives into my chest like a blade, twisting with each ragged note.

One of the guards laughs. “Sounds like the boss is having fun with his wife.”

“Too bad we don't get a turn,” the other replies, taking a long drag from his cigarette.

“You couldn’t afford a turn with her if you sold everything you own and your soul to the devil.”

“Bitch ain’t worth that kind of money.”

“That one is.”

Red floods my vision, rage so pure it's almost blinding. My finger tightens on the trigger, body tensing to spring—but a tiny sliver of rationality holds me back.

I force myself to hold position, choking down the murderous rage threatening to consume me. One shot would feel so good. But it would also alert everyone in the hangar to my presence, and I can't risk Charlotte paying the price for my impatience.

A crash echoes from the front of the hangar, followed by shouting and the unmistakable pop of gunfire.

Fuck, Ratchet.

The guards snap to attention, weapons raised as they move away from the cell door toward the commotion. More shots ring out, followed by the sound of breaking glass and men yelling.

I'm torn, frozen in indecision. Charlotte is just yards away, separated from me by nothing but a metal door and two distracted guards. I could take them now, get to her while they're focused on whatever chaos Ratchet has unleashed.

But Ratchet's out there, possibly outgunned and surrounded. He came here for me, for Charlotte. I can't leave him to die.

“Shit,” I mutter, backing away from my position. Every step away from that metal cell feels like I'm ripping out my own heart, but I can't do this alone. Not against these numbers.

I sprint toward the front of the hangar, keeping to the shadows, gun at the ready. The shouting grows louder, punctuated by more gunfire and the sound of shattering glass.

I round the corner just as all hell breaks loose.

The hangar erupts into a war zone—muzzle flashes lighting up the darkness like lightning, bullets ricocheting off metal with ear-splitting pings. Ratchet's pinned down behind an overturned tool cabinet, returning fire at three Rejects who've taken position behind a stack of shipping crates.

“Thor!” he bellows when he spots me. “Little fucking help here!”

I don't hesitate. I drop to one knee and squeeze the trigger. The weapon bucks against my shoulder as I send a burst into the nearest Reject. He crumples like a marionette with cut strings, blood spraying across the concrete floor.

“Two o'clock!” Ratchet shouts.

I pivot, catch movement in my peripheral vision, and fire again. Another Reject goes down screaming, clutching his shattered knee.

Glass shatters overhead as bullets tear through the high windows, raining shards down like deadly hail. I dive for cover, rolling behind a forklift as a hail of automatic fire chews up the concrete where I'd been standing.

“On your six!” I roar at Ratchet as a Reject emerges from behind the far wall, shotgun raised.

Ratchet spins, emptying his magazine in a single, fluid motion. The Reject's chest erupts in a spray of red mist before he hits the ground.

I’m scanning for more threats when the hangar door explodes inward with a deafening crash. Metal screams as it tears from its hinges, revealing a sleek private jet now partially embedded in the building's entrance.

What the actual fuck?

“That's one way to disable a plane,” Ratchet laughs, the sound borderline maniacal as he reloads.

The jet's engines whine in death throes, smoke billowing from the cockpit as flames lick at the fuselage. Through the fractured windshield, I glimpse the pilot slumped over the controls.

“Did you...?” I gesture at the wreckage, momentarily stunned.

“Fucker had a knife. Good news, they don’t have a pilot anymore?”

A fresh volley of gunfire cuts our conversation short. I duck as bullets ping off metal inches from my head. I return fire blindly to buy time.

“Metal room in the back. Cover me!” I shout, already moving toward the back of the hangar.

Ratchet nods, laying down suppressive fire as I sprint between crates, my boots pounding against concrete. The path to Charlotte stretches before me, twenty yards of open space between life and death.

I'm halfway there when the world explodes.

The blast comes from nowhere—a flashbang grenade rolling between us, detonating in a blinding burst that sears my retinas. My ears ring, balance shot to hell as I stumble forward.

“Thor, on your left!”

I swing blindly, firing toward the threat I can't yet see. My vision clears just enough to catch Ratchet lunging toward me, mouth open in a warning I can't hear over the ringing in my ears.

The bullet catches him mid-stride.

One moment he's running, the next he's jerking backward like he's been hit by a truck. Blood erupts from the side of his neck in a crimson spray, arterial and pulsing. His eyes go wide with shock as his hand flies up to stem the flow.

“Ratchet!” The scream tears from my throat as he crumples, legs buckling beneath him.

I lunge for him, catching his body before it hits the ground. Blood soaks my hands, hot and slick as I press against the wound. It pulses between my fingers, his life pumping out with each heartbeat. Too much blood. There's too much fucking blood.

“Stay with me,” I growl, dragging him behind the nearest crate. “Don't you fucking die on me!”

He tries to speak, but only a wet gurgle escapes, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth. His hand grips my wrist with surprising strength, and he mouths a single word. Go .

A barrage of gunfire peppers the crate shielding us, wood splintering. I return fire, one arm still cradling Ratchet's head as I try to keep pressure on his wound.

“Hang on. Just fucking hang on.”

Movement flickers at the edge of my vision—shadows detaching from walls, converging on our position. I pivot, emptying my magazine in a wide arc that drops two more Rejects, but they keep coming. Four, five, six figures materializing from the darkness like demons summoned from hell.

I reload with bloody hands, fingers slipping on the magazine. Too slow. The first Reject rounds the crate before I can chamber a round. I lash out with the butt of my rifle, catching him under the chin with a satisfying crunch of bone. He staggers back, but another takes his place immediately.

I tackle this one at the waist, driving him into the concrete.

My elbow connects with his temple, dropping him like a stone.

I grab his sidearm, whirling to face the next attacker.

A bullet grazes my shoulder, another sings past my ear.

I return fire, catch one in the chest, but they're swarming now—too many bodies from too many angles.

“Motherfuckers!” I roar, backing up until I feel the concrete pillar behind me. Ratchet lies motionless at my feet, his blood pooling across the floor in an ever-widening circle. I plant myself over his body, determined to go down fighting.

A bullet slams into my vest, the impact like a sledgehammer to the ribs. Another catches my thigh, hot pain lancing up my leg as I stagger. I empty the clip, watching two more Rejects fall, but for every one I drop, two more materialize from the shadows.

The gun clicks empty in my hand.

“Drop it,” a voice commands from the darkness. Not just any voice. Ace.

He steps into the light, flanked by four Rejects with weapons trained on my head. His face is split by that same smug grin I want to carve off with a dull knife.

“Well, well, well,” he drawls, stopping just out of reach. “If it isn't the mother chapter's favorite attack dog. You know, I expected more of a fight out of you.”

I spit blood onto the concrete, the metallic taste coating my tongue as I stare down the barrel of Ace's gun. “You want a fight? Let's go. Just you and me.”

“Pass.” Ace steps closer, boots crunching on broken glass. “I prefer winning. And from where I'm standing, I've already won. One down. And your tech guy's already half-dead in the office. Not exactly your finest moment, Thor.”

My eyes fall to Ratchet's still form, blood pooling beneath him like spilled ink. The rise and fall of his chest is barely visible—but it's there. He's alive, for now.

“He'll bleed out in minutes,” Ace says, looking the same direction. “Shame. I always liked

Ratchet.” “Fuck you,” I growl, shifting my weight to take pressure off my wounded leg. The bullet's still in there, grinding against bone with every movement.

Ace laughs, the sound echoing through the hangar. “Always so eloquent. Is that how you won over Terrance's wife? Your sparkling conversation?”

“Where. Is. Charlotte?”

“Close,” Ace says, tilting his head toward the metal room. “Very close. You can probably hear her if you listen hard enough.”

As if summoned by his words, another muffled scream pierces the air from behind that steel door. Raw. Desperate. The sound of someone being broken piece by piece.

“You sick fuck,” I snarl, lunging forward despite the guns trained on me.

The nearest Reject slams the butt of his rifle into my skull, sending me crashing back against the wall. Stars explode across my vision as warm blood trickles down my face.

“Easy there, hero,” Ace chuckles. “Save some fight for the grand finale.”

“What grand finale?”

“Oh, you didn't think this was just about the money, did you?” Ace's grin widens, revealing teeth stained with tobacco. “We’re just getting started.”